Stones Of Power - The Last Sword Of Power Part 12

'Too fine a gift may be misread as weakness, sire, and you did have a treaty with Meroveus.'

'Meroveus was a fool, his army the laughing-stock of Europe. Our treaty was for trade, no more. You will explain to Wotan that the treaty was between the Kings of Sicambria and Britain, and that I acknowledge the agreement to remain active, even as I acknowledge his right to the throne.'

'Is that not dangerous, sire? You will be supporting the right of the conqueror against the right of blood.'

'It is a dangerous world in which we live, Victorinus.'

Ursus woke in a cold sweat, his heart hammering. The girl beside him slept on under the warm blankets, her breathing even. The prince slid out from the bed and walked to the window, pulling back the velvet hangings and allowing the breeze to cool his flesh. The dream had been so real; he had seen his brother pursued through the streets of Martius and dragged into a wide hall. There Ursus watched a tall blond-bearded warrior cut his brother's heart from his living body.

He moved to the table and found there was still a little wine in the jar. He poured it into a clay goblet and drained it.

Just a dream, he told himself, born of his concern over the invasion of Gaul.

A bright light flashed behind his eyes, filling his head with fiery pain. He cried out and stumbled, blind and afraid, tipping the table to the floor.

'What is it?' screamed the girl. 'Sweet Christos, are you ill?' But her voice faded back into the distance and a roaring filled his ears. His vision cleared and he saw once more the blond-bearded warrior, this time standing in a deep circular pit. Around him were other warriors, all wearing horned helms and carrying huge axes. A door above them opened and two men dragged a naked prisoner to a set of wooden steps, forcing him to climb down into the pit. With horror Ursus saw it was Meroveus, the King of Sicambria. His beard was matted, his hair encrusted with mud and filth; his slender body showed signs of cruel use, whip-marks criss-crossing the skin.

'Well met, brother king,' said the tall warrior, gripping the prisoner by his beard and hauling him' upright. 'Are you well?'

'I curse you, Wotan. May you burn in the fires of h.e.l.l!'

'Fool! I am h.e.l.l, and I lit the fires.'

Meroveus was dragged to a greased and pointed stake and hoisted high in the air.

Ursus tore his eyes from the scene, but could not block the awful sounds as the monarch was brutally impaled. Once more the bright light flashed and now he was viewing a scene in a great wooden hall. Warriors surrounded a crowd - their lances aimed at men, women and children who stood in silent terror. Ursus recognised many faces: cousins, uncles, aunts, nephews. Most of the Merovingian n.o.bles were gathered here. Warriors in mail- s.h.i.+rts began to throw buckets of water over the prisoners, jeering and laughing as the liquid splashed down. It was a ridiculous scene, yet tainted with a terrible menace. Once more the blond-bearded Wotan stepped forward, this time carrying a torch. Terrified screams sprang up from the prisoners as Wotan laughed and hurled the torch into the ma.s.s. Fire swept the group . . . and Ursus suddenly understood. It was not water they were drenched with . . . but oil. The lancers retired at speed as burning men ran like human torches, spreading the blaze.

The walls ran with flames and dark smoke settled over the scene . . .

Ursus screamed and fell back, weeping piteously, into the arms of the girl.

'Dear G.o.d,' she said, stroking his brow. 'What is it?'

But he could not answer. There were no words in all the world.

There was only pain . . .

Two officers from the adjoining rooms entered, lifting Ursus to the wide bed. Other men gathered in the stone corridor. The surgeon was summoned and the girl quietly gathered her clothing, dressed and slipped away.

'What is the matter with him?' asked Plutarchus, a young cavalry officer who had befriended Ursus during the summer. 'There is no wound.'

His companion, Decimus Agrippa, a lean warrior of ten years' experience, merely shrugged and looked into Ursus' unblinking, unfocused eyes.

Gently he pressed the lids closed.

'Is he dead?' whispered Plutarchus.

'No, I think he is having a fit. I knew a man once who would suddenly go stiff and tremble with such a seizure. The great Julius was said to be so afflicted.'

"Then he will recover?'

Agrippa nodded, then turned to the men in the corridor. 'Off to your beds,' he ordered.

'The drama is over.'

The two men covered Ursus with the linen sheet and the soft woollen blankets. 'He does like luxury,' said Agrippa, grinning. It was not often that the man smiled and it made him almost handsome, thought Plutarchus. Agrippa was made for command - a cool, distant warrior whose skill and lack of recklessness led men to clamour to join his troop. In major engagements he lost fewer men than the more reckless of his brother officers, yet invariably achieved his objectives. He was known among the Cohors Equitana as the Dagger in the Night or, more simply, the Dagger.

Plutarchus was his second Decurion, a young man fresh from the city of Eborac.u.m and yet to prove his worth on the battlefield.

The surgeon arrived, checked Ursus' pulse and his breathing and tried to rouse him, breaking the wax seal on a phial of foul-smelling unguent and holding it below the unconscious man's nose. There was no reaction from Ursus, though Plutarchus gagged and moved away.

'He is in a deep state of shock,' said the surgeon. 'What happened here?'

Agrippa shrugged. 'I was sleeping in the next room when I heard a man scream, then a woman. I came in with young Pluta to find the Sicambrian on the floor and the woman hysterical. I thought it was a fit.'

'I doubt it,' said the surgeon. 'The muscles are not in spasm and the heart is slow, but regular. You!' he said to Plutarchus. 'Bring a lantern to the bed.' The young officer obeyed and the surgeon opened the prince's right eye. The pupil had contracted to no more than a dot of darkness within the blue.

'How well do you know this man?'

'Hardly at all,' answered Agrippa, 'but Pluta has spend many days in his company.'

'Is he a mystic?'

'No, I do not believe so, sir,' said Plutarchus. 'He has never spoken of it. He did tell me once that the House of Merovee was renowned for its knowledge of magic, but he said it with a smile and I took him to be jesting.'

'So,' said the surgeon, 'no speaking in strange tongues, no divining, no reading of the portents?'

'No, sir.'

'Curious. And where is the woman?'

'Gone,' said Agrippa. 'I do not think she was desirous of more public scrutiny.'

'Wh.o.r.es should get used to it,' snapped the surgeon. 'Very well, we'll leave him resting for tonight. I will send my daughter here tomorrow morning with a potion for him; he will sleep most of the day.'

'Thank you, surgeon,' said Agrippa solemnly, aware of the spreading grin on Plutarchus'

face.

After the surgeon had departed, the younger man began to chuckle.

'You will share the cause of your humour?' Agrippa asked.

'He called his own daughter a wh.o.r.e. Do you not think that amusing? Half the officers have tried to entice her to bed and the other half would like to. And here she was, alone and naked with the Sicambrian!'

'I am not laughing, Pluta. The Sicambrian has the morals of a gutter-rat, and the lady deserves better. Do not mention her name to anyone.'

'But she was seen by the other men in the corridor.'

'They will say nothing either. You understand me?'

'Of course.'

'Good. Now let us leave our rutting ram to his rest.'

Throughout the exchange between the two men Ursus had been conscious, though paralysed. After they had gone he lay unable to feel the soft sheet upon his body, his memory hurling the visions of death to his mind's eye over and over again.

He saw Balan's heart torn from his chest and heard the agonised scream, watching helplessly as the light of life died in his brother's eyes. Poor Balan! Sweet little brother!

Once he had cried when he found a fawn with a broken leg. Ursus had ended its misery, but Balan was inconsolable for days. He should have entered the priesthood but Ursus, using the power of an older brother's love had talked him into the quest for riches.

Both men had grown used to the luxury of their father's palace in Tingis, but when the old man died and the size of his debts became clear, Ursus was unprepared for a life of near- poverty. The brothers had used the last of the family wealth to secure pa.s.sage to Sicambria, there to introduce themselves to their influential relatives. The King, Meroveus, had granted them a small farm near Martius where the court resided, but the revenues were meagre.

Balan had been blissfully happy wandering the mountains, bathing in silver streams, composing poems and sketching trees and landscapes. But the life did not suit Ursus, for there were few women to be had and a positive dearth of wide silk-covered beds.

But Balan would have been happy at the Monastery of Revelation in Tingis, sleeping on a cot-bed and studying the Mysteries. Now he was dead, victim of a demonic king and a greedy brother.

Towards dawn Ursus' skin began to tingle and at last he could open his eyes. He stared for a long time at the rough-hewn ceiling, tears flowing, memories burning his soul - reshaping it, until the heat of anguish fled to be replaced by the ice of hatred.

'The Sicambrian has the morals of a gutter-rat. The lady deserves better'

Balan also deserved better from his brother.

Feeling returned to his arms and shoulders and pus.h.i.+ng back the bed-linen, he forced himself to a sitting position and ma.s.saged his legs until he felt the blood begin to flow.

He felt weak and unsteady and filled with a sadness bordering on despair. The door opened and Portia entered, carrying a wooden tray on which was a bowl of fresh water, a small loaf of flat baked bread, some cheese and a tiny copper phial stoppered with wax.

'Are you recovered?' she asked, placing the tray on the chest by the wall and pus.h.i.+ng shut the door.

'Yes and no,' he said. She sat beside him, her small body pressed to his and her arms around him. He could smell the sweet perfume in her auburn hair and feel her soft b.r.e.a.s.t.s against his chest. He lifted her chin and kissed her gently.

'Are you sure you are recovered? Father has sent a sleeping draught; he says rest is needed.

'I am sorry for your embarra.s.sment last night. It must have been hard for you. Forgive me.'

'There is nothing to forgive. We love each other.'

Ursus winced at the words, then forced a smile. 'Love can mean different things to different people. Agrippa said I have the morals of a gutter-rat and he was quite correct.

He said you deserved better; he was right in that also. I am sorry, Portia.'

'Do not be sorry. You did me no harm. Far from it,' she said, stiffening as the realization of his rejection struck her. But she was Roman and of proud stock and would not let him see her pain. 'There is food there. You should eat.'

'I must see the King.'

'I should dress first - and wash.' Pulling away from him, she walked to the door. 'You really are a fool, Ursus,' she said. And the door closed behind her.

The prince washed swiftly, then dressed in s.h.i.+rt, tunic and leggings of black under a pearl- grey cape. His riding-boots were also stained grey and adorned with silver rings. The outfit would have cost a British cavalry commander a year's salarium, yet for the first time it gave Ursus no pleasure as he stood before the full-length bronze mirror.

Despite his messages of urgency, the King refused to see him during the morning and the prince was left to wander the town of Camulodunum until the appointed hour. He breakfasted in the garden of an inn, then journeyed to the Street of Armourers, purchasing a new sword shaped after the Berber fas.h.i.+on with a slightly curved blade. These swords were becoming increasingly fas.h.i.+onable with Uther's cavalry, for their use from horseback.

The curved blade sliced clear with greater ease than the traditional gladius, and being longer they increased the killing range.

The church bell tolled the fourth hour after noon and Ursus swiftly made his way to the north tower where Uther's manservant and squire, Baldric, bade him wait in the long room below Uther's apartments. There Ursus sat for a further frustrating hour before he was ushered in to the King.

Uther, his hair freshly dyed and his beard combed, was sitting in the fading suns.h.i.+ne overlooking the fields and meadows beyond the fortress town. Ursus bowed.

'You mentioned urgency,' said the King, waving him to a seat on the ramparts.

'Yes, my lord.'

'I heard of your seizure. Are you well?'

'I am well in body, but my heart is sickened.'

Swiftly and succinctly Ursus outlined the visions that had come to him, and the nauseating si ay ings he had witnessed.

Uther said nothing, but his grey eyes grew bleak and distant. When the young man had concluded his tale, the King leaned back and switched his gaze to the countryside.

'It was not a dream, sire,' said Ursus softly, mistaking the silence.

'I know that, boy. I know that.' Uther stood and paced the ramparts. Finally he turned to the prince. 'How do you feel about Wotan?'

'I hate him, sire, as I have hated no man in all my life.'

'And how do you feel about yourself?'

'Myself? I do not understand.'

'I think you do.'

Ursus looked away, then returned his gaze to the King. 'I get no pleasure from the mirror now,' he said, 'and my past is no longer a cause for pride.'

Uther nodded. 'And why do you come to me?'

'I want permission to return home - and kill the Usurper.'

'No, that you shall not have.'

Ursus rose to his feet, his face darkening. 'Blood cries out for vengeance, sire. I cannot refuse it.'

'You must,' said the King, his voice gentle and almost sorrowful. 'I will send you to Martius - but you will travel with Victorinus and a party of warriors as an emba.s.sy to the new king.'

'Sweet Mithras! To face him and not to kill him? To bow and sc.r.a.pe before this vile animal?'

'Listen to me! I am not some farmer, responsible only for his family and his meagre crop of barley. I am a king. I have a land to protect, a people. You think this Wotan will be content with Gaul and Belgica? No. I can feel the presence of his evil; I feel his cold eyes roaming my lands. Fate will decree we face each other on some b.l.o.o.d.y battlefield, and if I am to win I need knowledge - his men, his methods, his weaknesses. You understand?' 'Then send someone else, sire, for pity's sake.' 'No. Harness your hatred and keep it on a tight rein. It will survive.'

'But surely it will end his threat if I just kill him?' 'If it were that simple, I'd wish you G.o.d's luck. But it is not. The man uses sorcery and he will be protected by man and demon.