And near each firepit stood a Roman-style catapult, standing ready to deliver the melted grease in each of those kettles and cauldrons. Cadorius, who followed Stirling's glance, said, "We've also prepared Greek fire, from the formula Emrys Myrddin obtained as a boy in Constantinople. With Greek fire, we can burn anything on this hill, whether it rains or no—and I am mortally certain the Saxons don't have the secret of it, to hurl back at us."
Stirling's brows had twitched upward in astonishment. The formula for "Greek fire"—an incendiary substance Greek warships had used to set fire to a Persian fleet—had been lost for millennia. Somehow, it didn't surprise Stirling that Emrys Myrddin should have added that particular secret to his truly vast collection of useful information. Ancelotis wondered uneasily where the Druidic councillor might be, for he had not returned to Caer-Badonicus and Covianna Nim claimed he'd left Glastenning Tor several days previously. Had he ridden north, to meet with Artorius on the march? Whatever the answer, Ancelotis hugged his impatience to himself and watched the Saxons.
The purpose of their platform became clear shortly before dusk, when the Saxons hauled up and erected a large pavilion tent on it, protected from the summit by a wooden wall which they'd driven into the hillside. That wooden palisade stood higher than a man, acting as a shield for the men who climbed laboriously up the first two hundred fifty feet from the broad plain, obviously intending to shelter in the tent. The broad expanse of cloth shuddered and rippled with the gusts of wind and rain, but the shield wall and the hill's own mass protected the platform, tent, and occupants from the worst of the weather.
"There's Cutha," Stirling said abruptly, as a small cadre of well-armored men climbed a muddy path up to the platform.
"And King Aelle beside him," Cadorius nodded. "They've brought their highest-ranking eoldormen and thegns with them, besides their athelings, princes of the blood. Speaking of which, Cerdic looks a bit pale, doesn't he?"
If the king of Wessex was pale, his son was ashen. Creoda kept glancing fearfully at the silent Briton defenders, bristling with weapons like an American porcupine.
"It's one thing," Ancelotis said thoughtfully, "to take a kingdom by treachery, killing off only the royal family, but quite another for a Briton traitor to order Briton troops into battle against Briton soldiers, to slaughter Briton women and children who've sheltered here. He must be wondering, even now, if his men will obey him when put to the test."
"And Aelle is wondering, right along with him," Melwas muttered. "Have you noticed, men wearing Briton armor, with Briton-made weapons, are held back from the front lines? Aelle's keeping them back as first reserves, putting loyal Saxons in the front ranks and more of his own men behind the Britons, to be sure of them."
Stirling hadn't noticed—neither had Ancelotis—but the young sub-king of Glastenning was correct. King Aelle clearly distrusted his gewisse Britons. The Saxons' high command disappeared from view into the royal pavilion. The conference they held there lasted well past darkness, with the occupants' shadows flickering, ghostlike, on the tent's walls and ceiling as the men within moved about, gesticulating occasionally to make some point. Stirling allowed himself a tight smile. Any one of his Sarmatian archers could have taken out the men inside that tent simply by aiming at those moving shadows. He filed away the plan for later execution, another piece of the plans firming up in his mind.
When it became clear that no attack would be launched this night, Cadorius suggested, "Sleep is what will do us the best good. Our sentries will watch for any possible treachery in the night, but I'm thinking they haven't completed enough of their preparations to launch an attack just yet. They're new to siege warfare and I'm thinking they'll want to be thorough about it, rather than risk haste and defeat themselves from poor preparations."
Ancelotis agreed, although Stirling would have preferred to remain on guard through the night, with his different perspective and expectations about when battles were waged. As it happened, however, Cadorius and Ancelotis were right in their assessment. They spent a quiet night, sleeping through most of it without interruption or alarms. Dawn found them on the walls again, watching as Saxon troops labored to build other relay camps halfway up the hill, laying in stashes of lightweight javelins to supplement the heavier spears and pikes the infantry would use as thrusting weapons.
Clearly, they meant to fight from their platforms as much as possible, saving themselves the added effort of climbing the entire five hundred feet from plain to summit every time they made a charge at the Britons' perimeter walls. And still the Briton defenders watched in stony silence, doing nothing to interfere or discourage the work, hiding their own strength and hoarding their finite supplies.
The silence was finally broken just after midday, while Stirling was washing down the last mouthfuls of bread and cheese with a cup of ale. A runner came skidding into the barracks where Britain's royalty were quartered, gasping out, "The Saxons are sending up a rider under flag of truce!" Cadorius and Ancelotis exchanged glances, then they were on their feet, snatching up heavy wooden shields on the way, in case of Saxon treachery. By the time they reached the spot above the Saxons' royal pavillion, the rider had nearly reached the outermost wall. Cadorius growled under his breath. "Creoda!"
It was, indeed, the nervous princeling of Wessex.
"Greetings, gewisse!" Cadorius called out strongly. "What message do you bear us from your foreign masters?"
The prince of Wessex lost what color remained in his face, lips clamping tightly at the double insult. "I bear a message from King Cerdic of Wessex!" the young man shouted back.
"And what does the usurping murderer of Wessex have to say that would possibly be of interest to loyal Briton kings?"
Creoda's ashen features flooded scarlet. "My father, king of Wessex, urges you to abandon this folly!" He swept a gesture at the walls of the newly strengthened hill fort. "We can starve you out at our leisure! Would you condemn the women and children who've mistaken your hospitality for safety, when Wessex guarantees their safety should you bow to reason and surrender quietly?"
Before any of the Briton kings could frame an answer, a woman's voice split the silence.
"Do not presume to speak of Saxon guarantees to me!"
It was Princess Iona, standing tall and proud atop the innermost wall, dark hair flying wild in the wind, grey eyes burning with rage. Creoda gasped, recognizing her.
"Yes, you might well be astonished to see me alive!" she snarled down at him. "I know whose gold it was paid the traitors of Ynys Weith! Firsthand, I've seen how Saxon dogs greet innocent Briton women and children. They spitted my infant sisters and cousins on their swords and drank wine from my father's skull! You reek of death and foul murder, traitor. Begone from my sight. Return to Aelle of Sussex and busy yourself licking his arse once more, since that is what you do best! Let this be the answer of Britain!"
She snatched up a javelin from an astonished foot soldier and hurled it with all her strength. An instant later, Creoda's horse reared with a savage scream, with the javelin buried in the animal's neck. The horse toppled, kicking and screaming as it died. Creoda, hurled to the ground, rolled and slid ignominiously through the mud. A thunderous cheer rose spontaneously from Briton throats, rolling like an avalanche down across the mud-soaked princeling.