“That wasn’t the end of it,” Alaric said. “Earl Lucan tore down Tower Rock Keep, stone by stone. Any wealth he found was sent across the border in reparation. Baelgron’s family were turned out and lived the rest of their days as vagabonds. Archbishop Valiance denounced the earl from his pulpit, but took no further action. Even King Arthur was said to have been shocked by the fierceness of Lucan’s response, but he himself had sent many a brigand to the hangman, and war on the northern frontier had been averted, so he was content merely to voice disapproval.”
“It sounds as if the ultimate outcome was a good one?”
Alaric shrugged, as if this was a harsh lesson that many had been forced to learn. “The northern border was long a lawless realm. Robbers and reivers infested every corner. When Duke Corneus, Earl Lucan’s father, commanded there, he was part of the problem — he was the worst of them. At least Earl Lucan introduced a rule of law.”
“Surely he should be praised?”
“He is, but Arthur’s courtiers temper their praise with fear. In time, Camelot became a place of culture and breeding. The Cult d’Amor found a home there. Those who espouse such virtues find Earl Lucan discomfiting, for they know his ancestry and capabilities.”
Maximion shrugged. “Clearly he has inspired some loyalty. You and these others are mostly here as volunteers.”
“I came on this mission as part of an oath,” Alaric said, though he refrained from elaborating on this — which the Roman noted.
“Do you admire your master?”
Alaric nodded. “I was the only inhabitant of Tower Rock Keep to benefit from its destruction. After the castle was demolished, he saw me wandering, a barefoot orphan with nowhere to go. He took me in and raised me almost as his own. I would lay my life down for him in all circumstances… except one.”
“Indeed? And what might that be?”
“Apologies, my lord, but you ask too many questions. You are still our captive.”
Maximion smiled to himself. “We are all captives, young Alaric — you and your master are the captives of strange, knightly conventions. Our Roman view of the world is less romantic, but more practical.”
“It didn’t save you.”
“No… no more, I suspect, than yours will save you.”
As evening approached, they left the open countryside and entered a region of forest.
The trail was clear enough, winding between leafy dells filled with lengthening purple shadows. The thickets were not dense, and Lucan did not anticipate an attack. There were brigands on all the roads of Europe, though many of the more dangerous bands had been drawn to the banner of the free-companies, and now were no more. Lone malefactors lurked in the deeper woods who might pose a threat — ettins, trolls and the like — but Lucan had no fear of such beings. To die in battle with Godless forces would be a guaranteed plenary indulgence,28 something he suspected his soul was in dire need of.
But no-one and nothing assailed them, and within a couple of hours the woodland opened into a natural clearing occupied by a rambling stone manse, with cheery firelight shining from its windows. Over the front door hung a sign bearing the image of a red gauntlet. Better, on the sward to one side of the inn, several ox-carts had been drawn up, laden with wine kegs. Two leather clad bravos stood guard over them with crossbows. They became visibly tense when Lucan and his men rode into the clearing, but their master, the wine-merchant, was also present: a portly individual in a blue girdled houppeland trimmed with white fox-fur, and a mustard-yellow chaperon. He was in heated debate with the apron-wearing landlord, who was a typical Frank: big and beefy, with crisp blond locks and thick blond moustaches.
“Eight crowns is outrageous, master vintner,” the landlord expostulated. “I’ll give you six crowns a keg and no more.”
“This is the best vintage I have. It comes from my vineyards in Provence,” the wine-merchant replied. “You’d be getting it cheap at double the price.”
“Six crowns a keg is my final offer,” the landlord said. “Perhaps you think there is someone else around here who will pay more?”
“There is,” Lucan interrupted. “You… wine-merchant! I’ll take your entire stock.”
Hoots and cheers sounded from his men, who had been thirstily eyeing the laden carts. The wine-merchant looked startled. Perhaps he didn’t believe that these travel-stained ragamuffins — mercenaries, he presumed, for they wore no colours save the Penharrow black — could afford such a price. But then Lucan threw a sack of Roman gold at his feet, and the merchant sank his hands into it greedily.
The landlord was naturally disgruntled, but Lucan turned to him next.
“Innkeeper, my men have earned themselves a feast. Several days ago we won a great victory and have had no chance to celebrate. Can you provide for our needs?”
“Our dining room is only small, my lord…”
“No matter. We will pitch camp. But there’s more gold where that came from, if your food is good.”
“My wife bakes a splendid game-pie, my lord. It’s as large as a table…”
That will do. Bring us six such pies.”
“Six?”
“You also have suckling pigs?”
“Erm, yes my lord, we have suckling pigs.”
“Fowl, salmon from the Loire?”
“We have all these things…”
“Bring us suckling pig, salmon and fowl. And bring bread as well. In short, bring us everything your kitchen can provide.”
“I will, my lord, yes.” The landlord stumbled away. He turned back, almost giddy. “Uh… thank you.”
“Don’t thank me, just serve me.”
“Fattening them up for the slaughter, my lord?” Maximion wondered.
“Better they be crammed with food, tribune, than with lies,” Lucan replied.
“You must join us, tribune,” Turold laughed. “I’ll wager your Emperor never promised you fare like this.”
“No,” Maximion agreed. “In that respect at least, my expectations were low.”
The men ate and drank with gusto.
It was a warm night, but the entire company gathered around the large bonfire they had built, while the landlord and his serving wenches came in constant procession. One after another, the wine kegs were axed and their contents poured, foaming, into cups, chalices and horns. Turold strummed on his lute and the men regaled each other with bawdy tales. Malvolio expressed a desire to be in Rome, where the brothel keepers would shortly be making Arthur’s army very welcome.
“I’d have liked to see Rome,” Wulfstan mused. “The Vandals made a mess of it, or so they say, but there are holy shrines there where even such as I might find shrift.”
“It is still a city of bells and steeples,” Maximion put in. “The Vandals did damage, but Emperor Lucius commissioned many public works. The defaced buildings were cleansed, the broken columns replaced, the sanctuaries where Gaiseric and his chieftains stabled their horses were re-sanctified.”
“And how did Emperor Lucius pay for all this?” someone wondered. “By draining the coffers of foreign lands?”
Maximion shrugged. “The citizens of New Rome paid for the capital’s restoration.”
“How many slaves did he use?” someone else asked.
“None. The workforce was voluntary — masons and labourers came from all over the West, and were well-paid for their skills and efforts.”
“And while these well-paid volunteers worked, the ghosts of a million martyrs looked on,” came a voice from the beyond the firelight.
It was the first thing Lucan had said for a couple of hours. For a moment, he was a gaunt outline in the dancing shadows, his black garb rendering him almost invisible. Only his pale features were visible beneath his anthracite mane.
No-one responded, least of all Maximion, who watched his captor warily.
“Have you all forgotten what Rome once stood for?” Lucan said. “Blood on the sand. Bodies flayed by scourges, boiled in oil, hanged on crosses with their legs broken. Old Rome, New Rome… why should a different name wipe clean the sins of the past?” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his metal-grey eyes roving from face to face. “I think it’s time we showed the sons of Romulus and Remus that the world has done with them once and for all. If I had my way, we’d put a fire under every last one.”