A battle scene as depicted in the Vergilius Romanus, a probably 5-6th Century manuscript now believed on palaeographical and artistic grounds to have been written in Britain. This provides us with some idea of the late Roman military guise worn in Arthur's times - a far cry from medieval knights in shining armour.
Part II
The Victory at Badon
The seas to the west of Britain are said to be wild, setting a limit to the inhabitable parts of earth, and often they are so. But when I arrived they were calm as a sheltered lake and our vessel would have been still had it not been for the oarsmen who dipped their long oars in a slow rhythm into the water scarcely making a sound. The night was black, the sky and its stars so obscured by low unending clouds that, but for some faint lights, which seemed to come from a camp fire on the distant shore, I could not have told whether we were travelling north, south, east or west.
For many years I had imagined this homecoming; a strange expression to use considering I had never set foot in Britain. Yet my mind's eye had never seen my arrival like this. Everything should have been joyful, the sea swelling, flecked with white foam, wheeling gulls hovering about a billowing white sail and, above all, the day bright and fresh with a crowd of finely dressed people on the shore to welcome me.
The Emperor's concept had been worked on by a host of officials. My own suggestion of a huge embassy, well protected by guards, laden with money to help the Britons, making a fine progress across Italy and Gaul and then hiring ships to make a splendid arrival, had been politely set aside by a committee which had dissolved itself into sub-committees to consider every aspect of the proposal. The expert groups on the Ostrogoths, the Vandals, the Visigoths and the Franks had all been consulted. Marvellous indeed was the capacity of the bureaucrats to produce so much paper and think up so many obstacles and prudent, not to say parsimonious, financial management being the watch words of Anastasius' regime, it had not been difficult for all of them, my patron included, to agree in the end that I must slip into Britain as unobtrusively as possible. In the event, the three people who accompanied me were priests from Egypt; all the officials approached in Constantinople to go with me had preferred to risk the displeasure of their mild Emperor rather than face the dangers of such a journey.
Dawn was breaking as we entered the Fau estuary; this I knew was the state of Dumnonia, ruled, according to the Emperor's experts, by a tyrant called Gerontius whose family was Cornovian, a tribe from further north celebrated for military valour and loyalty to Rome. This, considering my problem of making intial contact, was reassuring. Ahead we descried our destination - a settlement of wooden buildings, mostly round huts - strung along the shore. Though small, the place was a rendezvous for a number of boats and a market was in progress. As soon as we had tied up at the wharf, the Townwatch, flanked by two leather clad guards bearing spears came aboard. Very soon I had become an object of suspicion and, without more ado, he took possesion of myself and my baggage and, to my indignation escorted me ashore to a strongly built wooden lockup. The priests had not been arrested with me - happily; there was no love lost, nor any trust between us. Their main interest in coming had been to make contact with their fellow Christians though their passage had been included in my budget. With luck we would not meet up again. However, separated from them, my embassy had become most singular and hardly calculated to impress any dignitary who came to meet it.
After a while a horseman rode up outside. The door was unbolted and in strode a short man, red haired and of generally fiery appearance, heightened by the brilliant green tunic he wore. "Leave us," he said to the Townwatch and immediately sat down beside me on the bench from which I had not risen, so flattened did I feel. He looked at me curiously. "Now sir. Who are you? What's this I'm told about you coming from the Emperor."
"That is so. I'm sent by the Augustus Anastasius. My name is Catumandus - Cadfan, the son of Clodius, a noble Briton who once lived in London." I paused and then asked, "And perhaps you'll tell me who you are?"
He looked me over. I was an unfamiliar form of life to him. "My name's Cunomorus, the Lord and magistrate here. Now, where are you really from? We don't want outsiders stirring up trouble. Or spies."
I repeated what I had said and waited for him to reply. He only stared at me, tugging the while at his droopy moustache. I then remembered the letter in the lining of my tunic, took it out and held it up for him to see. He drew back in alarm, as though it was bewitched. Without taking it from me he read aloud, "Anastasius. Augustus, Caesar." A broad smile spread over his face and his cheeks flushed redder than ever. "Oh that Ceretic. He'll get up to anything. That's who you're from. Well, come on. Tell the truth if you don't want me to force it out of you. And if you're a spy you'll be garroted."
This was ridiculous: to travel so far just to be tortured and killed. I stood up, looked down on him sternly and said, "Sir. You say you're a governor. Then you're here to administer justice. I am a citizen of Rome. The ruler of Dumnonia is called Gerontius isn't he? I insist on seeing him."
"Oh you insist on seeing Gerontius do you? Well then, we will have to kill you. That's the only way you can see him now." Cunomorus chuckled at his own joke and I cursed the useless intelligence people in Constantinople. "Cato's our Lord. Gerontius has been dead for twelve years. Ah Gerontius, a noble warrior he was. Slain fighting the Saxon and the traitor Ceretic. You know Ceretic don't you?"
Though my memory did come up with the name of Vortigern's interpreter, I said, "I know of no Ceretic. I've told you I'm from the Augustus. I demand that you treat me with the respect you'd pay the Emperor. You are a citizen aren't you? A Roman citizen. Isn't your Lord Cato a loyal man of Rome?"
Cunomorus stood up. "Aye. He is. The most loyal Roman."
"In my boxes there are gifts - for the Dux Arthur. Do you know where he is? Will your Lord Cato take me to him?"
Cunomorus' bearing had changed. He bowed and opened his hands towards me. "Sir, forgive me. Ceretic has many tricks. We have to be on our guard. You'll stay at my fort, as my honoured guest, until Lord Cato arrives. He's raiding the bare arsed Irish but he'll be back soon."
Lanteirn, to which we then rode, was a modest settlement of huts gathered around a few larger buildings sturdily constructed of wooden frames, filled in with wattle and daub; I saw not a hint of the architecture or the arts of Rome. Yet here at least, unlike at Lindinis, men had not reverted to life in the nearby hilltop fort. But was a mere palisade and a squat watchtower defence enough? Had my magnificent father really fired them with such confidence? I longed to find out.
It was not the time to pester Cunomorus with such questions. After so long at sea my health was poor, I had grown thin and my breath stank like an Egyptian drain in summer. I needed to walk on solid earth, to look at flowers and trees, to drink the water of fresh streams. All this I was now able to do. How delightful it was when those bondswomen bustled in with pails of hot water to bathe me. Fortunately, it is the custom of the Britons to shave off their bodily hair; this suited me down to the ground just then for I had become host to some vile bugs that had hardly stopped making me their eucharist since leaving the coast of Africa. My right hand having been my wife for so long I was overjoyed that the two women whose area of responsibility seemed to be confined to my private parts, were happy to play the role of Delilah in other ways there and then. With such pleasures, and gorging myself on the good meat, the varied fruits, the golden honey and the mead that was daily put before me, I was determined to be recovered in spirits as well as in body when the great Cato turned up.
In the meantime, as instructed by the diplomatic experts in Constantinople, I used my eyes and ears, for though never completely out of the sight of a guard, I could move around freely. Since my ship was shortly to leave, I gave the Captain letters to the Court, my patron, my mother and Ezra. They would take long enough to arrive but the mere act of sending them gave me satisfaction and helped me to face my work ahead. The Captain said he would make every effort to deliver them safely; now he saw that I was no mere merchant he had become as obsequious as any courtier.
When the ship sailed away I had no feeling of irretrievable exile; within a week, on two occasions, whole families boarded ships to leave for Armorica, taking with them as many possessions as possible. Yet this worried me; the emigrants obviously believed that life over the water would be more secure than in Britain. Had Arthur, assuming he was the leader of Britain, been so successful after all?
Each night I joined Cunomuros and his family in the hall. The atmosphere was smoky from the fire in the great open hearth and the rush torches, but his people were not barbaric; they loved to dress well, enjoyed talk and verse, and sometimes a poetic quality entered their speech. Nor was the company confined to men, for the women joined the nightly gathering, adding lustre to an occasion that is often dreary in societies where women are excluded. What is more, they were fastidious over food; the kitchen staff had better watch out if the dishes were not properly flavoured and carefully prepared. There was an abundance of good meats, while beer, mead and wine flowed like the Nile. Before eating Cunomorus offered up a prayer for the household was Christian - once a priest, strangely tonsured from ear to ear and his woman assistant turned up with a portable altar to say Mass - though among the bondsmen and slaves, the old beliefs were strong.
In readiness for my future journey, I unpacked and reorganized my baggage so it could be stowed easily on ponies or in carts. At the same time I presented Cunomorus and his wife with gifts from my stock of gold, jewelry, silver and silk; I did not realise it at the time but the ornate dagger, the necklaces and brooches I gave were alone worth at least three hundred head of cattle. However, I was more than rewarded for my gesture a couple of days later when summoned to Cunomorus' private chamber where two strapping youths and a voluptuous girl stood to one side of their Lord who was seated in the best chair. "Noble Catumandus," he said, "You're truly the Envoy of the Augustus; I've never doubted it. Unhappily you've lost the three priests who were with you. My apologies are due; it's my fault. I should have had them brought here, but they've already left for Ireland." He took me familiarly by the arm. "Priests are no great loss; still if you want me to get them back, I'll-"
"Oh no Lord Cunomorus," I interrupted. "It wouldn't be right to hold them from their religious duties."
"All the same, we can't have an envoy without a few retainers. So here are three people: Rhun and Conyn, dependable enough to make good pages and Tangwyn, the daughter of Gweir Dathar my servitor to run your household; the pretty thing will look after you in other ways too." He grinned broadly at this before adding, "She'll choose your servants but you must take your pick of my horses."
Rhun and Tangwyn, who seemed pleased with the arrangement, approached me and bowed deeply but Conyn loitered behind them eyeing me cautiously before giving a slight nod. After speaking with them I thanked Cunomorus for his thoughtfulness and also his wife who was a smiling witness to the scene. Cunomorus rubbed his hands together warmly, as though to underline that he was as liberal as the sea, before ordering my retainers off to a house which he had now provided for me.
Two days before Cato's arrival from his fortress at Din Draithov, I decided it was best not to be at Lanteirn when he arrived; the first meeting of the Envoy of the Augustus with a tyrant of one of the British states, must be no casual matter. So, with Cunomorus' consent, I left with Rhun and Conyn for a dwelling some miles away where we spent our time pleasantly in exercise and swimming in the coldest of rivers. That was when I first developed ambiguous feelings about Conyn; his beauty was undenable but his morose behaviour had put me so much in mind of none other than Clodius that I decided to keep a tight reign on him. Next day I got out some tunics and cloaks appropriate for wear in the Augusteon itself and made my pages put them on. Then I prepared myself as an envoy of Rome should be seen.
So adorned we rode to Lanteirn as slowly as the northern dusk takes to die. Brimming with pleasure Rhun caressed the hilt of his sword amorously for I had given both pages fine weapons from Byzantium. But Conyn feigned indifference as though comtemptuous of the idea that mere apparel could improve his appearance. As for me the Emperor's commision sheathed in an ivory cylinder was my proudest ornament.
The surly gatekeeper let us in without a word. As we rode up the track to the palisade gate, people came running to greet us. From the hall we could hear the sound of many voices, the notes of a harp and singing. Cunomorus, warned of our coming, was at the well lit porch. When he saw me he seemed struck dumb by the magnificence of my imperial uniform and so, before he could find his tongue, I announced, "The Envoy of Imperial Rome is here."
He disappeared and I waited in silence, my limbs taut. Inside, the voices died away. After a short time the doors opened wide and out came a thick set man wearing purple and gold. He glanced up at me as I presented my commission, then bowed deeply and said in a resonant voice, "Hail Caesar." He repeated the words louder and the crowd joined in.
Cato led me through the porch into the hall. Lamps constant as jewels had been hung from the rafters or from brackets on the thick posts that formed the two broad aisles. Majestic men stood about and I tried to fix some of their faces in my mind's eye but was only left with a dreamlike memory of flaxen hair held back with combs, great moustaches and searching eyes. Now an object of immense interest, rather than note everything about me, I concentrated on preserving a gravity worthy of Rome. My two retainers walked behind me. I hoped that they were holding their heads high and unsmiling as I had instructed them.
At the high table five men and three women, their clothes enriched with jewelry, were waiting. Seated apart from them was a blind old man with a harp on his lap. Cato gestured to me to sit and at the same time everyone in the body of the hall sat down too on benches around the heavy tables which bore joints of meat, bread and fruit. How different this hall from the hushed order of the Augusteon with its tinkling bells telling you when to stand and when to kneel and the intimidating drums and trumpets marking the Emperor's arrival. That court reduced men to cyphers; this made them mightier than they were for its manners and accoutrements were simple. This was the springtime of man - the age of Agamemnon; no, of Herakles and the godlike race of heroes. My heart responded to the freshness.
"Citizens. Men of Dumnonia," Cato began. "In the name of the States of Britain, I welcome the Envoy of the Emperor, the Envoy of our mother Rome." I stood and bowed to the company, then I made a special bow to the bard. Someone whispered in his ear and he raised a thin arm in acknowledgement. Cato went on, "His name is Catumandus and he's as British as any one here." He grasped my hands and then introduced me to the chief members of his court. Our feeble efforts at pomp were now over and I was glad, even though they had been successful. "Come, let's eat and drink. There'll be plenty of time for talk," he said. However, no one was going to let me eat yet. Every man and woman there was determined to shake my hand giving their names as they did so, some in Latin but most in British and some giving me their nicknames which might even be of gods or spirits: Justus son of Calcas, Gwyn son of Gwryon, Probus son of Caius, Fercus Fleet Foot (yes, he had the longest legs I had ever seen), Bradwen son of Duach, Greidawl Awful Grasp (my hand felt it was trapped in a wine press), Meilyg son of Llary Wledig, Sberin Black Face (truly this sprout of some African legionary was as handsome as any Nubian), Emrys the Stallion (I wondered what was hidden under his tunic), Morfran son of Tegidius and more and more and yet more, until, when my brain was reeling, the women came to bow gracefully before me speaking shyly; Gwen daughter of Lluched, Ellylw daughter of Neol Hang-cock, Teleri of the Silver Hair (she looked prematurely aged), Gwen Alarch daughter of Cynwal Hundredhogs, Rathtyen the only daughter of Clememyl, Eurolwyn daughter of Gwdolwyn the Dwarf - she greeted me with a voice as loud as any man and her hand was as strong as that of Greidawl Awful Grasp, until at long last, but as fair as any that had gone before, came Gwenlliant the Magnanimous Maiden. Of course I had yet to learn how much these British names rekindled the fame of ancient gods and heroes.
Eventually I sat down to eat, and not so unfamiliarly for we notables drank our wine from Roman glasses that someone had been at pains to preserve while our food was served on silver dishes with the regulatory array of deities, nymphs and satyrs common to well ordered tables throughout the Empire. Vast quantities of yellow mead were consumed by the housetroop before us, and soon the hall was boisterous with shouts, laughter and bragging, sometimes so loud that it seemed a quarrel was likely to break out but as it happened all was good natured that night.
At length Cato called for silence and asked the servitor, Gweir Dathar, to wake up the bard. He came to with a start and struck the strings of his harp inconsequentially. Yet the moment he opened his mouth no other sound was heard in the hall. His voice was not strong but clear - the moon reflected in black water. Nor did he sing a melody; the sounds he made hovered strangely between music and speech. Though the world around him had grown confused, his words were crystal. He did not tell a story but his phrases, terse and balanced, hinted at things that lie deep in men's memories so that the poetry grew in the listener's mind, each hint meaning something different to every man that heard it. He spoke of the Battle of Llongborth and the death there of noble Gerontius, Cato's father, and though it had been heard by those men a thousand times before, it brought tears to their eyes, muttered oaths, grasped swords:
Before Gereint, scourge of the enemy
White horses I see, quivering and red
No more the war cry, now the bitter grave
Cato's head slumped down; he was weeping. I put my arm around his shoulders. He grasped my hand. My heart was pounding; I gasped for air. What was coming from inside me, what awful emotion? I had never been in Britain yet my blood was talking. Our hands clasped more tightly. Cato, my blood brother. And all the time the sad voice went on, the lines and the verses borne on the subtle sweep of taut strings:
Llongborth, swift blades I see
Brave men, fearless of spears
Drinking red wine, glasses glinting
Cato looked into my eyes, staring deeper, deeper, never blinking. He held my head now and kissed me. A true greeting to Britain. I gazed back. My eyes said, Britain will stand. We will stand together:
Llongborth, Arthur I see
His heroes, cutting steel
Our leader, nothing this labour
I had not come in vain. Arthur was no myth. He held others as he held me, his son, his blood. Before long I would see him. Yet just then my heart reached out to Cato who had lost his father:
Llongborth, Aah, I see Gereint slain
Heroes with him, men of Dumnonia
Before they die, they slay
Great was the glory I heard in all the verses, great the glory of the Britain I had come to see. Yet in the midst of the excitement something disturbed me. I had heard of the splendid death of a hero but nothing of the enemy. Spear must have been matched with spear, sword with sword and man with man. If there is Achilles there must be Hector; a man's greatness in war is judged by the quality of his adversary. Who was he? What was he? The only one to be mentioned since my arrival was not a Saxon but a Briton, the traitor Ceretic. Had the Britons slipped into the dangerous frame of mind of supposing their own defeats to be nothing but a misfortune brought about by a traitor rather than by the valour of their foes? Had they not learned that treachery and ruse are a part of war and not to be weighed in a separate balance?
When the slow dawn began to etch the dark hills to the east, as I saw when I went to the door for some air, I realised that almost everyone was dead drunk though Cato was spewing up. The second bard whose place was in the lower part of the hall, and who was still singing to an unheeding audience, seemed at that moment to be saying something chilling to me and me alone:
"Golden mead, flushed faces
Vain our quarrels, anger burning
The Saxon laughs, his sword singing."
Had they forgotten the discipline of Rome, my countrymen, though there was a Roman standard - that of the First Cornovian Cohort - proudly fixed to a pillar in the hall to remind them of it? Maybe discipline, like the blue tinted glass that had played tricks with the wine's colour in the firelight, was but a relic, a dream of Rome in a poetic story.
I had ordered Conyn to stay awake for me. None too gently he manhandled Cato into the private chamber at the end of the hall. It was empty, for Cunomorus had put it at his overlord's disposal. When he had been lain on the coach which was covered with soft lambs wool I thought how vulnerable this strong man was in his stupor. He opened his eyes, saw Conyn, grinned stupidly and tried to stroke his thigh. Conyn drew back with disgust. Cato's face darkened. He growled, "Look smart boy. Your master's eyes are up you already." Then he noticed me and said in a wheedling voice, "Arthur. You here? Must meet this man from Rome. Says he's an Envoy." The next moment he fell asleep. I left Conyn to tend him lest he should choke on his own vomit.