Arthur plunged Excalibur forward. Lucius attempted to deflect it, but Arthur’s aim was the stronger and surer. The Emperor’s sabre broke, and the longsword pierced his breastplate and the breastbone beneath it, and the beating heart beneath that. Lucius’s head hinged backward in a silent shriek, a crimson font arcing from his lips.
An age might have passed as he hung there, and then the mightiest man in the world toppled slowly from his saddle. When he struck the ground he was cold clay.
Tristan seized the Imperial banner and held it aloft, howling in triumph.
The word spread through the Romans’ tattered ranks like a wildfire.
Some refused to accept it, and strove on, slashing in all directions, still taking lives, but ultimately being dragged from their saddles or cut from their feet. The rest — the vast majority — turned and fled in a gargantuan, chaotic mob, causing more pain and destruction en route, horses maddened with fear driving through clumps of hapless infantry, bounding across the carpet of wounded and dying, their hooves impacting in flesh and bone as though it were soft mulch. So pressed together was the staggering horde, that it would only take one arrow to bring a man down, and maybe fifty others would trip over the top of him, to be trampled in the panic. Even men of rank fell victim to this pandemonium. One such was the wounded Prince Jalhid, whose bier was overturned in the stampede; before his bodyguards could reach him, feet, the hooves of horses and even the wheels of carriages had furrowed his body.
Arthur’s knights cantered among the fleeing droves, hacking and spearing. His infantry followed, swarming across the mounds of wounded, finishing them off with blades and clubs. They would continue in this fashion until the order was given to cease, though orders did not traverse easily over so chaotic a field. For maybe an hour after Arthur sent the word that only those Romans still armed were to be offered no quarter, the massacre continued. The British archers, who had now replenished their ammunition, also gave chase, loosing shafts willy-nilly, bringing down one man after another; it was almost sport for them — they laughed and joked.
Ironically, it was mainly those Romans who had advanced far up-field who were spared. Broken up, now, into small groups and isolated from each other in the sea of corpses, they knew they could never reach safety, and so downed their arms and offered surrender. Most of these were wounded anyway, or their weapons were blunted, so they simply sat and put their hands behind their heads. Some gibbered and wept; others knelt in prayer as Arthur’s cavalry encircled them.
Not everyone was ready to end the fight. Lucan rode hither and thither, chopping down any Roman he encountered who, by accident or design, still held weapons. “Rufio!” he bellowed, tearing off his helmet. “Felix Rufio, where are you?”
No-one answered this challenge, but still, here and there, he had cause to vent his wrath. A party of six legionaries — filthied and bloodied — knelt up and asked for mercy as Bedivere and other knights dismounted to take their surrender. One legionary, whose entire front was blistered by naphtha, begged for water. As Bedivere handed over a bottle, the fellow produced a gladius and slashed out, lopping the knight’s left hand off at the wrist.
Bedivere fell backward, gasping, and his squire, Percival, wove a cloak over the stump, but the rest of his retainers raised spears and swords, to shrieks and moans from the six Romans. “Enough!” Bedivere called hoarsely. “Enough… these men have surrendered. It’s battle-madness, nothing more.”
“Indeed,” replied Lucan, who had witnessed the incident and leapt from his saddle. He hefted Heaven’s Messenger. “’Twould be madness to leave it at that!” With six brutal blows, he split each captive to the teeth.
Bedivere, white-faced and shuddering, could only fix his brother with a baleful stare. “Do you feel better now?”
“I’ll feel better when we’ve made raven-food of them all,” Lucan replied. He glanced at Percival, a handsome Welsh lad. “That wound needs cauterising, or he’ll bleed to death before you get him to surgeon Tud. Take fire to it, or hot metal. And don’t stint.”
The squire nodded and supervised the carrying-away of his now insensible master.
Lucan re-mounted Nightshade and rode back across the field, calling for Rufio.
“I can tell you where Rufio is, Earl Lucan!” sounded a feeble voice.
Lucan turned in his saddle, and saw another bunch of prisoners seated nearby. These were of a less unruly order, and were in the charge of Arthur’s Familiaris. They, too, were bedraggled and bloodied; their arms and armour had been stripped from them and now they were roped together. Lucan dismounted again, but this time his sword remained sheathed. The Roman who had called was recognisable, though at first Lucan was unsure why — and then he remembered. It was Quintus Maximion, the tribune he had spoken to during the feast at Camelot. The once dignified commander was now a sorry sight, one eye swollen like a plum, the bridge of his nose cut to the cartilage, his right forearm deeply slashed. He wore only his maroon breeches, his sandals, and a ragged vest covered with grime and sweat.
Lucan surveyed him grimly. “I believe I warned you this could happen.”
Maximion nodded. “That is so.”
He seemed less devastated by the disaster than his comrades. He gave an air of frank, weary acceptance.
“You say you know where I can find Felix Rufio?”
“I’ve a good idea.”
“Now would be the time to tell me.”
“I had no love for Felix Rufio before, and I have even less now. But I have a price. The whipped dogs you see around me are the sole remnant of my command. These men have fought hard. In the cause of an arrogant madman, I agree, but nevertheless, they showed loyalty and courage. They do not deserve the fate they fear will befall them.”
Lucan cast his eye over the clutch of prisoners. They remained seated, heads bowed. None could meet his gaze. It was possible they’d seen him wreak his gruesome execution on the small band who had assaulted Bedivere, but more probably they had been fed propaganda by their Emperor about the doom facing any who fell into Arthur’s grasp.
“If their surrender is genuine,” Lucan said, “if they make no effort to escape or resist, they have nothing to fear. They will be held as prisoners. Once the war is over, the common men will be released. Those of rank and title may be held for ransom, but they’ll not be mistreated. That is not the way in Camelot.”
Maximion nodded. “Such things I have heard. But can you give your guarantee?”
Lucan turned to the centenar whose platoon stood guard over the group. “These are your prisoners, captain?”
The centenar nodded warily. “That’s correct, my lord.”
“I need a firm guarantee that none of these men will be harmed.”
“That’s the rule across the entire army, my lord.”
“I need your guarantee regarding this particular group.”
“Of course.”
“If any of them are hurt, you and your men will answer to me. Is that understood?”
The centenar looked a little disconcerted. There were few in the royal household who had not heard about the Black Wolf of the North. “As I say, my lord… of course.”
“This one” — Lucan pointed at Maximion — “is now my prisoner. Cut him loose.”
“As you wish, my lord.”
Lucan strolled away, leading Nightshade by the bridle. Maximion limped after him, rubbing at the weals on his wrists.
“What of your three sons?” Lucan asked.
“Only one was present today. I know not where he is, but I fear the worst.”
“Where is Felix Rufio?”
“He fled the battle early.”
“How early?”
“During your second charge. His cohorts were demolished by it. I think he also took one look at you… scything through his ranks like a black whirlwind, and his nerve broke.”