Hamyc had just wound up a story when a man spoke up who, from the look of him, could scarcely have carried a non-Celtic chromosome. "Hamyc, tell us the tale of how our forefathers came to Britain."
"Well, now, talking of matters so dusty old is infernally thirsty work, especially for one of my years." His scarred face looked crafty in the firelight. Sarnac suspected that he had, around other campfires, bemoaned his age and enfeeblement to some of these men's fathers. Someone passed him a wineskin, from which he partook deeply. Then he waited until there was complete silence for his voice to fill.
"Long ago, so long that no one can remember how many winters it was, the Sarmatians rode out of the land from which the sun rises and drove the Scythians from the sea of grass that stretches from the Caspian waters westward to the rampart of the Carpathians. None could match them in horsemanship—not even the Scythians, who were such riders that the old Greeks, after seeing them, made up a silly fable of creatures half man and half horse.
"Among the Sarmatians, no clan stood higher than the Iazyges, who had led the way west to the Roman frontiers. But there they fell in with German tribes—always bad luck for any people." A collective growl arose from these men who had spent their lives fighting Saxon former
foederatii
. "The Germans beguiled the chieftain Zanticus into an alliance against the Romans. Betrayed by his faithless allies, Zanticus was forced to sue for peace. And the Romans' wise emperor, Marcus Aurelius, set it down in the treaty that the Iazyges must supply him with horsemen. Being wise, he saw that he needed Sarmatians to fill the ranks of his cavalry, for a Roman trying to ride a horse is like a eunuch trying to ride a woman!" A ripple of coarse laughter ran around the campfire. Hamyc smiled in response, but then smoothed his face out into seriousness. "Save for one Roman only," he said quietly, and the laughter ceased. As if on cue, a voice spoke.
"Lucius Artorius Castus."
"Aye." Hamyc nodded. "He was a Roman of noble family, but a real man for all of that. He had fought against the Iazyges, and knew the Sarmatians to be his kindred in all but blood. Afterwards, as Prefect of the Sixth Legion in Britain, he commanded a unit of Sarmatian
cataphractii
—and knew how to use them! They rode the Pictish raiders into the ground for him, and later he led them to this land to put down rebels in Armorica. Aye, he was a man and a leader of men, riding and fighting at their forefront and laughing their fears away! When the first
Pan-Tarkan
of those in Britain fell in battle, they chose Artorius as his successor—and he understood what that meant, even if no other Roman did.
"By the time their term of service was over, many of those men had taken up with British women and sired children. And besides, it was a long and weary way back to the steppes! So most remained in Britain, accepting the Romans' offer of land—a veterans' colony at Ribchester. There they bred sons who married more British women, so that as generations passed the tongue of the steppes was lost while the blood of the steppes spread thinly indeed. But they never forgot who they were. And they continued to supply
cataphractii
for the Emperors of Rome, for they came of a breed who kept their oaths. And they named not a few of their sons Artorius.
"So it was that when our
Pan-Tarkan
became High King, he named us after himself, as was the custom of Roman emperors. But it was also right in a way the Romans could not understand, for we still remembered another Artorius."
Hamyc paused and looked thirsty until the wineskin was passed back to him. "But Hamyc," someone said from the shadows, "tell us of the great march south from Ribchester, and how the
Pan-Tarkan
became High King. You yourself can remember that."
"Aye," Hamyc admitted, coming up for air. "That was sixteen years ago, when some of you young colts were barely weaned! But I was there, in the high summer of my life, before old age overtook me." He sighed with a self-pity that only another pull on the wineskin could assuage. "I was there when we cut our way south through country swarming with Saxons to join Ambrosius Aurelianus. And I was there when the
Pan-Tarkan
claimed the High Kingship by right of his deeds as well as of the blood he had married." Sarnac felt movement by his side, as if Tylar was fidgeting. "But," Hamyc continued, "that is another tale, which will have to wait for another night. We must be up before the dawn, and I for one am not as young as I once was."
The old buzzard plays an audience like a Stradivarius
, Sarnac thought as the crowd broke up with moans of disappointment—a disappointment Tylar didn't seem to share. In fact, Sarnac got the impression that the time traveller was relieved at Hamyc's choice of a stopping point. He wondered why.
The sun was breaking over the eastern treetops as they were thundering along the riverbank toward Angers, shattering the shallow water into fountains that the morning light turned into showers of rainbow.
Ahead of them to the southeast rose the plateau on which, centuries hence, would stand the castle where the Counts of Anjou would hold court. It rose almost sheer from the banks of the Maine to their right, but the slope steadily gentled on the inland side. Here the Romans had raised a walled town on the old hill-fort of the Andecavi. Around it spread Odovacar's Saxon host, which knew no siege technique except blockading into submission. Beyond it, Syagrius would even now be assaulting the southern siege lines—if he and Riothamus had succeeded in coordinating the operation through couriers, who had to swing wide through the countryside east of Angers. No one ever thought of command-and-control problems in connection with ancient warfare, Sarnac reflected. What people
did
think of was what he and the Artoriani were doing right now: galloping down the riverbank toward the Saxon ships, drawn up on shore behind the northernmost end of the siege lines, with the blood-red dragon flying above them in the wind of their passage, charging into the spreading panic of the Saxon camp.
For a while, it was all a blur to Sarnac—he later remembered striking at running figures among the collapsing tents, and sometimes feeling the shock as his blade struck home. Then they reached the line of long, narrow boats pulled up on the riverbank.
"Flavian! Owain! Take your sections and burn them!" Riothamus waved his bloody
spatha
at the ships. "Everyone else gather up your men—I'll have no looting. We've no time to lose." He had his helmet off and his grey-shot dark hair, which had grown a little shaggy on campaign, whipped in the wind, as did his scarlet cloak. He controlled his horse, which seemed to have absorbed some of its rider's sheer restless vitality.
Sarnac took a moment for a look around. Directly ahead was the steep slope, crowned with the fortress of Angers. To the left, where the slope gentled, scattered Saxons could be seen swarming up to join a mass of their fellows that was forming in front of the walls. From the southwest, beyond the plateau, came the sound of this era's battles—a roaring of voices, and a semi-metallic thunder of iron-bossed wooden shields crashing together.
"No time, indeed!" Kai, who had joined him, looked as grim as Sarnac had ever seen him, as he pointed at the dark mass of Saxons on the slope. "The shield wall—they'll be ready to welcome us by the time we get our heads into the sunlight!"
But it took less time than Sarnac would have thought possible before they were riding away from the impassable rise near the river, toward the foot of the gentler slope that ran up to the walled town. They had just halted when a courier galloped up, whipping his horse in a way that drew frowns from these men, and saluted Riothamus. Sarnac couldn't catch the conversation, but a low growl began to spread from those who could. Kai heard the story first and cursed imaginatively.
"The bastards have fought Syagrius to a standstill over there." He waved toward the battle sounds. "He didn't use our infantry properly—the damned Gauls just had to lead the attack, and their fat guts must have made perfect targets for throwing-axes! By Mithras—by God and His saints, I mean—we'd be better off without those greasy buggers!" As Kai raged on, Sarnac studied the map that seemed to appear in the air in front of his eyes. They were due south of Angers now, and Syagrius was approaching from the southwest. The Saxons were concentrated in a triangular space, one side formed by the walls of Angers, whose defenders must be too worn out to manage a breakout against the barbarians outside the gates, another near the front, where Syagrius was trying unsuccessfully to fight his way uphill, and the third next to the shield wall, which they would try to break—with three hundred cavalry charging uphill.
Commands rang out, and they began to deploy. Sarnac moved to his assigned position, near the center with Kai's squadron, donning his helmet and tightening the cheek-pieces. The rather special helmet he wore made him especially concerned with leaving as little of the face exposed as possible.
He looked around curiously. These were experienced troops and it showed. But it is only in the lying recollections of superannuated veterans that anyone goes into battle with a song in his heart—and without a dryness in the mouth, a tightness in the stomach, and a churning in the bowels. As the Artoriani dressed their lines, curbing horses that could sense the tension, they glanced up the slope at the dense, weapon-bristling line of overlapping shields, and a subdued quiet stretched.
"Hallo!" In a clatter of hooves, Riothamus rode up the line, scarlet cloak billowing behind him, followed by the standard-bearer and the red dragon. He wheeled his horse around and ran his flashing dark eyes over them, frowning with such boyishly obvious fakeness that you had to smile. Sarnac glanced at the sky and saw to his surprise that the overcast that had moved in during the morning was unabated. Hadn't it gotten lighter?
"Hamyc, you old croaker!" The High King greeted the storyteller. "Have you been wasting these men's time complaining about the new lance technique again?"
"Well,
Pan-Tarkan
, it's just that my father and his father before him used their lances the old way." He hefted the eight-foot lance into an overhand grip and made a jabbing motion. "I ask you, what's wrong with the way it's always been done?" Sarnac wondered how much of Hamyc's kvetching was cultural conservatism and how much was overindulgence in the wineskin the previous night.
"Ha! Hamyc, you're a broken-down old warhorse who can't be taught new maneuvers! I'm thinking I'll have to let you out to pasture, now that you're too old for battle!"
As laughter began to burble up from the ranks, Kai's voice rang out. "But,
Pan-Tarkan
, it's too late! He's too old to be put out to stud!"
The laughter was a full eruption now, joined by everyone except Hamyc, who was muttering about the respectlessness of the younger generations and the rest of the general tragic decline from the good old days.
Yep, he's definitely hung over
, Sarnac decided. He glanced up the slope and detected a wavering of uncertainty in that solid formation as the wolfish sound of the laughter reached it. But mostly he was watching Riothamus, laughing with his men and calling out greetings as he rode past.
He's crazy! Absolutely certifiable! And if those Saxons up there had gauss miniguns—and these guys knew what that meant—they'd still ride up this hill for him.
Then the High King drew level with him. "Bedwyr! Hasn't anyone gotten you a lance? Kai, see to it!" He drew closer and spoke in a quieter voice. "You may not have seen this technique before—I thought of it myself." He demonstrated with his own lance.
"I have,
Pan-Tarkan
." In fact, Sarnac
had
seen it—in VR adventures and in the historical reenactments that were popular in his world.
"Good! I'm sorry that we haven't had time to give you some practice, and to get you proper armor." He held Sarnac's eyes. "If you want to ride in the rear, and use your sword after the initial breakthrough, no one will think the worse of you."
"If you will,
Pan-Tarkan
, I'm thinking I'd as soon stay where I am," Sarnac returned, in British.
Riothamus said nothing—his expression made it unnecessary. He moved on, calling out more greetings. Sarnac shook his head in bewilderment. He could get Tylar's information just as well in the rear, he knew.
Good Lord, am I as crazy as the rest of them?
He shook his head again, in irritation, and activated his implant communicator.
"Tylar, I've got something for you." He described what Riothamus had just shown him.
"So! This is
most
interesting!" The ghostly voice in his head was jittery with academic excitement. "It seems I haven't been giving Riothamus enough credit. He may have received much from the Sarmatian element in his heritage, but he's also an innovator! Of course, it's another innovation that will be lost; William's knights at Hastings will be holding their lances overhand and thrusting with them. In fact—"
"Wait a minute, something's happening." He described the forming-up, ahead of them, of a single line of riders who lacked the long, heavy lances but held a shorter kind of spear.
"Aha! Javelins! I begin to see what Riothamus is up to. . . ."
"Gotta go!" Sarnac accepted the lance Kai handed him. He held it as he had been shown, couched under his arm. The rest of them were doing the same when orders rang out—he glanced down the line and saw that Hamyc was doing it as smartly as any of them. He could make out a muttered " 'Too old,' is it?" from that direction.
Then another command was heard, and they spurred three hundred horses forward as one.
* * *
Sarnac had read in historical fiction that at moments like this "the earth shook," and had always regarded it as wildly overwritten. Now he knew it wasn't. Not at all.
He also knew that those reenactment hobbyists who tried to do heavy cavalry simply didn't have a clue.
They started up the slope slowly, then gradually built up momentum until the thunder of twelve hundred hooves overpowered the entire being, not just the ears. Dry weather had left the ground solid, but it also caused clouds of dust to rise from the line of javelin men ahead. But Sarnac wasn't aware of it; he was caught up in what had become a race up the slope. In all the shouting around him, he heard some men yell approximations of the "Vulgarian war cry."
Well, why not? It seems to work for ol' Bedwyr.