End of the Century (15 page)

“Me?” Lugh rubbed his chin, thoughtfully. “I believe in iron.” He patted the sword at his hip, which he'd refused to take off when the others stowed their weaponry with the gear. “As for gods and goddesses, spirits and saints, I was raised to believe the ancient lore of Eriu, but damned if I've seen any sign of the truth of it in my lifetime. If the great gods of wind and wave want to present themselves and give me a knock, I suppose I'd consider saying a few prayers, but otherwise they can all kiss my arse.”

To punctuate his words, Lugh hacked, and then spit a huge glob of phlegm overboard, where it spattered into the dark channel waters.

“Keep quiet!” Caius shouted from the far side of the boat, making the sign of the cross. “I don't believe in spirits of the waters, either, but there's no need to go around offending them, is there?”

Lugh looked at him, struck dumb for a moment, and then threw his head back in laughter. Caius reddened, considered his words, and then joined in, slapping his knee. In short order, the laughter rippled throughout the boat, except at the helm, where Artor stood alone, hand on the tiller, watching the far horizon.

The winds picked up as the day wore on, so that as the sun was setting, the white cliffs of Portus Dubris loomed off the starboard bow. The skies ahead were painted in yellows and reds, while behind it was already full night, the stars twinkling above in their countless numbers.

Bedwyr faced the setting sun and began to chant some sort of prayer under his breath. He had produced a spring of mistletoe from somewhere on his person, which he clutched in his hands at chest level. Galaad could not make out any of the words but couldn't help but notice the devotion that seemed to transfix the Demetian, the strange ecstasy that gripped him, his eyes half-lidded. Was this how he looked himself, when in the throes of one of his visions?

Artor came from the stern to stand beside him, smiling at Bedwyr's back. “It's midwinter,” he explained to Galaad in a low voice. “The shortest day and
longest night. Bedwyr says the prayer of the Derwydd that the light will not fade, but be born again with the dawn.”

Galaad nodded. He'd always found it strange that each of the island's faiths observed the occasion, each in its own way. There were still those who celebrated the festival of the unconquered sun, brought to the island by the Romans, just as there were still pagans like Bedwyr who prayed for the reborn light of the winter solstice. Galaad himself observed the birth of the Messias, though the occasion did not hold for him the meaning it did for an Augustinian, since to a Pelagians the whole human race neither died through Adam's sin or death, nor rose again through the resurrection of Christ, but each man worked his own salvation through his words and deeds.

Galaad shivered in the mounting cold. As frigid as the streets of Caer Llundain had been, out on the open waters of the channel it was even colder. He had his simple wool cloak over his shoulders, and hugged it tight around his chest, for all the good it did him.

Beside him, Artor seemed hardly to notice the cold at all, though his breath frosted on the wind just as Galaad's did, and frost rimed the corners of his mouth where he'd inadvertently spilled water from a drinking flask onto his beard and not bothered to wipe it dry.

The curve of the sun at last slipped below the horizon, its final glow still burning a minute arc of the western sky, the rest given over to night.

“The light fades,” Galaad said, suddenly uncomfortable in the silence and eager to fill it.

Artor turned and looked at him, an unreadable expression on his face.

“Yes,” the High King said, his voice sounding far away. “But it has not gone out. Not yet.”

Then Artor turned away, leaving Galaad alone, Bedwyr lost to his prayers.

Galaad shivered again, but this time not merely because of the cold.

When it was full dark, the seven gathered near the mast and had their evening meal. It was rough, simple fare, hard bread and dried meats, but
Gwrol had opened a wineskin and was generous in filling everyone's cups, and in short order the men were warmed from within, increasingly heedless of the cold. They fell to talking, aimlessly, drifting off to sleep where they were when the mood struck, drinking and talking more when it didn't. Even out at sea, in the frigid air, the men seemed more relaxed, more at ease than they had in the city, and Galaad realized that these six men must have spent countless late nights like this together during their war on the Saeson. He was an interloper, of sorts, but their leader had welcomed him into their circle, and that seemed good enough for the others. As it was, though, Galaad kept quiet, listening to the stories the men told, somewhat overawed to be in their presence at all, much less privy to so many personal tales.

And so they passed the long watches of the night, taking turns at the tiller, steering always in the direction of the setting sun, now long gone below the horizon. If any in that long night wondered whether the sun might not be rising in the morning, after all, they kept their peace and said nothing.

The days on board ship passed slowly, with the coast to their starboard rising and falling, rocky outcrops becoming low gray beach becoming the hay-colored hills of dead grasslands becoming rocky outcrops again, while to their port there was nothing but endless gray waves, as far as the eye could see. The awe that Galaad felt at first finding himself among Artor and his captains had begun to recede, while not vanishing entirely, as he came to know the six warriors somewhat better, privy to their conversations and discontents.

There was a strange skein of relationships between the six men, difficult to see at first but which gradually became more apparent with the passing days. These men who had fought and bled side by side for so many years were as close as brothers, it seemed, but like family often failed to see eye to eye, and many of the arguments Galaad overheard were clearly merely the latest skirmishes in long-standing disagreements.

If Caius had a too-easy smile, and seemed overly gregarious no matter the circumstance or cause, Bedwyr seemed an eternal optimist, at least in one significant regard.

“And I tell you,” Bedwyr said, on their third day at sail, as the sun was westering towards the horizon, “that the day of Rome has ended, and will not come again, but that a new empire might wait for us past tomorrow's horizon.”

“I'll grant you that we've had little news of the Empire these last years,” Caius said, “and that since the Vandals of Geiseric sacked Rome the prospects for her continuance might seem bleak, but Rome civilized the known world and will not quickly fade from the pages of history.”

“But Artor may well accomplish what Rome in her glory never could,” Bedwyr replied, fervently. “Already he has improved relations with the High King of Hibernia and extended his dominion beyond Hadrian's Wall. He may well go on to unite all the various kingdoms of both islands under his banner, and then who can say what may come? Perhaps he may one day find common cause with the Gauls across the channel and in so doing bring them to heel and forge a new empire to eclipse that of the Romans.”

“Feh.” Lugh spat, his phlegm slapping noisily onto the deck. “Bugger the Romans, Caius, and bugger your talk of empire, Bedwyr. Unity with my cousins in the dynasts of Eriu? Have you forgotten that my grandfathers were brought to Britannia to act as foederati in Demetia, to keep the western shores clear of Eriu raiders? That's generations of blood spilled on water, stone, and sand, which you think to wash away with pretty words of empire and a bright tomorrow. Are you mad or merely simple?”

Galaad had remained silent, as he had so much of the journey, but a thought occurred to him, and he spoke it before his better judgment stilled his tongue.

“Artor was victorious over the Saeson,” he said. “Could he not win a similar victory against the Hibernians if the need arose?”

The three captains looked from Galaad to one another, their reactions mixed. Lugh merely grinned darkly, while Caius's smile seemed to flag. Bedwyr, whose position Galaad championed, opened his mouth as if to speak, but paused.

“Well,” Bedwyr finally said, tilting his head to one side, shoulder raised to his ear and hand held palm up, a gesture of equivocation. “I grant that it's
possible
…”

“No, it isn't,” came the voice of Artor from the tiller.

The High King motioned for Pryder to take the helm, and then came forward to join the conversation. His brows were knit, and his mouth was drawn into a thin line.

“What my captains are reluctant to say, at least in company, is that there was no victory.”

Galaad looked up at the High King, confused. “But…but what of Badon, and…”

Artor held up a hand, silencing him. “Oh, we may have been victorious on isolated occasions, winning the day at this battle or that. But the war?” He shook his head. “There was no victory there. At best, what we achieved was merely stalemate.”

Galaad looked from Artor to his captains, who each averted his gaze, finding something of interest to look at in the grain of the wood beneath their feet, or the swell of the gray waves on the horizon, or in the dreary skies overhead.

“The Saeson were not driven from the land, no matter what the bards might say in song. The enemy remains on the island as part of our accommodation, as everyone well knows.”

“Yes,” Galaad objected, eagerly, “but they
were
driven out of the rest of Britannia.”

Artor sighed, wearily. “True. And there is nothing to say that they will remain forever content behind their new borders. Some day, and perhaps soon, they will seek once more to take the rest of Britannia by force. In which case what we have accomplished is not the end of the war, but merely an interval.”

He turned and caught the eye of the three captains.

“And as much as it makes me sick at heart to admit it, you are all correct in one regard or another. Caius is correct that Rome has been, for all of her faults, the light of civilization for long generations. Bedwyr is right to say that Rome's day is ended. And Lugh speaks the truth when he says that there will never be a unity formed between Britannia and Hibernia, much less with Gaul, at least not in our lifetimes or those of our grandchildren's grandchildren.”

Artor turned away, looking towards the prow and the sun that dipped towards the western horizon.

“Between the light of day and the dark of night comes a gray period of transition, the twilight which is neither fully one thing or the other. After the end of one kind of world, but before the beginning of another. I wonder often if that is where we are now, these years, in the twilight. Rome has retreated within its own walls, its empire gone and fled. Here, on the world's edge, we have kept the light of civilization burning and pushed back the Saeson, but how long until that fire burns out at last and the Saeson overrun us all? Through our lifetimes? Through that of our sons? And our son's sons? It seems clear to me that it is not a question of whether, but when.”

Artor turned back and faced the others, not only Galaad and the three captains, but Pryder and his brother at the tiller as well.