Fergus smiled, well pleased with this assessment. 'Can you tell out the marks?' he asked.
Ciaran bent his head still lower, pulled on his lip, and then said, 'No, I cannot. It is not Greek or Latin, or any other tongue I know. But,' he continued, brightening, 'that is of little consequence, for I know well the object represented here.’
‘Then tell us!' urged Arthur.
'It is called a martyrion,' explained Ciaran. 'There are many kinds, and this is -' Seeing our confusion, he halted.
'If you please,' I said, 'our learning in these matters is not as great as yours, good monk. Is this martyrion a building to the memory of the illustrious dead?'
'A House of Honour,' Gwenhwyvar affirmed. 'That is what the old ones called it.'
'Yes! Of course!' Ciaran agreed eagerly. 'Forgive my presumption. What you are seeing here – ' he lightly traced the painted picture with a fingertip – 'is indeed a House of Honour – of the kind called rotonda, for its round shape. And, you see, it is tabled, for it is raised on many mensi.' He traced the round stone tables which formed both the foundation and steps leading to the entrance.
'These are known in Rome?' wondered Arthur. Cai and Bedwyr still appeared perplexed.
'Not even Rome boasts such constructions,' Ciaran informed him. 'The art of their making is lost to Rome now. And there is but one in the City of Constantine, and it is a very marvel. I know because I saw it.'
'Can this House of Honour be made from the drawing here?' Arthur asked, turning his eyes from the priest to me as he spoke.
'It is possible,' I allowed cautiously. 'Taking the drawing as a guide.'
'But that is the purpose of this scroll!' cried Ciaran. 'It is meant to guide the builder. You see?' He indicated a row of numbers in one line of the script. 'These are the very measurements and ratios the builder must use as he assays his work. The martyrion is meant to be built.'
'Then I will build it,' Arthur declared. 'I will raise this Tabled Rotonda to the memory of the Cymbrogi who died on Baedun. And they will have a House of Honour such as cannot be boasted even in Rome.'
That night we drank the king's good ale and vowed to visit one another often. Arthur had found in Fergus a boon companion, a king whose loyalty was secured through mutual respect and strengthened through marriage. God knows, the lords of Britain had caused Arthur enough heartache and trouble. Ierne allowed Arthur to escape the petty kings and the clamour of their incessant demands.
Thus, when we put to sea the next morning it was with renewed vigour for the rest we had enjoyed, but with some small reluctance as well. Fergus promised to attend Arthur at Caer Lial, where we would observe the Christ Mass together. Even so, Arthur and Gwenhwyvar stood long at the rail, watching the green banks of the island disappear into the sea mist. They looked like exiles cast adrift on the fickle tide.
We sailed along the northern coast, intending to follow the channel and cross over to Rheged where the sea is narrowest. As the boat passed the last headland and came into the narrows, we saw the black sails of strange ships. They were yet some way off to the south, but were drawing swiftly nearer.
'I make it seven of them,' said Bedwyr, scanning the glittering sea. The day was clear and the sun shone bright on the water, making it difficult to see. 'No – ten.'
'Who are they?' wondered Arthur aloud. 'Do you know them, Cai?'
'The Picti, and others, like the Jutes and Danes, will fly blue,' Cai replied, eyes narrowed. 'But I know of no tribe that flies black sails.'
Arthur thought for a moment, and then said, 'I want to see them. We must get closer.' He turned and called the order to the pilot, Barinthus, who dutifully swung the boat onto a new course.
We watched, standing at the prow, shading our eyes with our hands as we stared into the white sun-glare. 'I count thirteen now,' Bedwyr said after a moment.
'The ships are large,' observed Cai. 'Larger than any we have. Who can they be?'
More sails appeared. 'Twenty,' Bedwyr informed us, straining forward to count the sails. 'Yes, twenty, Myrddin, and they are coming towards -'
'I see them,' I reminded him, gazing at the black ships hastening across the water. 'And I like not what I see.'
'I cannot see anyone aboard,' remarked Gwenhwyvar. 'They hide themselves from us – why?'
Closer, more sails were becoming visible as still more ships sailed into view. 'Twenty-eight!' called Bedwyr. 'No… thirty!'
'Arthur, who besides the Emperor has a fleet so large?' asked Cai.
'Rome perhaps. Though the Romans would be reluctant to launch such a fleet in northern waters, I think.'
We allowed the nearest vessel to come within spear-throw, and then steered onto a parallel course. Huge round leather-covered shields hung from the rails below a rank of raised oars, ten on either side, and spears jutted out from between the shields. Long wooden bankers formed a narrow roof over the rowing benches, and provided a platform for the warriors. The square sail bore the image of an animal crudely outlined in white against the black. 'What is that?' wondered Cai, squinting at it. 'A bear?'
'No,' I answered, 'not a bear – a pig. It is a boar.'
The two ships held their courses for a time, and then the black ship veered suddenly towards us. In the same instant strange warriors leapt onto the platform – big men, wide-shouldered, with black hair and pale skin – screaming, jeering, brandishing spears.
'They are attacking!' shouted Bedwyr, leaping for his spear and shield.
A heartbeat later, the first enemy spears flashed up into the air. All fell short, save two-one spear glanced off the side, and the second struck the rail. Llenlleawg leaped to the rail and snatched up the spear before it fell into the sea. It was a thick, ungainly thing of scraped wood fixed to a heavy iron head, more suited to thrusting than throwing.
Gwenhwyvar took up her shield, and Cai likewise. Only Arthur remained unmoved. He stood staring at the oncoming craft while those around him armed themselves. The enemy keel slashed the waves, driving nearer. Spears flew, arcing up and falling. Fewer fell short this time; several struck the sides, and one snagged the sail.
'Arthur,' I said, 'do you mean to fight them?'
He did not reply, but stood looking at the oncoming ship, eyes narrowed against the sea-glare. Bedwyr, holding out Prydwen, urged Arthur to take it. But Arthur made no move.
'What would you have us do, Bear?' Receiving no answer, Bedwyr glanced quickly at me.
'Arthur?' I asked.
Turning from the rail at last, Arthur called to the pilot. 'Turn aside!' he ordered. 'Back to Ierne! Fly! We must warn Fergus!'
The ship veered away from the oncoming enemy ship. The enemy gave chase, but our smaller, lighter vessel steadily pulled away, increasing the distance between us. We were soon beyond spear-throw, and seeing they could not catch us, the enemy fell back and returned to their previous course.
Flying before the wind, we made for the Irish coast. 'Faster!' Arthur yelled. Though we would make landfall well ahead of the enemy, there was not an instant to spare.
Soon the coastal hills loomed before us, and we came in sight of the bay from which we had put forth. 'Saddle the horses,' Arthur commanded.
'Let us get them on land first,' Bedwyr suggested.
'Do it now.' Arthur turned to the pilot. 'Barinthus! You know the bay. Run the ship aground.'
Cai, Bedwyr and Llenlleawg saddled the horses, and they were ready to ride as we came into the bay. Barinthus did not strike the sails, but steered the craft straight towards land. I watched the shore sweeping nearer and braced myself for the collision. Not Arthur; as the keel drove into the hard shingle, Arthur swung himself into the saddle.