"Ganhumara." Artorius gave a curt nod to the lady as he accepted his own armor and helm, donning them with help from a standard bearer. Artorius' golden standard had clearly been modeled after the legionary eagles. For a legionary soldier, the eagle had been his personal "household" god and protector. The dragon standard was a brilliant ploy, echoing centuries of Roman military symbology, yet portraying a uniquely Briton symbol of nationhood.
A second rider carried another dragon standard, this one with distinctly Sarmatian alterations. The head of this second dragon was gold, as well, with silver throat and fangs. And fastened to it, exactly like those on the Sarmatian spears, was a blood-red dragon, its cloth body rippling like an angry, living beast in the stiff wind. The streamers of its tail would be visible even in the midst of battle, Stirling realized, providing a rallying point even easier to spot than the solid gold shape of the other standard.
Servants assisted Artorius into a Roman officer's burnished cuirass, ornate enough to have been worn by a victorious general during a triumph. Artorius settled onto his head a Celtic-style iron helm, covered with gold leaf and topped by a rampant dragon, clearly a Sarmatian symbol. He belted on sword and dagger and slung a crimson cloak of thick wool around his shoulders, pinning it with a heavy gold cloak pin of a style variously attributed to Celts and Vikings, then he vaulted easily into the saddle despite the weight of his armor.
His mount, a gleaming white stallion as big as a house, arched its neck and blew impatiently, pawing at the cold ground and rolling a wild, dark eye. Artorius checked the massive animal with a sharp word and a tightening of reins before accepting a long spear from the standard bearer. The bearer then mounted and took up position on Artorius' left flank, his gold-dragon standard glinting with burnished highlights in the cold sunlight.
Another servant brought up Ancelotis' armor, while others emerged from the fortress, carrying what must have been Artorius'—or Ancelotis'—personal baggage. Or maybe Ganhumara's. The heavy satchels and cases were strapped to pack animals while Stirling wrestled with unfamiliar fittings on Ancelotis' armor. The Briton king's personal armor was also of Roman design, nearly as ornate as Artorius', and must have been a well-preserved century old, at the very minimum. Unless there were still trade routes open to the Continent? Stirling didn't know enough to hazard a guess and Ancelotis wasn't saying.
Ancelotis' helm, unlike Artorius', followed the design of very late Roman cavalry. Burnished gold over the strong iron beneath, it formed a metal mask that completely enclosed his head, like an iron skullcap with cheekpieces that hinged around to cradle cheek and chin in metal. A thick blade of gold-covered iron projected above his brows, protecting eyes and to some extent nose from a glancing sword blow. He could smell dried sweat inside it, from many previous wearings as he settled it over his head.
His valet handed Stirling a thick woolen cloak of his own, dyed a brilliant scarlet-and-blue plaid, held closed across one shoulder with another circular cloak pin. His was decorated with chased dragon patterns and apparently made of solid silver. The artistry he'd already glimpsed in clothing and metalwork surprised Stirling—he'd expected such artifacts to be far more primitive. A modern man's prejudice, he realized, founded on nothing more than arrogance, when this culture was a direct heir of Roman civilization.
Morgana and Medraut appeared from the fortress a moment later, the latter carrying a heavy satchel of ornately decorated leather which he strapped to Morgana's saddle. Servants brought other satchels and bags, which they tied to pack animals. Morgana floated effortlessly into the saddle, despite the weight of a heavy, fur-lined cloak similar to Ganhumara's. Stirling gulped, realizing he would have to get onto his own horse before he could figure out how to ride it, and blessed the unknown Sarmatian who'd brought cavalry stirrups to the Scottish border country. Another woman Stirling vaguely recalled seeing from the night of his collapse appeared, blonde hair plaited neatly down her back, slim and beautiful in white woolen robes and a heavy cloak of dark fur. She, too, had a heavy satchel, which she strapped to her saddle.
The Dux Bellorum watched her mount, then spoke to Ganhumara, his voice nearly as cold as the wind. "We have a hard ride ahead, to reach Caerleul before Cutha and Creoda. We will ride by forced march, to the detriment of your comfort. I did warn you," he added. "It's no pleasure jaunt we're about, but preparation for war."
She lifted a shapely copper brow and said coolly, "I am as fine a rider as you, husband, and a battle queen in my own right, if not so skilled with a sword."
Steel-cold eyes glinted beneath glowering brows. "It is not your skill with saddle or sword which concerns me," Artorius growled. "Your stamina is not my equal, wife, and after the delay we've already had, to treat Ancelotis' illness, I will slow our pace for nothing and no one. If you cannot keep up, I will leave armsmen as an escort and ride on without you. Ancelotis, we dare delay no longer."
Only one beast remained riderless, clearly belonging to Ancelotis. Like Artorius' horse, his was a stallion, a dappled grey so massive, it must have been a direct ancestor of Percheron draft horses. He had to look up just to see the horse's back. Roman heavy cavalry was no joke. Stirling fumbled with his own sword belt and attempted to vault into the saddle, copying Artorius. Even with the assistance of the stirrup, his armor weighed so much, he stalled halfway up, lost his balance, and promptly landed in the dust, making a fine, disheveled heap under his horse's startled hooves. That damned Roman cuirass, solid armor plate formed of a single, thick slab of metal, skillfully forged to fit the human torso, gouged him in multiple, painful places.
He spat curses and glared at Morgana, trying rather desperately to shift blame to the potion she'd given him, while Ancelotis' scorn ricocheted off the insides of his skull. It's not my fault, Stirling growled at his host. A man doesn't have to ride a horse to learn how to lay down suppressing fire with an MP5 submachine gun. While Ancelotis tried to puzzle out his meaning, Stirling regained his feet and straightened his cloak, tugging at his armor and trying to recover his dignity. Morgana, far from upset at the implied criticism, merely urged her horse alongside his and reached down to test his pulse.
"The lingering effects of the medicine will be gone in a few hours," she murmured.
Artorius glanced worriedly into her eyes. "He must needs make haste with the rest of us, sister. You know the danger from these Saxons as well as I. Do what you can for his illness, along the way."
"Of course."
Stirling tried again, face flaming. He blanked his mind this time and let Ancelotis' muscles do the work—and astonished himself by making it onto the horse's back in one try. The saddle made for an awkward seat. He gripped with both thighs, grateful for even the minimal security offered by those odd, projecting saddle horns, and shoved his feet more securely into the stirrups, doing his utmost not to slide off again. The Dux Bellorum put heels to his horse's gleaming flanks and the entire body of Romanized cavalry broke into a fast canter. The red dragon battle pennon crackled like living flames in the rising light of morning and the burnished golden dragon standard floated high above their heads.
Stirling jerked in the saddle, caught off guard when his horse followed the others without any apparent signal from him. He grabbed at the mane with one hand, nearly unseated by the abrupt start. He ignored stares from the other riders, particularly the men of the cataphracti, who cast worried glances at him every few moments.