insult was unjustified, but such
men were not soldiers, they were couriers, the Emperor’s lap-dogs; they were
trained to fetch and carry, to look smart, salute. Say aye or nay to command.
Reluctant, the Pendragon had to acknowledge the truth of his younger
cousin’s point. Calming his racing breath, he took the offered goblet of wine,
drank; said, refusing to concede entirely, “Aye, but we proved ourselves first.
The Saex settled along our eastern rivers and coast know me for my strength,
know they cannot defeat my Artoriani. They agree peace because the alternative
is slaughter. This,” he crossed to the offensive letter, picked it up, looked at it
with disgusted loathing, and lobbed it out the open doorway, “this is admitting
defeat before even a blade has been unsheathed!” He turned again to the Roman
who stood warily shaken, his fingers massaging a bruised throat. Arthur asked
again, “Why was I not informed that a treaty had been offered to Euric?”
About to answer with his first-come thought—that Rome’s business was
none of this British king’s—the man shrugged his shoulder instead. “We have
always made friends with the barbarians. This new king of the Goth’s dead
brother, Theodoric, was a follower of Rome, he led his men for us. We have
many such treaties with these new, petty kingdoms. They live in peace under
our laws and rule. It is so with the Burgundians, the Franks,”—he smiled
derisively—“the British.”
Arthur smiled back at him, seeming pleasant enough. Bedwyr, pouring more
wine for himself groaned.
“I,” Arthur said, patiently, “have signed no such treaty with your poxed
masters in Rome.” He held up one finger to stem the protest hovering on
the imperial officer’s lip. “Nor is any treaty proffered by the dignitaries of Less
Britain valid. I am king of Britanniarum, Less and Greater. The island across the
sea is mine, and so is Armorica, as you still call it. I personally own an estate a
few miles from Condivicnum. I rule in my own right, with my laws, my word.
I, Arthur Riothamus the Pendragon, not you.” He poked the man’s chest with
one finger, sending him wobbling backwards a step. “Not this traitor Arvandus,
nor Rome’s Governor, Sidonius Apollinaris, who is so proud of his fawning,
overrated letter-writing; not Anthemius your Emperor—nor his puppet-master
Ricimer, the man who pulls the strings of all Rome’s snivelling governors. I,
3 2 H e l e n H o l l i c k
Arthur, have the title Pendragon in Greater Britain; and in Less Britain, that of
Riothamus. I am Supreme King.” Each word had been punctuated by a prod
that increased in intensity. The officer was backing away, found the open tent
flap behind him.
Arthur moved suddenly, alarmingly fast, had the man’s arm up behind his
back and was trundling him from the tent, marching him across the flattened
grass that officiated as a parade ground towards the horse lines.
“Get on your mount and go back to the imbecile who sent you! I will hear
nothing of treaties, letters, or peace. I have been asked here to fight and fight I
will. As soon as Syagrius of Soissons joins with me.”
The officer was unhurt but affronted and humiliated. He had come as ordered
from Rome to officially, and politely, inform this arrogant bastard of a king that
a traitor had been arrested before rumour permeated the wrong impression—
and had been treated in response as less than a midden boy! These British had less
manners and fouler language than Euric and his barbarian Goth whore-sons!
He scrambled onto his horse, gathered up the reins and began trotting for the
open gate, set between the wooden-fenced palisade. He had to say something,
something to avenge his dignity.
“Syagrius?” He shouted, looking back over his shoulder at the gathering,
laughing men; at Arthur, the British king. “Syagrius has no intention of joining
you. It was he who suggested offering a treaty