FSF, January 2008 Page 3

  My hands were untied and I was told to dismount. One of the nearby bodies was of a man of quite substantial size. Both his head and genitals were missing, but he had the general look of Quintus. As far as I could tell from the remains of their bloodied clothing, the two merchants lay nearby. Valcian took me firmly by the arm and marched me over to two neat rows of heads on pikes flanking the path to the villa's entrance. I quickly identified Quintus, the chiefs of the three local villages, the lord's brother and sister, the lord from Mercia, the two merchants from Wessex, and several entertainers and servers.

  "What do you make of this?” asked the Byzantine noble.

  "I have seen worse,” I managed.

  "And I have done worse, but that is not the point. Until two days ago this was a small but prosperous remnant of Roman rule in Britannia. These people wore Roman togas, worshipped Roman gods, issued their guards with Roman armor and weapons, and enacted quite credible Roman orgies. Now all that has gone."

  "Er, is this not a cause for celebration?” I asked. “That is, for Christians like you?"

  "Indeed,” he replied tersely.

  A silence more icy than the snow slush beneath my boots established itself. Presently I decided that I was meant to take the initiative and ask another question.

  "Who really did this?"

  "As I said, Arturian."

  "Ah. Er, so you ... are Arturian?"

  "No!” he said firmly, his keen, brown eyes searching my face for guile and guilt.

  "Er, then Arturian came here and did this?"

  "Possibly. Bard, I was not really sent here to make alliances with pathetic pagan degenerates like Quintus Flavorius. Emperor Justinian himself charged me with meeting Arturian and securing his loyalty. Two nights ago, I very nearly did. Come."

  We walked between the rows of heads and into the villa's courtyard, then proceeded up the central path. To the right, the bath house was just charred timbers and blackened walls, but the rooms of the slaves’ and servants’ quarters were undamaged. Ahead of us, the tablinum and triclinium were burned out and without roofs. At the center of the courtyard a bonfire blazed, and gathered around it were four Byzantine cavalrymen, the cavalryman from the estate's guard named Calcarat, and a woman that I recognized as Elenede.

  "Good people, this is a bard,” Valcian announced as we arrived before them. “Do any of you recognize him?"

  Both Calcarat and Elenede were dressed as Briton villagers now, and their bearing was different. They both stood proudly before us, their shoulders back and their heads high.

  "Lord Valcian, he's the bard who sang here the night of the burning,” responded Elenede.

  "Aye, great lord, and he sang right well of Arturian on that night,” added Calcarat.

  "Very good,” said Valcian. “Please excuse us now, I am giving the bard a tour of the villa."

  We proceeded up the path to the tablinum's entrance. It was burned out, of course, and the ashes of the collapsed roof's timbers still smoldered. Here and there I could see traces of furniture and the feast amid the burned-out remains of the roof. The kitchen and storage rooms were undamaged, but had been stripped bare. In one of the bedchambers, where the roof had survived, a naked couple lay skewered together by a single spear. They had apparently been caught in the act of lovemaking. Their heads had been removed. In the next bedchamber a pair of naked legs protruded from beneath the shattered tiles and charred beams.

  "It is oddly chilling to think that I lay between those legs on that same bed just two nights ago,” said Valcian, with a tone in his voice that was somehow contemptuous and wistful at the same time.

  "So you were here for the attack, my lord?"

  "I was, just as you were. When this poor soul began to doze, I got up, dressed, and roamed the villa. While Quintus and his guests remained at play in the tablinum, I saw and heard you sing to the field hands and guardsmen out in the snow, beyond the gate. It was a ballad of Arturian."

  "Arturian is all the fashion, as ballads go."

  "So it seems. After this I walked out across the fields to where one of my escort was waiting amid the trees. He reported that no group bigger than my dozen disguised Byzantines was within five miles. Suddenly there was a commotion from the villa, and we saw flames and heard screams. Having only one of my men with me, I was not inclined to go back and investigate. Tell me, bard, what did you see?"

  "Very little, my lord. I was finishing my performance when the fighting began. I did not even see the attackers arrive. As soon as the screams and fighting began, I fled."

  "So you did not stay to help defend the villa?"

  "It was not my villa, great lord."

  "The estate's guards also fled without a fight. There were none among the dead, you see. That is odd, because those guards were passably well armed and trained. What do you think, bard? Why did the guards flee?"

  "I cannot say. Their mood was good while I sang to them. Quintus paid them well, and they lived more comfortably than they would in a village. They gave me hospitality and coin—which was more than Quintus did."

  "Indeed, Quintus was not pleased with your performance at his revel,” Valcian agreed.

  "Some people just don't appreciate art."

  "Elenede, you also left the revel,” said Valcian, turning away from me. “What did you see?"

  "Much the same as the bard,” she replied. “The attack seemed to come out of nowhere. Some of us fled, others joined in."

  "Calcarat, you have admitted to turning upon your Roman master. Why?"

  "I ... the ballads that the bard sang were very moving. When the attack began, it was as if the ballad had come to life. I blazed with hatred for the Romans."

  "What did you see of the attackers?"

  "Little, very little. They were dressed as we were."

  "So as to steal into the estate?"

  "I suppose. Some even sat listening to the bard's singing, I am sure of that."

  Valcian paced before us for a time, his head down and his hands clasped behind his back.

  "By the time I had ventured across the woodlands, gathered my men and returned, the villa was ablaze, and the Romans and their guests were as they are now,” he explained, turning his attention back to me. “We found Calcarat and Elenede in the kitchen, hard at work making baby Britons. All the others were gone; guards, field hands, and attackers."

  A wall suddenly collapsed, startling the carrion birds into the air. Soot and ash was mixed with the red snow and blood in the villa's courtyard, and had been churned into a foul, ugly mush by countless footfalls over the two days past. At that moment it began snowing again, and the flakes were still reddish pink. I had to remind myself that it was July, and high summer. Valcian turned back to Calcarat.

  "Relate your story yet again, guardsman, with all the detail that you can recall,” he ordered.

  "The bard sang the epic of Arturian. It was long in the telling, but once he had finished we all cried for him to sing it again. Most of the other guards left their posts to listen. Ah ... it was very moving. The bard lamented with real tears, he shrieked with passion, he even fell to his knees at the part where Arturian is told that his queen has left him. We all roared for vengeance and blood, the guards brandished their swords. We cheered the victories of Arturian—then all at once Arturian and his men were with us, and we really were fighting the Romans."

  "Just like that?” asked Valcian.

  "I have no clear memories of how the fighting began. We were just in a mood that rendered us dangerous."

  "Try harder,” said Valcian, resting a hand on the pommel of his sword.

  "Er, well, the bard was repeating parts of the ballad. It was the passage where the Roman sorcerer defiled and degraded Arturian's queen. Her name was Elenede, just as this lady is Elenede. There and then, we fancied that the queen was this lady. We raised her shoulder-high, shouting that the queen was free, we paraded her around the fire, cheering."

  "They interrupted my singing—” I began.

&
nbsp; "Shut up!” snapped Valcian. “Calcarat, go on."

  "It was now that Quintus came out. He was in a rage, whip in hand, and demanding to know why the fires in the hypocaust had been allowed to die out. He began to lay about him with the whip. Someone, perhaps Arturian, slew him, then led us into the villa to kill all the others. We slew them, struck off their heads, then set the rooms of luxury ablaze after taking back the provisions, wine, and wealth that the Roman had hoarded by our toilings."

  "So, Arturian and his men fled with the loot?” asked Valcian.

  "Indeed not, my lord. They are men of surpassing virtue, valuing justice above mere plunder. They withdrew with nothing, leaving we guards, slaves, and field hands to carry away what we would in recompense for our years of toil."

  "And to drink yourselves legless,” said Valcian. “Bard, what is your recollection?"

  "It is precisely as they said."

  "Tell me more,” he insisted, drawing his sword and letting the point rest in the slushy snow between us.

  "Ah, I did not notice that Arturian and his men had joined our company. They must have been dressed as field hands to blend in all the better. When the fighting started, I fled for the woods."

  "Amazing. You sing so lustily of battles, yet flee as soon as one starts?"

  "I am a bard. I avoid battles, except when forced to fight. I carry nothing but ballads, and I sing to all. Folk may not have what I carry if I am dead, thus outlaws and warlords suffer me to live."

  This did not satisfy Valcian, who now swung his sword idly as he began to pace again.

  "I have been in this land for many months now, seeking Arturian. Word of his exploits has reached Constantinople; word of how he rallies Britons against Saxons, slays monsters, defends Christians against pagans, and above all, kills Romans. I have seen many burned-out villas, and all have perished within this, this twilight year past. In each and every case the local villagers said that Arturian had done the deed. Word has it that he has a small band of invincible horsemen, and that they can beat odds of hundreds to one. I have been charged by Emperor Justinian with forming an alliance with Arturian, so that the Roman Empire's former realms may be gathered into the rule of the Byzantine Empire."

  "Arturian fights to free this island from the dregs of Roman rule,” I replied, striving to be defiant yet deferential at once. “Do you really think he would let Britannia be enslaved under a new Roman Empire?"

  "My conclusion precisely,” declared Valcian. “That is why I am taking you prisoner and returning to Constantinople with you."

  He waited for my reply, but who could reply to such words as those? After a lengthy pause he continued.

  "Bard, you are Arturian."

  Elenede and Calcarat gaped, while I too tried hard to look astonished.

  "I would have thought that you were a better judge of warriors than that, my Lord Valcian.” I laughed uneasily.

  "There are warriors, and there are leaders, bard. You are a leader. Amid the ruins of countless Roman estates I have been told by the survivors of how Arturian appeared in the guise of a bard, surveyed the defenses while singing to the guards and slaves, then returned with his invincible horsemen and annihilated the place. I was lucky this time. Lucky that I arrived as you did."

  "Er, so I am all that you will take back to your emperor? He will surely be disappointed. I am but a grubby bard."

  "No, I will take with me Arturian, and word that any number of Saxon warlords live in fear of Arturian, and would gladly ally themselves with the Byzantine Empire if he is to be imprisoned there. Calcarat, Elenede, go."

  * * * *

  Because it was snowing, Valcian did not lead us out of the ruined estate immediately. My arms were bound and my feet hobbled, then I was taken to the slaves’ quarters, which like the villa's kitchen, were undamaged. Here we stayed for the rest of that day and the following night. As dawn rose the snow continued, blanketing the villa, fields, and woodlands more deeply in red. Valcian untied my hobbles and marched me over to the horses.

  "The snow is deep, Lord Valcian,” said one of his men as they hoisted me into the saddle.

  "If we wait any longer the snow will be too deep for the horses; we must leave now,” insisted Valcian.

  "What sort of place is this? Snow in summer!"

  "If there is snow in summer, imagine what the winter will be like. Hurry, we are racing both the snow and Arturian's men."

  "Do you expect an attack, my lord?"

  "Not just now. This man travels from target to target as a lone bard, while his horsemen go by other routes. Most likely they are already near some Saxon stronghold, waiting for him to arrive and lead them. We must be long gone when they come in search of him."

  "You are greatly mistaken—” I began.

  "Not another word, or you will be gagged!” warned Valcian.

  Apart from the heads on the poles, the carnage of three days earlier had been hidden under the newly fallen snow. Valcian reined in as we drew level with the head of Quintus.

  "Farewell, Quintus Flavorius,” he said with mocking formality. “Take what satisfaction you will from the downfall of your conqueror, Arturian. Take comfort too from the knowledge that you were the last Roman ruler in all of Britannia. I have looked everywhere. There are no others."

  I had no interest in being gagged, so I said nothing. We rode out across the fields toward the woodlands. The trees were laden with red snow, and because they still had the leaves of summer, the loads of snow had snapped many branches. It was from the shelter of fallen boughs and detritus that the attack came as we reached the outskirts of the woods.

  Valcian and his men were on the alert—that cannot be denied—yet what they had been expecting was Arturian's cavalry, and in numbers little different to theirs. What erupted from the snow-shrouded woods were hundreds of villagers with spears and pikes, runaway slaves with clubs, former estate guards with swords, hunters with bows, and even women and children throwing stones.

  Although my hands were bound and my horse was tethered to the saddle of Valcian's mount, I had not been tied into my own saddle. Valcian glanced back to ensure that I was still behind him, then shouted to his men to charge out of the ambush. It was the work of a moment to roll from my saddle and into the snow once Valcian looked away, and I lay there as still as death while the other Byzantine warriors rode past me, the hoofs of their mounts kicking ruddy snow about and covering me.

  I only raised my head once the riders were well clear of me, and I did not try to run. As warriors the Byzantines were more deadly than any save those in my own ballads. Those with bows quickly had them strung, and without mercy they shot down the villagers who surrounded them. Other Byzantines charged the ranks of the Britons with spear and sword, their warhorses lashing out with their hoofs and trampling the vanguard of the ragged little army. From a distance the woodland hunters circled with their bows, however, picking off riders or horses as the opportunities offered themselves. By sheer press of bodies the escape of the Byzantines was blocked, and as the fighting continued I used my teeth to work at the cords that bound my hands.

  I had freed myself just as Valcian was overwhelmed by the villagers, who swarmed up over his horse and pulled him down. Picking up a Byzantine sword seemed like a particularly unwise idea, so I took a spear from the hand of a dead villager as I shambled forward, hoping to blend in with the crowd. I was quickly recognized, however. Both Calcarat and Elenede hailed me as Arturian, and after that there was no escaping my liberators.

  In all, five Britons had died for every Byzantine warrior killed, but there had been hundreds against a dozen. Those hundreds had fought with the mindless, fanatical bravery of people who follow a legend. Standing on a rock and gesturing back to the estate of Quintus Flavorius, I did the only thing possible in the circumstances. I became Arturian, for the first and only time.

  "People of Britannia, three nights ago you joined with my men to wipe out the Roman ruler Quintus Flavorius,” I shouted. “You ended five
hundred years of Roman rule. This day you have annihilated the vanguard of a new empire, whose emperor casts greedy eyes upon our fair lands."

  There was much cheering at these words, and I allowed it to continue while I thought about what else to say.

  "The red snow, the midwinter gloom in summer, even the threat of famine, they are all signs,” I concluded. “Signs to take the stores and riches from Roman farmers to survive. You are being forced to destroy the last traces of Roman rule by this twilight summer in the twilight year of the Roman Empire. Never again will Britannia be conquered by any empire. Britannia will have its own empire. Britannia will conquer Rome itself!"

  This time the cheering continued for much longer, but it did not surprise me. My talent is for raising passions in those who hear me speak, whether the hermit priest, Valcian, Quintus, the guards and slaves of his estate, or even the subjects of Arturian. The Britons would now follow me anywhere. What to do, I wondered. My talent was to start riots, not rule wisely.

  When I finally stepped down from the rock, I thanked Calcarat and Elenede for rallying those who had rescued me. My little harp was returned, and nearly every man present seemed to want to arm me with his own sword. Gold looted from the Byzantines and the villa was offered to me, and every girl and woman that I met made it clear that they wanted a chance to allow me little sleep in the nights to come. I traded wise but meaningless words with leaders and warriors, judged minor disputes over the division of loot, conferred fabricated titles upon the bravest of those who had fought, and had more food offered to me than would be needed for a Roman orgy.

  All the while I was troubled. Perhaps it showed in my eyes, for many of those attending me noticed it and were clearly concerned. I had become Arturian. I had riches, followers, warriors, and a reputation that could spread my domains across an area that would become a large kingdom. I had nothing to fear from the real Arturian turning up, for I had created him for one of my ballads. Well did I remember the night that I first performed it, and how the listeners rioted and burned a villa that had survived the fall of the Roman Empire by many decades. Just as clearly I remembered my subsequent decision to journey from villa to villa, inspiring rebellion in the name of Arturian, and single-handedly cutting down the last of Rome's legacy in Britannia.