Gods in Londinium, page 22
“Shall we reach it at the agreed time?” I said.
“Yes, your worship,” said Flambrox, “if the weather holds, and the gods spare us, then we shall be there on the day after tomorrow.”
*
The weather held, the gods were kind, and two dawns later we were riding towards the holy place, with the pack horse trotting behind. We halted a few miles from it and Flambrox spoke.
“There, your honour,” he said. “It’s exactly as I said.”
It was indeed. We were already on high ground since the Fond Fawory Drogren sat entirely along the mountain range that runs from south to north of the Britannic island, such that it is called the backbone of Britannia. We were up in wind-blown isolation, on a stony roof over the world, while the soil all round was so poor as to support only thin grass. There were no shrubs, trees or boulders: nothing to provide hiding for an ambush.
“That’s the meeting place, your honour,” said Flambrox, pointing. “Did I speak well of it, or did I not?”
“You spoke well,” said Morganus, and indeed he did. The meeting place was a great rock, fifty feet high, that could be climbed only on the side next to the path. It was vertical on all other sides and its flat peak was visible at great distance, as was the path itself. Thus rival parties could see each other approach, and check that all things were as previously agreed. Which indeed they were.
“Look, your honour!” said Flambrox. “Here they come!”
Three horsemen were approaching the rock from the north. They were at first like black insects on a white page. But soon we saw them as men on horses.
“One of us, and one of them, is supposed to meet on the rock,” I said. “That was agreed between Petros and Maligoterix.”
“And is that Maligoterix?” said Morganus. “The one in white?”
“I think so,” I said. “We’ll see soon enough.”
Morganus turned to Flambrox. “You stay here,” he said, and Flambrox tapped his brow as Morganus and I rode forward. Then, as agreed and well out of bow-shot of the rock, we dismounted and I gave Morganus the reins of my horse.
“They’re doing the same,” he said. “Just the one in white is coming forward on foot.”
“Morganus,” I said, “in case of betrayal, I ask that fondest regards be given to my lady and to your family.”
“Huh!” he said. “That’s easy for you to say. But what do I say to the lady-my-wife?”
I think he was using humour in the face of danger, but as I have said, we Apollonites are slow in humour. Then he clasped my hand.
“Gods be with you, Greek,” he said.
“And with you,” I said, then I walked forward, and I saw that the man walking towards me was indeed Maligoterix. I had met him before and he was an easy man to recognise. He was tall, fit and strong but with no colour in his body. His hair was white, his skin was white, his eyes were pink, and he wore a white cloak over white robes. His face was profound with intelligence. He was confident, arrogant and dominating. He was master of many languages and I knew from past experience that he had exactly the same gift of ‘mind-reading’ as I had. He was exceedingly, profoundly dangerous.
We both stopped, each about twenty feet from the rock on our own side. Then Maligoterix pointed to the rock, and for the first time I saw that steps had been carved so that it could be climbed. The steps were deep worn, and they were very wide, so that suspicious men could climb without being close to each other.
At the top, there was a flat platform about twenty yards wide. By mutual consent, Maligoterix and I approached each other, the mountains and plains of Britannia stretching out below us. As ever, I felt the chill of the wind.
Maligoterix saw that and spoke to me in Greek.
“I see you shivering,” he said, “the engineer with his mechanisms …” He paused and smiled. “I see you now I always see you … I see you flattered by Batavian horsemen … I see you dreading Felemid’s plans for a slave girl … I see you breathe life into a drowned child … I see you speak to Allicanda … You are a fool with words … a fool … a fool … a fool …”
I went rigid with fright, but it was not because he knew so much. That was impressive, but he knew so much only because he had spies everywhere. What shocked me was how close I had come to defeat in the first instants of our meeting. It was only the slow-paced delivery of his last words that alerted me, because he was pretending to attack with personal knowledge, to hide the real attack. He was deceiving me: me, Ikaros of Apollonis! Ikaros of Apollonis who had warned others of this very danger!
He was trying to hypnotise me and he had very nearly succeeded!
I gasped and fell back a pace.
“Well done, little engineer,” he said. “You avoided that trap, but there are many others, because you know nothing with your machines and science. What do you know of the real powers?”
It was time to hit back. So I did my best, even knowing that Maligoterix was my equal in all matters of intellect. But I could make use of that.
“You read minds,” I said, “just as I do, so you will know that I speak the truth.”
“Because truth is not only virtuous but invincible?” he said, and almost threw me over with his knowledge of myself. But I breathed deep and carried on.
“Yes,” I said, “so listen well, druid, because these are your thoughts. You pretend to despise engineering because you are afraid of it. You are likewise afraid of what you have done to the trinity – the teaching of Gaulish women – because you cannot control it, and it has caused such division within your people that you fear for your life.”
He gasped and ground his teeth.
“And worst of all,” I said, “you know that you are risking damnation of your soul, by asking for help from Rome.”
Those last words hit like an artillery bolt. In all my career I was never so gods-gifted in revealing a truth that a man was hiding from himself, and Maligoterix threw the temper-tantrum of an infant. He foamed at the mouth. He stamped and raged and stabbed finger into my chest. He screamed every insult of the languages he knew.
“Tape worm! Dung eater! Copulator of pigs! Cannibal of children!”
All that, and more. But he made no attempt to deny what I had said.
Then he became calm again, and stared at me, fully under control, because a Celt who foams at the mouth is no less dangerous than a Roman who shows no emotion. To prove that, he stabbed again.
“So,” he said, “what now, Greek?”
Once more I almost fell, because he said that in Latin, with an excellent imitation of Morganus’s voice. But I thought of Morganus and pressed on.
“We must stop competing,” I said. “Competition between us is vanity, because we are here to solve a problem. Do you agree?”
“Yes,” he said, after a long pause.
“Then what is the problem?” I said.
“Rome knows that already.”
“You do not want total war,”
“That is true.”
“Then how can Rome help you?”
He suffered agonies with that question, because he despised Rome so utterly. Then he stepped even closer, with his pink eyes staring.
“It is true that we cannot lie to each other,” he said, “because we both detect lies.”
“And so?” I said.
“So listen to the truth,” he said. “Yes, the trinity came to us from Gaul. It was brought by women, and the common people loved it because it offered peace and salvation. Also it bound together the tribes in a manner which I could never achieve. Thus I saw its power, and I took it, and consumed it.” He showed me his left hand. “Look,” he said, and I saw the three spots.
“You consumed it?” I said. “What does that mean?”
“It means that I sent druidic lore-masters to study its teachings and then combine these teachings with truth.”
“Your truth?” I said.
“There is no other!”
“What about the women from Gaul?” I said. “Did they not argue against your truth?”
“Of course!” he said. “And of course, I dealt with them. I dealt with them before all the people.” He smiled. “It took three whole days. Shall I tell you what we did to them?”
“No,” I said, “because your cruelty failed. You do not control the trinity, and now you are in fear of your life. So what went wrong?”
He frowned, and paused greatly before replying.
“There was a division among the elect,” he said. “Some of the highest believe that our trinity demands total war against Rome and a rising of all the tribes.”
“They do, but you do not,” I said.
“I do not,” he said, “since Rome would take opportunity to extinguish the truth absolutely. There would be no more client states where we could take refuge.” He seized my arm. “Do not misunderstand me,” he said. “I do not want to hide forever, but so long as there are client states, the truth can be kept alive and better days may come. But some of the elect do not – will not – see this, because they believe the tribes can extinguish Rome.”
“And you are outnumbered among the elect,” I said.
“Greatly,” he said. “To the degree that I must pretend to support total war, or face death. That is why I ordered the skinnings outside Londinium and other places.”
“So that was your work?” I said.
“Yes. And I caused the rumour of skinnings to be spread among the soldiers.”
“And was it you that ordered me killed? Smashed under the barrel in the docks?”
“The barrel?” he said. “Dropped by Denmultid the Writer? Yes, I ordered that. I ordered you dead in many ways, by many hands, because you are a persistent irritant and there were things I wanted kept from you.” He shrugged. “You escaped Denmultid only because he was grateful for his child’s life.”
“Gods bless him!” I said. “What about Zephyrix the Thousander? Was he killed on your orders?”
Maligoterix shook his head. “Not entirely. Blephyrix the slave hated Zephyrix, so Blephyrix was encouraged towards the act, and caused to do it in such manner as would wound the Roman soul.” He smiled. “They do so much love their racing drivers.”
“I see,” I said. “And now I ask again: what do you want from Rome?”
“I want a great demonstration of Rome’s power,” he said. “You have perhaps half a year to do this, because it will take us that long to raise all the tribes and arm them. So before then, I want Roman boots to march from end to end of Britannia, to prove to the elect that a rising will fail.”
He leaned so close that his breath was in my face. “I want another legion,” he said. “I want Rome to send another legion, as proof that Rome will never give up Britannia.”
CHAPTER 23
It was bizarre beyond imagination. Standing together on the meeting rock, with all Britannia below us, Maligoterix and I became allies. We did so, even though for both of us, such alliance was a mixture of treason, profanity and betrayal. But we each wanted the same thing. We wanted a fourth legion sent to Britannia, and when I explained Roman doubts in this matter, he was swift in understanding Roman politics and swift with arguments to change the Roman mind. Furthermore, he amazed me with his knowledge of the greater world.
“The Germanic kings are constantly waiting to lead their folk across the Rhine,” he said, “and they will do so on the instant that Rome stumbles.”
“How can you know that?” I said.
“Because I have personal communication with them.”
“Do you?” I said, and he pitied my lack of understanding.
“Do you think that pigeons fly only to Londinium?” he said. “And that ships do not sail? And ambassadors are not sent out?”
“You send ambassadors?” I said.
“Of course!” he said. “And it is not just the Germans who are watching and waiting. Think of the Greek city-states, the Parthians, the Sasanians and the Egyptians.’
“Do you talk to them all?” I said, and he laughed and came so close I could feel the warmth of his body.
“Rome thinks it is secure,” he said, “because Rome has conquered everyone. But all the conquered people are waiting their time. And remember that Rome took Britannia mainly as a demonstration of power. So if Rome loses Britannia the world will see that Rome is not invincible, and the whole empire will fall apart!”
“But isn’t that exactly what you want?” I said.
“Yes!” he said. “But not if the Romans take revenge by the extinction of the druidic faith.”
I nodded. I understood, and therefore and between us – a Celt who hated Rome and a Greek enslaved by Rome – we planned a course of action to save the Roman Empire.
*
Three days later, with Flambrox left behind, Morganus and I were in the client kingdom of Brigantia, in sight of the palace of King Brax: a modest and shabby reflection of the palace of Cogidubnus. Or at least, that is how it seemed by moonlight, since we were smuggled in at night.
“That’s all they get, this far north,” said Morganus looking at the so-called palace. “The kings aren’t so loyal up here, and can’t be trusted. So they get brick instead of marble.”
We rode through wooded country, with an escort of Brigantian horsemen under the command of a young druid, Lossigi, who was faithful to Maligoterix. Lossigi was small and thin, so he stretched himself up, and raised chin for extra height, when facing tall men such as myself or Morganus. His horsemen had mail shirts, helmets and swords, and Morganus looked at them. “I suppose they’re King Brax’s men,” he said, “from his house guard.”
“You are wrong, Roman,” said Lossigi, riding close behind. “The king’s riders are elsewhere. Those around us are simply free men who ignore the laws of the occupying power.”
Morganus turned in the saddle and stared at Lossigi. He said nothing then, but later, we were given a squalid little hovel for the night, in a squalid little village, and we talked.
“I’ll strangle that druid,” said Morganus. “I’ll twist his neck.”
“He doesn’t like us,” I said, “nor his present duty.”
“Yes,” said Morganus, “so I suppose it’s stupid to wonder if we can trust him?”
“If they wanted to skin us,” I said, “they’d have done it by now.” Then I raised arms and muttered a prayer, in case the gods were listening to such dreadful words.
We were kept guarded in the hovel all the next day, and let out only at night. The boredom was appalling, and the fear of treachery even worse. We were given no food and only water to drink. Then Lossigi came for us, and we ducked out through the low doorway and found armed men with torches standing around the druid in the dark, and the village empty of people.
“Come,” said Lossigi, “and you shall see many wonders.”
We followed, and were led out of the village, towards a great glow of light seen above the woods, and hearing a vast concourse of voices, and that most barbaric of all sounds: the beating of drums, in deep rhythm. Then we were up on a ridge, looking down on vast numbers of men and torches, and gleaming blades raised in the night, and druids in white, running among the masses and howling and calling. The noise was tremendous.
“See!” said Lossigi, shouting to be heard. “And this assembly of thousands is only one of many that are planned, and all brought together by the trinity of true faith.” He looked at Morganus. “See, Roman,” he said. “See and be afraid!”
Morganus said nothing, and there was a great stirring among the masses as a procession came forward, with drums pounding, cymbals clashing and horns blowing: a procession of men led by a group with long robes over Celtic arms and amour.
“That’s King Brax,” said Morganus, pointing to the leader. “I’ve seen him before. He comes to Londinium for the emperor’s birthday parade.”
The king and his elite were followed by many dozens of men holding hurdles on their shoulders and druids riding the hurdles. The druids raised voices in a chant as they tapped right hands to left, then tapped brow and breast. The chant was taken up by the multitudes, and they began to sway, and then kneel, and then rise, over and over again.
But the ceremony was only beginning. The drums changed rhythm, the horns blared, and a great pyramid was formed of hurdles, with men yelling and screaming, yet acting together to clamber on to the first level of hurdles, and raise more hurdles to a second, smaller level, then another, and another.
Finally – by teamwork that the legions would envy – one man was raised up in the middle of the pyramid: raised up and up, until he stood alone on the topmost hurdle, looking down on all others. The man was Maligoterix, and the vast gathering bowed low – even the king – and fell silent as he raised his arms high and began to sing. He sang, and paused for responses, which were roared out like thunder by the crowd. When the song was done, he made a great speech in a high voice that all could hear. As with the song, it was in Celtic that I could not follow, but I saw Morganus frown and make the bull sign.
He looked at me. “It’s fire and the sword,” he said. “ It’s not nice. They won’t just kill us quickly. Not if they can help it. It’s not nice.”
“Yes,” said Lossigi, standing close and listening. “So learn and be afraid.” He looked at me. “Because none will be spared.” Soon after that, he insisted that we should leave. “You have seen enough,” he said, “and it is not proper for heathens to see more.”
“Heathens?” said Morganus, when we were shut up in the hovel again, cross-legged at a miserable fire. “Heathens? I’m a Roman and you’re a Greek!”
“He hates us,” I said. “He hates us.”
There was some bread and native beer in the hovel, so I chewed some bread. It was coarse and full of grit, and the beer was even worse: it smelt bad. But we were thirsty.
“What did you think of it?” I said. “What we saw?”
“If that gathering really was just one of many,” he said, “then they’ve got the numbers – vast numbers. They won’t have our discipline and gear, but they’ve got the numbers. That’s bad.” He paused. “And I’d like to know where they got the weapons. I saw thousands of swords. They couldn’t have made that many, in Britannia, in secret. They’ve come from outside Britannia.”
