End of the Century (3 page)

G
ALAAD WAS LOST ALMOST IMMEDIATELY
. Within moments of passing through the gate in the city wall, he had no earthly notion where he was or where he was going. Embarrassment and frustration rose red in his cheeks, and he struggled to seem anything but completely out of place.

It wasn't as if Galaad was a rustic, after all. Both of his grandfathers had been born Roman citizens of Britannia. He'd studied civics, geography, and history, and his first language had been Latin. He was a devout follower of Christ, duly baptized, and while the Church in Rome might reject Galaad's sect of Pelagianism as heresy, it made his belief no less sincere. And he'd spent his entire life within the city walls of Glevum, a former garrison town and home of the Twentieth Legion.

So why was it that he felt a complete bumpkin on the streets of Caer Llundain?

The streets thronged with men, women, and children from all over Britannia and beyond. Though Galaad knew that they must seem deserted compared with the time of his grandfather's visit, much less the capital's height of importance in the days of empire, to him it seemed a mad crush of people. Groups of ten, fifteen, twenty people clustered at intersections, haggling in makeshift markets over craft goods, livestock, textiles, wine, and grain, each word accompanied by a brief cloud of exhalation in the frigid air. Galaad was thankful for the cold, though, which served to dampen the stench of dung and urine from the cattle, sheep, horses, and dogs everywhere, some tethered
or bound up in pens of wooden stakes and twine, others allowed to wander at will. Better that the animals' leaving should crunch icily underfoot than assault the senses on the wind.

Galaad, who had rarely seen more than a handful of strangers at once, and precious few altogether, was unsure how to address himself to them. His ears were met with a riot of languages and accents, everything from the refined Latin of the noble class to the gutter Latin of the streets, from the Britonnic of Galaad's countrymen to the clipped Gaelic tones of Hibernia. And though the weather was unwelcoming, there seemed a certain festive tang in the air, as though the city dwellers were anticipating some enjoyment to come. And one could hardly blame them. Midwinter was just days away, though whether any given citizen of Caer Llundain intended to celebrate the pagan solstice, the Roman festival of the unconquered sun, or the Christian observance of the birth of the Messias, it was impossible to say.

As he turned corners, one after another, quickly losing his way, Galaad slowly came to realize that for all its crowded intersections and rough market stalls, the city was far from full. Some of the buildings he passed were of Roman design, walls of fired brick roofed with interlocking red terra-cotta
tegulae
and
imbrices
, but where the tiles had slipped loose or broken, they had been left in disrepair, the gaps like missing teeth in a broken smile. And all of the Roman buildings were older structures, ancient when his grandfather had been a boy. All of the newer construction Galaad saw was of less ambitious design and of meaner materials, little more than wattle-and-daub structures with thatched roofs. Worse, many of both varieties, Roman and wattle, stood untenanted, empty and abandoned, the doors and windows like the eyes and mouth of bleached skulls through which the cold winds whistled.

Finally Galaad had no choice but to intrude on one of the conversations he passed, and beg for directions. He was desperate to find the home of the High King, to plead his case.

The pair of men he approached—a Gael with bright red hair and drooping mustache in plaid breeches and rough woolen tunic, a long sword hanging at his belt, and a Briton wearing a dull yellow cloak of thick wool bound at his shoulder with a bronze clasp—regarded him coolly when he inexpertly interrupted their exchange.

“Your pardon, friends,” Galaad began in Latin, “but I am a stranger in your city, seeking the home of the High King.”

The two men looked at each other, in evident confusion, and then back to him.

“I don't…” the Briton began in Britonnic, ending with a halfhearted shrug, while the Gael just regarded him with barely disguised contempt.

Galaad nodded, and then repeated in Britonnic. “I am a stranger here, and seek the High King's home.”

“Can't help you there,” the Briton said, with another shrug. “I'm not from here, myself.”

“He's holed up in the old procurator's palace,” the Gael said impatiently, waving a hand off towards the south and east, then turned his attention back to the Briton. “Now look, I won't be telling you again…”

“Um, your pardon again, friend,” Galaad interrupted, reluctantly. “But where might I find the procurator's palace, in that case?”

The Gael sighed, dramatically. “On the east bank of the stream Gallus, near where it cuts under the wall and enters the Tamesa.” He paused and took in Galaad's blank expression. “It's a palace. It's three stories high. You can't miss it.”

The Gael turned back to the Briton, eager to conclude their business, but Galaad remained rooted to the spot, looking helplessly in the direction the Gael had indicated, his confusion evident.

“Um…” Galaad began, raising his hand.

The Gael sighed again, even louder, and shook his head. Without looking at Galaad, he said, “Let me guess. You've no earthly notion where to find the stream Gallus, have you?”

“Well, no,” Galaad answered, “but what I meant to ask was…”

“Can you find your arse with both hands?” the Gael said, glancing sidelong at Galaad. “Assuming that someone drew a map for you and started you off right?”

Galaad blinked, unsure how to respond, cheeks burning with embarrassment.

“So I can assume you're
not
a complete imbecile, in that case?” the Gael continued.

“Come now, Lugh,” the Briton said, looking with pity at Galaad.

“No,
you
come now, you great wrinkled teat,” the Gael said to the Briton. “I'll not be chastised by a thief for failing to coddle and cocker some hapless rustic.”

“Thief?!” the Briton sputtered, indignant.

“And why not?” The Gael sneered. “That price you quote is thievery, plain and simple.”

“Now look, I have a reputation to protect…”

“Ach!” The Gael waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “You can shove your reputation in your bung-hole. I'm through with you.”

The Gael wheeled around and pointed a long finger at Galaad.

“You,” he ordered. “Come with me.”

With that, the Gael spun on his heel and stomped away, imperiously.

Galaad looked from the retreating Gael to the Briton, who stood eyes wide and red faced, mouth open but unspeaking. “Well…Here now…Wait!” the Briton said, shouting at the Gael's back.

When the Gael failed to turn, but continued up the road, Galaad shrugged and, hiking the thong of his bundle higher on his shoulder, hurried after him. The Briton, for his part, stood his ground, wearing an expression of helpless resignation.

The Gael's long strides carried him down the road at speed, and Galaad was out of breath by the time he caught up, limping on his swollen knee as quickly as he was able.

“He's still watching, isn't he?” the Gael said out of the corner of his mouth, just as Galaad came abreast of him.

Galaad glanced back over his shoulder and nodded. “Yes. Yes, he is.”

The Gael chuckled and smoothed down his long mustache with thumb and forefinger. “Beauty.”

Galaad felt completely out of his depth. “Um, friend? Where are we…?”

“Relax, tadpole. I was on my way to Artor's place anyway, when I finished my business with that cheating bastard, so you've only provided the opportunity to stage a strategic retreat. He'll strike a fairer bargain when next I seem him, the fat bag of suet.”

“Who?” Galaad knit his brow in confusion. “Artor?”

“What?” The Gael looked at him, lip curled. “No,
that
bastard.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, then added with a chuckle, “Artor's parentage is none of my lookout.”

They reached an intersection, and the Gael steered Galaad to the right, heading south towards the river Tamesa.

“If you'll forgive me, friend,” Galaad said, timorously, “might I inquire after your name?”

“Lugh,” the Gael said simply.

“Well met, Lugh. My name is Galaad. I come from Glevum, in Powys to the west.”

“Sure,” Lugh said, with evident disinterest.

“Do you wonder why I come to the court of the High King?”

Lugh shook his head. “Not really.”

“You see,” Galaad went on, undeterred, “I am plagued by visions, since this summer past, and I'm sure that if any were able to divine their meaning, it would be…”

“Honestly,” Lugh interrupted with an impatient wave. “I'm not interested.”

Galaad was crestfallen. “Oh,” he said, hanging his head.

They continued on, winding their way through narrow cobblestone streets in silence. They passed a large timber building of recent vintage, in better repair than most Galaad had seen, and he'd have known it for a stable from the sound of wicker and bray from within, even if he hadn't caught the pungent aroma of horse dung on the wind. He got a better glimpse inside as they walked by, and Galaad could see that the animals within seemed to live better and more comfortably than many of the human denizens of the city.

Galaad could not suppress an involuntary shudder at the proximity of the stable. Ever since the accident he could not look at a horse without being reminded of that spring day, of that bright morning, of the sight of blood on stones before the darkness rose up to swallow him. It always came in quick flashes, brief glimpses, but the remembered pain was writ across his face, like the passage of dark clouds across a full moon.

He glanced at his companion, to see if his disquiet had been noted, and was surprised to see that Lugh's face was screwed up, as well.

“Stinking beasts,” Lugh said with a sneer. “If it were my lookout, we'd have served their roasted flesh at table months ago, and I'd not be haggling with traders for scraps to feed the city.”

“Whose horses are those?” Galaad asked.

“Whose do you think? The lot of them are Artor's in name, though in practice the possessions of his captains and cavalry.”

Galaad's eyes widened slightly, and he glanced back at the stable with swelling admiration. Artor's cavalry that had been instrumental in the war, employed against an enemy with no horses, and no knowledge of their use had they possessed them. It had been five years since the final victory at Badon, when Artor, then just a war duke, had defeated the Saeson under the leadership of Octha Big Knife and Bödvar Bee Hunter. In honor of the victory, Artor had been raised to the position of High King and given dominion over all of the kingdoms of Britannia. Artor had gone on to reassert authority in the north and west, even beyond the wall of Hadrian, and again his cavalry had proved essential.

They continued on, until at last they came to a tall building on the east bank of a broad shallow stream, near where it entered the Tamesa. It was built of the same Cantium ragstone as the city walls, the roof red with imported Italian tile. It was an imposing structure, the high arch of the entrance, the serried ranks of the windows high overhead. And though its age was evident from the red tiles missing from the roof, the crumbling mortar of the walls, and the stained and dirtied stones, it was clear that the structure was sound. And with the guard that stood ready at the entrance, hand on the hilt of his sheathed sword, his eyes wary and watchful, it was likewise clear that it was a structure which could be well defended, if the need arose.

“This is it,” Lugh said simply, pointing with his chin. They crossed a low bridge over the stream, and made for the entrance. “Used to be palace of the procurator, then fell to the keeping of a number of lesser municipal officers before Artor and his lot took it over.”

“It's magnificent.” Galaad was breathless. The palace was easily grander than the most lavish villas of Glevum.

Lugh shrugged. “It's drafty and damp, if you ask me. But then, no one does.”

They reached the entrance, and the guard treated them to a wry smile. Galaad steeled himself to endure another barrage of mocking, but was surprised to find that he was not the object of the guard's derision this time.

“How goes it with you, Long Hand?” the guard japed. “Not troubled by your injuries, I hope?”

“They plagued me a little last night as I pleasured your mother,” Lugh returned, “but I managed to do the job, still and all.”

The guard's grin fell, and he tightened his fist around his sword's hilt.

“Draw your iron if you feel up to it,” Lugh said, a slight smile curling the corners of his mouth as he laid his hand on the handle of his own blade. “But remind yourself that there is a reason you stand sentry outside Artor's door and I sit at his table.”

The guard set his jaw, eyes narrowed, but relented, relaxing his grip on the hilt and letting his hand fall to his side.