FSF, January 2008 Read online

  "I do not use the title warlord,” he declared proudly once Valcian and I had introduced ourselves. “I am a noble of Rome, and there is an end to it."

  "You must admit that Rome is not what it used to be,” Valcian pointed out.

  "Ah, but Rome lives on, do you not see?” Quintus replied, turning about where he stood and gesturing all around him. “This estate is Rome."

  "This estate is but a mile square."

  "What is Rome if not organization, and we nobles of Britannia are organized. We grow more than we eat, have our own garrisons, and provide stability. People want stability. I command five dozen cavalry, foot and archers. They have the arms and armor of the legions of Rome, and are among the best equipped in all of Britannia."

  "From what I saw, their arms and armor are at least two hundred years old,” Valcian observed.

  "Like the roads of the Romans, they were built to last,” I quipped.

  "But don't you see, they are Roman,” insisted Quintus. “The barbarians cannot even count past the number of their fingers and toes, what do they know of two hundred years? I parade my men in the surrounding villages a couple of times a year, and always kill a few hairy and unwashed layabouts after dressing them up in barbarian guise."

  "Ah, to what aim?"

  "Panem et circenses, my boy, and the pax romana."

  "I can understand the estate providing bread and the peace of Rome, but how do you manage the circuses?"

  "I proclaim that yet another barbarian warlord has been humbled, and after the wretch has been given a mild sleeping potion, I set him against the best of my own guardsmen in a fight to the death. The villagers get a show, and are left in awe of the might of my supposedly Roman warriors. Where did you say you were from?"

  "Why, the Empire of Rome,” said Valcian.

  "The Empire of Rome, you say?” asked Quintus. “But as you said, the Roman Empire is not what it used to be. What city are you from?"

  "Constantinople."

  "Ah, I see, the Eastern Roman Empire."

  "The Byzantine Empire,” I added.

  "Indeed, yet still the Empire,” said Valcian.

  "Are you a Christian, Valcian?” Quintus asked suspiciously.

  "I am."

  This made Quintus scowl with displeasure. “We here worship the gods that made Rome great and strong. The Christians sapped its strength. What is your business here?"

  "We are looking for allies. Our intention is reunification. Why, at this moment the great general Belisarius is waging war against the Ostrogoths on the Italian peninsula. It is seldom admitted by the wise and powerful, but the intention of Emperor Justinian is to win back the entire Roman Empire of old."

  "Win back the empire?” said Quintus. “For that you would also have to fight the Vandals, Berbers, Visigoths, Sueves, Franks, Celts, Burgundians, Gephids, and Saxons!"

  "You forgot the Lombards,” said Valcian, his face held firmly blank.

  "Oh yes, how careless of me. So, Lord Valcian, what brings you here specifically?"

  "To persuade such men as you to pay fealty to Justinian."

  "This sounds suspiciously like a poor joke."

  "Joke it is certainly not. Just think, an ally of Emperor Justinian on the northern borders of the Franks. They would be reluctant to ally themselves with the Ostrogoths opposing us in Italy if they knew that the Eastern Roman Empire had an army of two thousand Britons—"

  "Raise an army of two thousands?” spluttered Quintus. “You are talking to a farmer with but sixty men bearing arms! Most of those are Briton field hands and artisans when I'm not parading them."

  "But Lord Quintus, there are many small forces such as yours throughout the southeast of Britannia. United, you could form a very impressive army."

  "Very astute of you, sir, but who will defend our estates with the warriors gone? While my men plunder the Franks, the local villagers will plunder my villa."

  "Emperor Justinian is aware of that. He has charged me to propose that should the lords of Britannia donate one man in three of their forces, he will match them man for man. That would amount to a formidable army if all kingdoms, estates, and warlords contributed. He is prepared to garrison some of the old Roman fortresses with his warriors, and—"

  "Byzantine warriors, on our island, in forts?” cried Quintus, aghast and reaching for his wine. “Oh no no no, sir! Absolutely not!"

  "Not Byzantine, but—"

  "Byzantine they certainly are, sir. Let us cast aside silly pretensions and be honest. Yours is not the Roman Empire of olden times. The Eastern Roman Empire is really the Byzantine Empire, which is a Christian empire."

  "But we would provide stability and keep order."

  "Indeed sir, and very soon your emperor would be demanding that we must pay taxes for your upkeep. Before you know it, we would be having to pay for his wars and forced to raise yet more armies to fight in his name. Every time I tried to hold a private orgy his priests would be swarming into my villa, preaching hellfire and smashing my statues of the old gods. This villa is far more Roman than your empire, sir, and I intend to keep it that way."

  "United we would be vastly stronger."

  "And I would be paying taxes, wearing hairshirts, and confining my amorous exploits to a single wife! Absolutely not, Valcian, and that is my final word."

  Valcian now sat back, smiling and waving his hand dismissively. “Quintus, Quintus, do you really believe all that about Christians? Take it from me, we seldom practice what we preach."

  Quintus had sat forward, as if strings tied him to Valcian. He gave a knowing leer, yet suspicion was still in his features.

  "In that case you would not decline an invitation to a revel, yes? There will be fine food, wine, song, and the exchange of bedmates. I could arrange it for this very night."

  "Oh, I most certainly would not, but alas, I have no wife to contribute,” replied Valcian.

  "No matter, I have several. There also happen to be several other guests on my estate, enjoying delights of ancient Rome that my family has preserved for many generations."

  "How discreet are you?” asked Valcian.

  "Have no fears, word of what is done here never finds its way to Constantinople."

  "I can see why Britannia's warlords allow such lingerings of Roman rule to survive."

  "Ah yes, I am a master of political balance—but enough of all that. Tell me of court scandals and cuisine in Constantinople."

  "I hardly know where to start,” laughed Valcian, spreading his arms wide.

  It was only now that Quintus remembered me.

  "Bard, can you sing?” he demanded.

  "I am a bard, my lord, so naturally—"

  "Splendid, splendid! You shall perform for us tonight."

  * * * *

  I spent much of the afternoon singing old Briton ballads to idle guards and slaves. They knew that Arturian had been burning Roman estates, so everyone wanted to hear of him, yet I insisted that I would only perform my great Arturian ballad late that night. At sunset a lavish feast began, with Valcian as the honored guest. Torches of mutton fat burned smokily while the guests reclined on cushions, drinking wine and mead while listening to the estate's poet read from the Amores of Ovid. Next, I got up with my harp and amused the company with songs of drinking to excess, adultery, and breaking wind. I was followed by a troupe of Briton women, who danced to the sound of drums and reedpipes while taking off their clothes in unison. With the dancing over, the main courses were paraded in by men in the guise of satyrs; that is to say they wore sheepskin trousers and rams’ horns.

  Quintus had more than two dozen guests and entertainers. Aside from myself and Valcian there were three chiefs of local villages, the lord's brother and sister, a visiting noble from the kingdom of Mercia, and two merchants from Wessex. Most of the guests had wives or companions, although none kept company with those they had escorted into the room. The dancers and servants made sure that nobody was wanting for a companion, and every so often a couple w
ould slip away for a time while everyone else speculated upon what they might be doing. From time to time the guests would hurry out to vomit noisily, then return to consume yet more. Curiously, some servants had been stationed outside to cry out in Latin like street vendors. This was apparently meant to provide the illusion of being in Rome itself, centuries earlier. This was no mere orgy in Roman clothing; this was an experience of being Roman.

  Presently I decided to have myself removed, so I chose to sing my ballad of Boudicia. When I began to sing of the Briton queen, and of how her daughters were ravished by order of the Roman invaders, Quintus and his guests were delighted, but once it became clear that I was presenting the event as a tragedy rather than a titillating comedy, the mood soured. Quintus ordered me ejected with no further ceremony.

  As I picked myself up and checked my harp for damage, I was approached by a woman who introduced herself in barely comprehensible Latin as Elenede. We quickly switched to the common tongue, however, and she told me that she had liked my singing. She offered me a bite from a leg of roast duck, then she tossed it aside and guided my hand to one of her breasts.

  "You may not be in the favor of Quintus, but I'm not Quintus and I fancy you,” she declared in somewhat slurred speech. “The bed chambers are to the right, and they are heated."

  "I, ah, you favor me for my music?” I mumbled impatiently.

  "Aye, but I'd like a chance to favor you for more than that."

  Embarrassed by her alarmingly easy familiarity, I withdrew my hand on the pretext of playing a tune for her. After that we began to talk of this and that, even though I was anxious to go into the fields and sing my ballad of Arturian to the waiting guards and slaves. I quickly noticed that Elenede made a point of asking me about myself, and made much of how important Valcian must be. In a more subtle fashion I coaxed her into talking about herself.

  "Aye, I'm a Briton, but I feign well as a Roman, do you not think so?” she asked.

  "Oh indeed, and where are you from?"

  "A village to the north, two days by mule. I was the wife of the chief, but he died fighting the Saxons. I was sold to Quintus, and here I am, the mistress of a governor."

  "A governor?” I asked with sudden interest. “As in Quintus Flavorius?"

  "Aye. He says he's been to Rome, and he knows the emperor. He says he'll take me there one day. Have you been to Rome?"

  "Oh, yes. Bards travel very far."

  "Is Rome as Quintus says?"

  "What does he say?"

  "He says the streets are paved with gold, and the emperor likes women with such a face and figure as I have."

  "Only the grand streets are paved with gold,” I said diplomatically. “As for the emperor, I was too lowly to meet him."

  "I think the emperor will bear me away to his bed as soon as he lays eyes upon me. He will be so charmed that he will marry me and make me empress. Then I shall have Quintus beheaded, because he is too rough when at dalliance."

  "I was glad to be thrown out,” I said as she unsteadily poured wine into goblets of green glass that were chipped and frosted with age. “I am in need of rest from the noise and babble."

  "Oh! Well you'd best not be rough or I'll have you beheaded too,” she laughed, taking the wrong meaning by reflex.

  "No, no, first I have to sing to those outside. I promised them a ballad."

  "So, what are you to sing about?” she asked with vague interest. “Quintus wants ditties of buttocks heaving and legs spreading, but your song of Boudicia was very moving. Will you sing it again?"

  "No, this time I think I'll sing my ballad of Arturian, and of how he tried to rescue his wife from an evil Roman sorcerer."

  "His wife?” asked Elenede. “What is her name?"

  "I do declare that she will be ... Elenede."

  "My name?” giggled Elenede.

  "Don't you want to be the wife of the king Arturian?"

  "I'd prefer to be an empress, but it would still be nice. What's the story?"

  "It's a ballad. Come along and listen."

  "Ballads are really long aren't they?” she asked, her tone suggesting that she did not like long ballads.

  "Indeed."

  "Longer than the story of Boudicia?"

  "Much longer."

  "It's cold out there."

  "The Briton folk have a fire in the field behind their quarters."

  "In the field, bard? That means under the sky and in the cold, fire or no fire."

  "As you will, then,” I said, turning away from her with no further ado and setting off down the path that bisected the courtyard.

  * * * *

  Before I reached the field I rubbed my hands in the dirt beneath the snow and then smeared the muck on my face, so that I had the guise of a grubby, exhausted traveler. After all, bards are meant to have come from far away, not merely the triclinium. The prospect of a ballad about Arturian had caught the interest of four or five dozen of the men and women, and they were gathered around a bonfire of branches. They had a large amphora of wine, which had been appropriated from the villa, and several drinking horns were being passed around as I arrived. I took the little harp from beneath my cloak and made a show of tuning it. This proclaimed that a ballad was about to begin. A drinking horn was handed to me, and I took a mouthful of passably good wine to settle my throat.

  "Of Arturian, ‘tis my song,

  Vast were lands within his keeping.

  And how as wayfarer he has gone,

  All for his lady, he is seeking."

  When I perform I try to start as any other bard might, then slowly shape the mood of my audience to my own needs. Once I have them, I work upon their emotions, building involvement with the characters. I had reached the part where Arturian's wife had been ensorceled and abducted by the Roman governor when I saw that Elenede had joined the listeners. A cavalrymen named Calcarat noticed her as she sat down, and draped his cloak over her shoulders. By now I was a tortured picture of raw, raving despair, describing in graphic detail how Arturian's wife was ravished and defiled by first the governor, then his guests. In contrast to those inside the villa, this audience was rapturously attentive.

  I sang of how Arturian rallied his despondent warriors, inspiring them with the story of Queen Boudicia's revolt. Although the warrior queen had lived many centuries earlier, my audience responded by shouting their approval, for they knew the ballads about Boudicia and her war of honor against the Romans. There were many ballads of the rebel queen, but while those told the facts of the story and celebrated the bravery of the Britons in battle, I aimed for the hearts of those who listened. For several hundred lines I described how Boudicia had been forced to watch while a legion of Roman soldiers raped and degraded her daughters. Resorting to a little poetic license, I gave her three times more daughters than were generally credited to her, but then I am a teller of stories, not a chronicler of histories. My verses concerning her initial victories against the Romans were proudly proclaimed yet deliberately brief by contrast, and I described the queen's downfall in even more detail than the violation of her daughters. In my story, she did not take poison, but was crucified as a slave by the Romans, to show that all Britons were henceforth slaves.

  Now that my audience was seething with outrage, I returned forward in time to Arturian, and sang of how his men rallied about him and vowed to smash the Roman armies in Britannia. I had them winning many victories, and pursuing the Romans all the way back to Rome itself. Arturian returned to reclaim his wife, but her shame was too much for her to bear. She fled the returning, victorious Arturian and went into hiding as a dancer and harlot. I concluded that to this day Arturian wanders the Roman estates of Britannia in disguise, seeking his lost beloved, “Ragged of clothing and wild of aspect.” By now I had managed to shed real tears, and those of my audience who did not merely share my grief were in a state approaching blind fury. With the ballad over, they crowded around me, in a truly ugly mood. They offered me wine, sympathy, even their swords, and swor
e that Quintus would never again lay a hand upon Elenede.

  * * * *

  It was two mornings later that I was again sheltering at the shrine of the priest, Oswald. I was awakened by a boot on my throat and the point of a sword pressing between my lips. Valcian stood over me, now wearing chainmail, and with him were two warriors. Having established our respective positions, he withdrew his blade and stepped back.

  "You may sit up now,” said the Byzantine noble.

  Very, very slowly, I sat up, holding my hands high.

  "I am fairly sure you don't want me dead,” I ventured.

  "Neither do we want a ballad,” said Valcian firmly.

  "Have I caused offense?"

  "Barial, gag him and bind his hands,” ordered Valcian, turning away from me.

  We rode at quite a brisk pace, and before noon were back at the villa of Quintus Flavorius. At the edge of the estate's fields we reined in, and the Byzantine gestured to what was before us. Across the fields of reddish snow, smoke rose from the remains of the villa. The great wooden watchtower was no longer standing. I estimated that ten warriors, all horsemen, were encamped there.

  Only now was my gag removed.

  "What has happened here?” I asked. “Who are these men?"

  "What has happened should be obvious,” replied Valcian. “The villa has been attacked and burned."

  "By these horsemen?"

  "No, not so. They are elite Byzantine cavalrymen, dressed as Britons and in my service."

  "Byzantines!” I exclaimed in astonishment. “Are you invading Britannia?"

  "You do not understand,” said Valcian. “These men are only my escort, I fled the villa and summoned them from the forest when the villa was burned."

  "Then ... who burned the villa?"

  "Who indeed? From what I have been able to learn, it was Arturian."

  There was very little I could say to that. We rode on slowly. From a distance, the villa looked to be largely intact, but as we drew closer I could see that most of it had been burned out. A great number of rooks and ravens circled and wheeled overhead. The gate of the outer wooden stockade was open and undefended, and headless bodies littered the snow-covered ground. Dogs and birds were feeding on these, and they retreated warily as we passed. Some of the dead were naked, others were in the robes that they had been wearing at the orgy two nights earlier.