A day out ofRome, Bedwyr met a group of other mercenaries whose contracts had expired, and who traveled toGaulto place themselves in spear service to the feuding grandsons of the Frankish King Clovis. They traveled up the west coast of Italia along theAurelian Road, which their efforts had for the moment made secure. Westward they curved around the middle sea to the port city ofMassilia, then north to Lugdunum and finally to Lutetia, whichClovishad made into his capital and renamedParis.

            As they rode through the green countryside they passed ruins of great villas formerly owned by Gallo-Roman nobles. It was a rich land, and Bedwyr found himself thinking that it would be a fine place to settle and raise horses. But a smudge of dark smoke on the horizon reminded him of the nearness of the barbarians, and he rode on.

            InParis, Bedwyr bid farewell to his traveling companions and set off along theSeinetoward the coast. He reached it late on an afternoon that saw the sky turning sloe purple under great, flat-topped storm clouds. Before he could find shelter the clouds dumped their rain and scurried away, leaving behind ankle-deep mud. As he rode, the great wolfhound slogged behind him, belly matted black, growling occasionally at the mud.

            A cluster of ramshackle buildings at the river mouth served as a port. Bedwyr located a dilapidated inn and went inside to learn whether any ships sailed forBritain. The sun’s rays filtered through a small common room, made smoky by a turf fire. From a lean-to kitchen came the reek of fish stew.

            He spoke to the innkeeper, who had just enough Latin to understand his questions. He was in luck. Yes, a ship now loading sailed forBritain. The captain’s name? Caedmon, called the Crosser. No, he did not know whether he would take passengers.

            Bedwyr paid for a night’s lodging and saw his horse rubbed down and fed. If he found passage he would have to sell the animal for considerably less than its value, he was certain. The residents of the port enjoyed a buyer’s market.

            He walked to the quay. Two wooden piers jutted into the water, and at the side of each rolled a small cargo ship. One of them, squat with a short mast, looked badly built. The other promised better, with a raised cargo deck fore and aft. To Bedwyr it appeared slow but seaworthy, and he hoped this was Caedmon’s ship.

            Crewmen swarmed over it, mending rigging and scouring the decks, while others bustled up the pier carrying crates of pottery, amphorae of wine, and tightly bound bundles of soft-looking dyed leather. From his station near the gangplank a bald man with a ruddy, weathered face and a brown beard feathered with gray shouted instructions.

            Bedwyr walked out to him, dodging crewmen. Behind him stalked Fergus, looking with deep suspicion at the water on both sides of the pier.

            Bedwyr spoke to the man in Latin. “I seek the ship of Caedmon.”

            The man looked at him blankly and shrugged. Bedwyr tried again in Celtic. The man nodded. “I’m Caedmon.”

            “Are you bound forBritain?”

            Caedmon’s eyes narrowed. “Who’s wanting to know?”

            “My name is Bedwyr ap Gruffydd. I need passage. I can pay.”

            Behind them a cask thudded onto the pier and the captain looked up. “Two men to a cask!” he shouted. “Is it I have to tell you everything?” He turned back to Bedwyr. “I take no one on board, crewman or passenger, who cannot handle a sword. This is sea wolf water.”

            “I know how to use a sword, if necessary,” said Bedwyr.

            The captain looked him up and down. “Aye. I believe it. Well, then perhaps I’m bound forBritain. Where on that suffering island do you go, and what’s your business?”

            “My business is none of yours. But I go to Gwent as a start.”

            The captain grunted, his eyes flickering with amusement. “Fortunate. Gwent’s the only place I make port in these times. I meant no discourtesy, but it’s not uncommon for pirates to plant one of their number on board a merchant ship to take the crew from behind, while his murdering cohorts board her.”

            He scratched his beard, then nodded once. “Och! I’ll carry you. You’ve not the look of a pirate. Though,” he glanced at Bedwyr’s missing hand, “it seems you’ve looked at no few battles from the inside.”

            After brief but intense haggling they agreed upon a fare, but it cost Bedwyr an extra silver coin for the dog’s passage.

            Caedmon said, “We sail at dawn. Without you, if you’re not here.”

            As Bedwyr turned to leave, a glint of sunlight caught his eye. From the open sea a low-bellied ship plowed into the bay. Its square black-and-saffron-striped sail lay furled, and at the ship’s sides sixteen pairs of oars dipped and flashed rhythmically. As it drew closer Bedwyr could see the swing of the rowers’ arms. A man stood at the stern holding the steering oar; another leaned over the prow, from time to time casting a weighted sounding line overboard to read the depth of the water. After each reading he shouted in a guttural tongue.

            As they neared the quay the helmsman put the steering oar hard over and the ship swung slowly around in a half circle to the far bank. The crew shipped oars that glistened with water, and men jumped over the side, splashing ashore with mooring lines.

            Caedmon’s face turned grim. “Sea wolf. A Saxon pirate.”

            “In a Gaulish port?” Bedwyr said. “Do they think to attack you here?”

            “No. They make port from time to time, here and in other places. They’re like all ships, needing water and food, and to make repairs. Peaceful enough, so long as they’re here. If they looted every port they made they’d soon run short of places to refit.” Caedmon spat into the water. “But mark you, they’ll note our presence. Once we leave the quay we’re fair catch.”

            “Will you stay in port, then, until they sail?”
            “No, for they can outwait us. We sail tomorrow still.” The captain looked at Bedwyr from under bushy eyebrows. “Have you represented your wish to sail with me?”

            Bedwyr shrugged. “I’m not so good a swimmer as to try the narrow sea.”

            Caedmon laughed. “Aye, you’ll do. I have a trick or two that may throw the sharks off our tail.” He squinted at the sky. “There’ll be fog tomorrow, I’m thinking. Be here an hour ahead of dawn.”

            Bedwyr made his way down to the ship in near-total darkness. He had slept fitfully with evil dreams, and a nameless feeling persisted, a sense that he was alone in a universe of oppressive gods. With a whining yawn, Fergus stopped at the bottom of the gangplank and refused to board until Bedwyr stroked his head and crooned into a drooping ear.

            As they stepped on deck, they were challenged quietly by the watch. “Who comes?”

            “Bedwyr ap Gruffydd.”

            “They’re here, cap’n. Punctual as an unpaid money-lender.”

            Caedmon murmured some orders, and the crew hauled in the plank and cast off mooring ropes. Once away from the pier, twelve pairs of oars slid out from uncovered oar ports and dipped quietly into the water. They moved like a ghost ship through the bay, with no sound but the hiss of water against the hull, and the faint splash out of the oars.

            After a time dawn drifted out from the shore, revealing a glassy sea. Astern, Bedwyr saw nothing but a wake of bubbles. With the dawn came fog, white mist that draped over the ship and thickened, until Bedwyr felt as if he were packed in damp sheepswool.

            The ship, heavily laden and designed more for sailing than rowing, moved slowly. Caedmon stood at the steering oar, turning it slightly from time to time, and Bedwyr wondered how he could navigate in the fog. He questioned the watch, who leaned over the bow, peering ahead.

            The man flashed a gap-toothed grin. “That’s why he’s named the Crosser. Caedmon can find his way across the narrow sea when no one else dares.”

            They rowed and listened by turns. A long stroke, and the crew lay back on the oars for a count of seven, then another stroke. Between strokes they listened for the sound of other oars in the fog, or men talking, but the only sound they heard was the slap and gurgle of water under the hull.

            The fog still showed no sign of lifting when Bedwyr heard Caedmon call softly, “Make sail.”

            The crew shipped oars and several scrambled to run up the square sail. Moments later Bedwyr felt a puff of breeze on his face, and soon the sail snapped and billowed as it filled with a southeast wind. The breeze shredded the fog, sending rags of mist drifting past his face like cool cobwebs. Ahead he saw open water. They were out of the bay.

            As they rounded the point running toward open sea, the roll of the ship became deeper, the wind grew stronger, and they ran free before it. Southward, Bedwyr heard the boom of the surf and saw tiny waves break white on the dark line of the shore.

            He climbed onto the raised stern, where Caedmon gripped the steering oar, his face serene. “Have we lost them, think you?”

            “Aye. They’ll not follow us out here. Saxons are coast crawlers, hugging the shorelines. They fear the open water.” He peered at Bedwyr, his eyes crinkling in amusement. “You’ve not sailed before, I’m thinking.”
            “Once, only.” Bedwyr smiled. “I crossed the narrow sea the other way some years since. A storm hit us and I was sick the whole voyage.”
            Caedmon chuckled. “That is the way of it with most land lovers, at first. But if they sail enough, they come to know the pleasures of a sea voyage.”

            “If they don’t drown first.”

            Caedmon patted the steering oar with a horny hand. “No. Treat her right and Brigit will do right by you.”

            As if she heard them, the sturdy ship grew playful, flinging spindrift over her bow onto the faces of the crew.

            The wind continued favorable and they made good speed. Late in the afternoon Bedwyr saw in the distance the cliffs of Dumnonia. On the morning of the third day they roundedLand’s End, making toward the Sabrina estuary. The voyage passed so pleasantly that even Fergus, who had spent the first day lying grumpily against the mast, began to walk cautiously around the deck with Bedwyr, nose snuffling the salt spray.

            They had just climbed the ladder to the stern deck when a shout came from the watch: “Ship to starboard! Running hard!”

            Bedwyr swung around to see a longship coming from the southeast, high prow carved into a dragon’s head. Its bows split the sea, flaring translucent green waves along its sides. A long row of multicolored shields lined the gunwales, and above them heaved a square sail, emblazoned with a black sea serpent. It raced down on them, swollen sail straining in the wind.

            “By the Wind and the Sea!” Caedmon’s face turned gray.

            “Can we outrun them?” Bedwyr said.

            The captain shook his head. “Not possible. That’s a Northman longship. She’ll do ten knots.”

            The longship closed on them, sun and sea sparkle flashing off swords and spears. A man stood at the stern oar and three men in the prow, heads turned their way.

            “Prepare to be boarded!” Caedmon shouted.

            The crew pulled weapons from beneath the rowing benches. Caedmon swung the steering oar hard over, and the Brigit shuddered, heeling sharply. Behind them the Norse ship matched the maneuver and drew closer.

            Bedwyr could see the Northmen lining the gunwales, huge, grim warriors in horned helmets, who watched the Brigit with hungry eyes. They carried weapons of every kind and size; their chieftain, a red-bearded giant, fingered a throwing ax.

            Standing on the stern deck, Bedwyr strapped his shield to his handless arm, buckling the leather thongs tightly. As the longship closed to within a spear’s throw, its crew struck the sail and it glided alongside. Long-handled boat hooks reached out and grappled the Brigit to the Norse ship.

            The pirates leaped over the side, and the Brigit’s deck, already crowded with armed crewmen, disappeared in a chaos of bodies and clashing weapons. A Northman slashed at the rigging and the sail collapsed onto the deck, burying three crewmen.

            The Northmen outnumbered the Brigit’s crew by half, but sailors as well-armed as these surprised them for they took as their usual pray unarmed and defenseless ships, or coastal villages. Still, they drove Caedmon’s crew back and laughed fiercely at the sport offered.         

            Caedmon plunged into the thick of the fighting, leaving Bedwyr on the stern deck, alone, save for the great wolfhound at his side. Silently Bedwyr waited, watching the fighting below. Fergus growled, hackles raised, listening to an order from his master.

            Then a Northman brandishing a war hammered scrambled up the ladder.

            “Sic!” Bedwyr said.

            Fergus launched himself at the raider’s throat, and they crashed to the deck below.

            Out of the melee a throwing ax spun toward him and Bedwyr dodged. The ax flew past his ear like an angry goshawk and buried itself in the rail behind him.

            The horn-helmeted chieftain bounded onto the deck, following his ax. He grinned, spat, and drew his sword, then came in hard, thrusting his shield into Bedwyr’s face, trying to knock him off balance. Bedwyr ducked under the shield and parried the expected jab to his belly.

            The chieftain was strong and fought with brutal skill. For Bedwyr, time slowed. His enemy’s movements seemed languid, dreamlike. He heard no sound but the hiss and clang of sword on shield, and he studied the huge Northman’s reactions as he swung and thrust, circled and parried. Then Bedwyr saw his weakness. The man threw his weight too far onto his toes when he lunged, and recovered slowly.

            Bedwyr drew back and lowered his sword a little, enticing the thrust. The chieftain lunged and Bedwyr swung his sword up and down on the man’s neck. The Northman fell like a stone.

            Below, the raiders saw their leader fall and hesitated. Bedwyr waded into the fighting, his sword cutting a murderous arc ahead of him. Man and weapon became on entity, a ravening messenger of death. Five more of the raiders fell.

            Astonished, the survivors broke off their attack and leaped for their ship. Dying in battle promised passage toValhalla, but living guaranteed they would plunder again another time. They hacked the grappling hooks in two and the boats drifted apart. Throwing their weapons aside, the Northmen scrambled to hoist the sail, and the great dragon prow turned and knifed away into the sea.

            On the Brigit the only sounds were the wind whistling softly through the rigging and the groan of wounded crewmen.

            Fergus padded over to Bedwyr and sank down on the deck. Blood dripped from a wound on the dog’s shoulder, and he licked it. Bedwyr kneeled to inspect the wolfhound, running his hands over the rough coat. There was only one wound, the gash in the shoulder, and it did not look deep.

            Finished with his inspection, Bedwyr looked up to see the crew staring at him in awe. Caedmon limped over to him, holding his right thigh where a sword had nicked it.

            “Who are you?”

            Surprised, Bedwyr answered: “My name hasn’t changed since I have it to you at the pier. Bedwyr ap Gruffydd.”

            Understanding, then fear, spread across the captain’s face. “By the Eight Winds of Heaven! You’re Bedwyr Mawr. The Great One!” He spread three fingers of his right hand behind him in the sign against enchantment. “But you were killed at Camlann.”

            Alarmed, the crew backed away. “He’s a demon or a wraith!” said one.

            “Demons can’t cross water,” the captain said. But he looked uncertain as to whether Bedwyr was indeed a ghost.

            “And dogs cannot abide wraiths,” said Bedwyr. He fondled Fergus’s ears and the hound thumped his tail on the deck. “I’m as alive as you are, Caedmon.”

            Caedmon hesitated, then grinned in relief and nodded. He turned to the crew. “This is Lord Bedwyr of the Companions.”

            A cheer rose from the crewmen, and Bedwyr felt his face redden. “No. No lord of yours, Caedmon. Nor of any man. Only a tired cavalryman who needs to clean his sword.”
            Caedmon watched him silently for a moment, puzzled, as Bedwyr wiped the blood from his sword with a rag. Then the captain limped away to appraise the damage.

            Three crewmen had died in the battle, and eight of the raiders. The survivors stripped the bodies of the Northmen of valuables and heaved the men over the side. Caedmon ordered their jewelry be given to wives or kin of the dead sailors, whose bodies they wrapped in sailcloth and weighted in preparation for submergence.

            The crew looked expectantly at Bedwyr, as their battle leader, to say some words of comfort over the bodies. He turned away and looked out at the empty sea. Knowing no comfort for long years, he had none in him now to give others.

            Caedmon sensed his distress and spoke in his stead. “The spirit’s voyage through life is but a short journey to theharborofGwynved, where it will feast and dream through time beyond counting.” He praised the skills of each of the crewmen, and invoked for Dai, who had followed the Christian religion, the name of Simon Peter, the fisherman.

            As he spoke, waves lapped idly at the ship’s sides, and she rose and fell with the swells. The pilot worked the steering oar to keep her bow into the wind.

            Bedwyr looked at the bodies and saw only death. He too had once believed that his spirit would feast and dream after death. Arthur had believed in the Christian heaven. But his Christ had deserted him, as the old gods had abandoned Bedwyr andBritain.

            The funeral over, the crew set about making repairs to the Brigit. Rigging mended, decks scrubbed clean of blood, she soon moved again, sailing up the Sabrina estuary. Gulls wheeled above the mast as they sailed up the Usk on the tide.

            Ahead, Bedwyr saw the massive walls of Caerleon. He was back inBritain, but he knew he was not home.

Steven Wright

BEDWYR

SIX

Bedwyr pulled the woolen pillow off his head and with a groan lifted himself onto his elbow. At his movement the huge wolfhound sleeping in the corner opened his eyes and raised his ears, but did not otherwise move.

            The narrow window at which Bedwyr squinted showed him gray dawn in the city ofRome. From habit he began to drag his body from the cot. Then he remembered he had no duty today, nor would he have tomorrow. He collapsed back into bed; his hand found the pillow and threw it over his head, and drifted back to sleep. The dog closed his eyes again and snuffed a sigh.

            The nightmare came: always the same, a formless blending of light and shadow, with darker figures moving in the shade, indistinct but awakening dread deep within him. Light coalesced into the shape of a giant bear and Bedwyr stood behind it watching the shadow draw nearer, unable to move, either to fight or to run.  The bear limped forward to meet the onrushing shade. As the darkness engulfed it the animal blurred and faded until only its red eyes, haunted with despair, still shone. The bear cried out to him, its eyes pleading. Bedwyr shook his head in refusal. Then the shadow reached him, too, and he awoke, terrified as always, and sweating.

            He must have called out in his sleep, for the wolfhound lifted his head from his paws and cocked it, puzzled. Forcing his eyes open Bedwyr lay still until his breathing slowed and the terror died. He sighed, gingerly flexing his left arm, then sat up and swung his feet onto the floor.

            Last night’s wine tasted sour in his mouth. Drinking it never stopped the nightmares but it dulled the fear of sleep. He rubbed his face. During the eleven years since Camlann a longing had been growing in him, a need to have peace that had become a great thirst.

            The wolfhound rose and padded over, resting his head on Bedwyr’s leg, a leg crisscrossed with scars, many of them white with age, some still puckered angry red. Scratching the dog’s ears with long fingers, he murmured, “A couple of fang-gashed old hounds, Fergus, you and I. What’s needed is to find a little farm somewhere and curl up dry and warm.” The dog woofed happily. “But first we have an errand.”

            He stood and dressed, grimacing as his joints made their morning protest. With his right hand he fitted a leather cover over the stump of his left wrist. Peering into his polished steel shaving mirror, he rubbed his hand over a face tanned and wind burned the color of bronze. Eyes that turned downward at the corners merged into deep creases engraved by years of sun glare, giving him a melancholy cast of autumn. Only the lines around his mouth betrayed the quick laughter that had won for him the hearts of Arthur and the Companions in the years of light. He shrugged. He’d shave tomorrow.

            Bedwyr walked stiffly out of his sleeping cell in the officers’ block into a hot, blue morning. Ignoring the praetorian kitchens where cooks boiled wheat meal porridge, he headed for the baths to soak his body into mobility. Fergus trotted beside him.

            In the undressing room he stripped off his clothing, then made his way through the steamy chambers. The splashing and shouting of Roman shoulders bounced from the stone walls and the high, vaulted ceiling. Bypassing the cold plunge he eased his body directly into the caldarium and smiled as the hot water soothed his aching muscles. On the edge the hound sat down to wait, tongue lolling in the humidity.

            From an adjoining pool a centurion of another company called: “And it’s just like a Brit not to know how to wash right.” Bedwyr smiled and, with a wave, sank beneath the surface.

            When he came up for air the baths had become silent, save for the splash of running water. He opened his eyes. On the edge of the pool a hairy-shouldered decurion stood rigid, facing him. Near him two young recruits stood motionless, their eyes fixed in the same direction. Throughout the building, men stood to attention, some waist deep in water, others on the tiled floor, all of them naked as shorn sheep. Bedwyr threw his back his head and laughed, struck by the sight of a hundred naked men standing at attention and trying to look dignified doing it.

            As his laughter subsided he heard a throat clear behind him and turned. On the edge of the pool, in full uniform and polished breastplate, stood the commander of the entire Roman army: Belisarius, General of the East, Conqueror of Carthage and Rome. He was not smiling.

            It was Bedwyr’s turn to splash to attention.

            The general motioned for them all to be at ease. “When you have a moment, centurion,” he said to Bedwyr, “I would like a word.” He turned and strode away.

            Bedwyr quickly dressed. A guard met him at the top of the marble steps and columns lining the atrium, the dog’s toenails clicking on the tessellated floor. They came to the huge, bronze-covered doors of Belisarius’s private study, where Bedwyr ordered Fergus to stay. The giant wolfhound settled onto his haunches to inspect the guard.

            Belisarius was bent over a large desk covered with maps. As Bedwyr entered he glanced up, a small man with a tightly trimmed beard, face grave and brooding. He spoke without preamble. “My sources tell me the entire Ostrogoth nation, in addition to the Burgundians, are massing here and here” –he stabbed a map with a blunt finger—“to drive us from Roman soil. Meanwhile the Emperor commands me to march north to reclaim Italia all the way to theAlps, though we are outnumbered ten to one.”

            He indicated a chair on the other side of the desk, poured red wine into a silver goblet, and handed it to Bedwyr. “Your resignation notice came through yesterday, Beduerus. How long have you been contracted to me?”

            “Two years today, sir.” He sat and took a sip of the watered wine.

            The general nodded. “During that time we won the city ofRomeback for the Empire and broke the siege the barbarians laid against us. Such as we have been able to do, Beduerus, we have done on the backs of our cavalry federates. The day is past when the infantry legion ruled the battlefield.”

            Bedwyr waited, silent. He knew the world’s most powerful general did not call him into his study to seek his opinion on matters of strategy.

            The Roman commander eyed him thoughtfully. “You fight recklessly, centurion. Almost as if your life means little to you.”

            Bedwyr set the goblet down on the desk. He felt the familiar surge of bitterness. What good was his survival when everything he had valued had been destroyed, erased as if it were no more than the tracks of small birds in the mud? But he smiled. “I’ve survived Saxon axes, Iberian women, and legion food, sir. I’m durable.”

            “Mm. Well, whatever the reasons for fighting as you do, I’m grateful. Your charge shattered the Goth shield wall and led to the breaking of the siege. I’m offering you the rank of wing tribune if you will contract for another two years.”
            Bedwyr blinked. “You honor me, General.”

            Belisarius’s eyes became calculating. “As wing tribune you would receive an allotment of land when you retired.”

            The Old Man reads me well, Bedwyr thought. More than the rank, the lure of a few hectares of land where he could raise horses and dogs and let the world go to Uffern attracted him. He sighed. Well, maybe the small amount he had saved out of his pay would buy him that land elsewhere. “You do tempt me, sir. But there’s a thing I must finish that will take a journey toBritain. It’s something that needs doing if ever I’m to sleep again at night.”

            The general studied him a moment longer, then nodded. “Well, it’s not business of mine. I had to try.”

            Bedwyr rose to leave.

            “Oh, centurion. One more thing.”

            He turned back warily.

            “You fought with your great general, Artorius. Know you by chance one Honorius Flavian, who styles himself magistrate of Gwent?”

            Ynyr of Gwent. Memories flooded through the barriers Bedwyr had so painstakingly build. “I knew such a man once, sir.”

            Belisarius pawed through the maps and documents on his desk, then handed Bedwyr a scrolled parchment on which the seal had been broken. “I received this communication from him some weeks since. Read it.”

            Bedwyr looked at the proffered parchment, filled with a sudden sense of foreboding. The general thrust it into his hands and he unrolled it.

           rom the loyal citizens of Britannia to Belisarius, Conqueror of Carthage andRomeand Emissary of His Majesty Justinian, Emperor inConstantinople, greetings:

            Most gracious and wise General, your loyal subjects suffer from the spears and swords of the barbarians. Throughout your provinces good and loyal subjects perish and lie as fodder for dogs, or are destroyed by the flames that burn their homes. In villages and country houses, in the fields and countryside, on every road, death and slaughter threaten us. Without your help we cannot long endure.

            If you wish that your subjects should live, send us aid. If you desire that we should throw back at the barbarians, send us arms and horses and men.

Bedwyr dropped the letter on the desk. His voice carefully neutral, he said, “Why do you show this to me?”

            Belisarius’s eyebrows lifted. “I thought perhaps you would be interested, since you played a sizable role in protecting the British form the Saxons.”

            “The problems of the British are of their own making.” The words came out more harshly than Bedwyr had intended. “I have done with them.”

            The general gave him a long, steady look. “As you wish. But since you’re returning there, I ask you as a personal favor to convey a message to Honorius.”

            Bedwyr hesitated, then nodded reluctantly.

            “The message is simply this: Britannia, I regret, must look to itself for defense against the barbarians. We can send no aid.” Belisarius picked up his goblet and carried it over to a tall window flanked by statued alcoves. Gazing out over the city, he said, “I will confess something to you. I have a dream of someday restoring the historic boundaries of the empire. Yet I know in my heart that it will never be. Those years are forever gone. Your island has passed beyond the power of the empire to aid, regardless of our desires.”
            He strode businesslike to the table. “And I do not decide our policies. Explain to Honorius that the Emperor looks eastward. To him, Britannia is only a shadow on the horizon. He will spare no thought, nor direct any effort, toward your island.”

            The general paused and extended his hand. “So. That is the way of it. Godspeed, then, Beduerus, and my thanks. You will always have a place in my personal guard should you choose to return.”

            Almost, Bedwyr changed his mind. Perhaps he could again bury the past and finish out his life here, fighting for money. But in his heart he knew he could no longer bear the pressure of Arthur’s disobeyed order. Caliburn must be destroyed or he would have no peace. And he was sick of barbarians; sick of Goths and Vandals and Saxons; sick of what he had become fighting them. He clasped the general’s outstretched hand.

            The next day Bedwyr collected his last payment from the legion paymaster and rode north from the walls ofRome, towardBritain.

Irion and his warriors reached the gates of Caerwent as the sun was setting. After the battle they had buried their dead and rested overnight before riding slowly back. Irion had sent a messenger ahead to tell Honorius of their victory, envisioning in the flush of his triumph a hero’s welcome. But during the ride the exhilaration of the cavalry’s salute had worn off. His leg throbbed and a vague feeling of unease had returned. Apprehension turned to alarm when he found the gates closed and barred against them.

            As they halted beneath the walls, a sentry appeared in the gate tower. “Who comes?”

            “It’s us,” Irion said. “Were you not told?”

            The sentry hurried from his tower and lifted the bar, mumbling to himself as he hauled open the heavy wooden slabs. He held a torch as Irion rode through, peering up at him. “Lord Irion. It’s glad I am to see you.”

            “What goes forward?”

            “Lord Honorius, tribune. He’s been wounded.”

            Cold dread touched Irion. “By whom, man?”

            “I—I don’t know, lord. But the council ordered me to shut the gates and be alert.”

            “Where is he?”

            “They’ve taken him to Catullan, the physician.

            Irion looked at Gwythur. “Have the men stand ready until I learn more of this.” He kicked his tired mount into a gallop and clattered through the stillness toward the surgeon’s house. As he sped through the streets he murmured quick prayers to Nodens of the Silver Hand, to Lugh, and to the Christus that Honorius worshiped, to spare his uncle.

            Catullan’s surgery filled a narrow building set back from the street to make room for a crowded herb garden. Outside it, an angry glow lit the sky. As Irion drew nearer, the glow turned into a cluster of torches held by a throng of people. Faces made orange by the torchlight silently watched him climb from his horse and hobble into the building.

            As he entered, smells of vinegar and herbs assailed him. On a high table in the middle of the room lay a body covered in a white shroud. Beneath a row of pegs holding bunches of dried herbs he saw Catullan. The old Roman-trained surgeon, a close friend of Honorius whom Irion had never seen smile, sat slumped on a stool.

            “Is that?…” Irion said.

            Catullan nodded. The dour medicus looked even paler than usual and his eyes were red from strain and lack of sleep.

            “Does he live?”

            “I did what I could, Irion.” Catullan looked at him bleakly. “The arrow punctured his lung. It came out smoothly but the other lung failed. He died a few minutes ago.”

            Pain tore at Irion. He willed back the tears and steadied his voice. “Ah, Jesu. Why him? What did he do to anyone?”

            The surgeon lifted his hand, then let it drop, leaning his head back against the wall.

            Irion nodded toward the body. “May I?”

            “Of course.”

            He went over to the table and lifted back to the shroud. Honorius’s eyes were closed; the furrows and creases life had etched into his face were smoothed in death. Irion’s chest went hollow with a vast, dull ache; he felt as though some living part of him had been torn away. He reached down and took his uncle’s hand in both of his, then bent over and kissed his forehead. “Rest you gentle, Uncle Ynyr.”

            He turned to Catullan. “Who murdered him?”

            “A stranger. Iceni, I heard. Near dark, Honorius walked home alone from the baths and was shot from behind.”

            “They caught him, then?”

            “Aye. A guard caught him as he was about to slip out the south gate.” Catullan rubbed his eyes with his fingers.

            “What reason had he to kill my uncle?”
            “None that I know of.”

            Numb, Irion prowled back and forth beneath a hanging pewter lamp that sputtered yellow light on the walls of the surgery. He wondered what to do. The killing had the stink of paid assassination, but he knew of no one on the council who disliked Honorius enough to have him killed. Oh, there were those who had disagreed with his uncle. Brennus was their leader, and he stood next in line to be magistrate. But a sneak killing was not his style.

            “Where are they holding this Iceni?” he asked finally.

            “In the guard post near the south gate, I was told.”

            Irion nodded and limped toward the door. “My thanks, Catullan, for trying. I will go speak with this assassin.”

            He rode toward the gate, a part of him numb with grief. But another part of his mind observed the situation with cold detachment, weighing the consequences of the murder against his own fate. He had been Honorius’s choice of tribune, opposed by Brennus and his supporters. With his uncle gone, there might be an attempt to remove him from his new post. He resented the thought. The spark of ambition that had been kindled within him now burned hotly. He was, after all, the grandson of Arthur, the Pendragon, High King of Britain. And he had proved himself a good leader. He deserved to keep the post.

            Logrin, the pompous captain of the council guard, stood outside the guard post conferring in low tones with two other guardsmen bedecked in maroon capes and ancient Roman helmets. They broke off their conversation as Irion approached.

            Logrin nodded in acknowledgment. “Medraut-son.” He spoke t he name as if it were sour on his tongue.

            “I would speak with your prisoner, Logrin,” Irion said, dismounting.

            “You cannot. I’ve sent for Brennus. He wishes to question this man first.”

            Irion shouldered past him. “I think even Brennus will acknowledge my right as surviving clan chief to avenge Honorius’s murder.” He pushed open the heavy wooden door. The guardsmen followed closely behind, but did not try to stop him.

            For a moment Irion could make out nothing in the darkness. He seized a torch from the wall sconce outside the door and held it in front of him. In the far corner huddled a small man with dark hair braided in the Iceni fashion. He wore tattered, cross-gartered braccae and a filthy leather jerkin. As Irion entered, the eyes in the hatchet-thin face slitted open, glittering like small pieces of glass.

            “Stand up, back shooter,” Irion commanded.

            The assassin said nothing, but glared at him over a small, sharp nose that gave the impression of some stealthy rodent.

            “What are you called?”
            Still no answer. The man shifted his position and Irion noticed for the first time an angry scar on his neck. He had seen such a mark once before, on Brath, Honorius’s servant, a youth who had been a slave in one of Ceawlin’s steadings and who had been rescued by the British. It was the mark of a Saxon thrall ring.

            Irion spoke again, this time in the Friesian dialect he had learned from Brath. “What’s your name?”

            Understanding flashed in the killer’s eyes, but he stared sullenly, saying nothing.

            Frustration boiled into a black rage. Irion thrust the torch into the hands of the guard behind him and seized the prisoner’s jerkin, hauling him to his fee. Irion’s dagger winked in the torchlight as he held it against the tip of the man’s nose.

            “This is a fine job you have, assassin. How many backs have you bitten with your arrows? How many throats have you slit in the dark?”

            The man winced as the tip of the dagger pricked his nose, raising a drop of blood.

            “Your name?” Irion repeated.

            “Angarad.”

            “Who hired you?”
            Silence. The dagger winked again and a small piece of flesh flew from the man’s nose.

            Angarad shrieked. “Don’t hurt me.” He spoke in Friesian. “Ceawlin Cerdic-son ordered me to do it. I was his thrall. Promised me freedom, he did, if I would kill the old British lord. Promised to kill me if I didn’t.”

            Irion gripped the killer for a long moment, a breath away from plunging the dagger into his heart. Then the glare of rage faded and he pushed him away. The assassin crumpled to the ground, cupping his hands around his bleeding nose.

            Irion turned away and stumbled to the doorway, gasping for breath as he emerged into the night air. At that moment he hated Ceawlin more than he had ever hated anyone. He vowed to make the Saxon chieftain pay for his uncle’s death.

            Then, as the extent of his folly dawned, he stopped in his tracks. He cursed himself. The raid had been a trick after all, a diversion to distract attention from the assassination. And he had fallen into the trap. He should have known. Saxons had tried before to kill British leaders in advance of an all-out attack, to disorganize their enemies. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead. A Saxon invasion was near.