Inevitably, the Romans’ frontal assault began to wane; Arthur and his infantry felt the force pitched against them weakening. He and his men were no longer retreating but advancing, stepping over the heaps of newly slain. Bedivere broke his pole-axe when he clove a centurion from the crown of his head to the tip of his chin, and in so doing gained a clearer picture of the field beyond. The Romans still had overwhelming numbers, and continued to flow forward, though now their formations were riven apart and they were advancing loosely and in disorder.
“Now, sire!” Bedivere called. “Now must be the time!”
“Aye,” Arthur agreed. “Now is the time.”
Twenty
There had never been any such person as Saint Belladonna, which ought to have suggested, to the few Ligurian peasants who knew about the Convent of St. Belladonna, that it wasn’t actually a convent at all, even if it did utilise a genuine old convent building located in a high, secluded valley.
More than likely the few rustics who worked in the convent grounds, minding the sheep and goats, tending the vegetable gardens and keeping the paths clear, were well aware that the nuns of St. Belladonna’s were somewhat younger and comelier than was the norm. They must have thought it inappropriate that the sisters wore habits which were more like sleeveless, knee-length togas, revealing much indecent jewelry, and kept their long, lustrous hair bound beneath dainty head-scarves rather than veils or wimples. But as the regular procession of male callers at St. Belladonna’s included priests, bishops and even cardinals, as well as the usual dukes, barons and merchants, who were the gardeners to complain?
On a warm afternoon in early summer, one particular new arrival set an elderly shepherd called Marcus hurrying from the outer pastures and along the valley road. Marcus was a tough, wiry man, brown-skinned, with long, grey hair and a long, grey beard. And though, at eighty, he didn’t generally hurry anywhere, the sight of the black enamel coach with the eight sleek horses drawing it provoked in him an almost unnatural degree of energy. For all his sprightliness he entered the convent by the tradesman’s door only a minute before the black coach, with its gilded sculptures and its colossal red-cowled driver, halted at the front entrance.
As Duchess Zalmyra stepped onto the forecourt, the convent door swung open, and the ‘Mother-Superior’ emerged. Her name was Esmerelda. She too had once been a comely lass, though now her slender form had turned buxom and her golden hair had wizened to grey. As such, the garb she wore was perhaps more in keeping with her title. Her robe was cinched at the waist with a simple leather belt, and fell to her sandalled feet. Her head-scarf was more demurely tied, so that not a lock or even a wisp of hair escaped to hang fetchingly over her handsome young-old face.
“Ma’am?” she said, hands clasped.
“You received my message?” Zalmyra asked brusquely.
“I did, ma’am. I have a girl who I think will please you.”
“Let me see.”
Zara was not yet seventeen, but pretty as a Mediterranean flower: lightly tanned, with hazel eyes and lush ripples of dark brown hair. She had only been at St. Belladonna’s six weeks, but had already serviced many illustrious clients, including some who had been back to see her again and again. She had thus learned quickly, and already had a pouch of personal gold stored in a knapsack in her boudoir.
She stood upright as she waited in the antechamber, hands behind her back. She possessed an air of confidence, for she knew that she filled her knee-length toga to perfection. But she also affected humility, for some of those who came here were not always happy unless they felt they were depraving an innocent.
When Esmerelda showed in Duchess Zalmyra, Zara did not blink. She had entertained wealthy women before — it was not unusual, and this one had the regal air of an aristocrat. By her flimsy attire and the fine naked form beneath, she was also, quite evidently, a sensualist.
Esmerelda stood primly to one side while Zalmyra circled the patiently waiting ‘sister,’ who smiled meekly.
Zalmyra finally spoke. “You will come with me, girl. To my home.”
For the first time, Zara was surprised. This had never happened before. She glanced at Esmerelda, who nodded.
“Bring all your belongings,” Zalmyra added.
Again, Zara was surprised. Again, she glanced at her mistress.
“This will be a lengthy assignment,” Esmerelda explained.
Zara shrugged. She supposed it was all in a day’s work for her. Or a week’s. Or even a month’s. It made no real difference in the end, except that on this occasion maybe she would be even more lavishly treated than usual. Bowing to Zalmyra, she withdrew from the room. When the door was closed, Zalmyra turned to Esmerelda.
“There is no-one who will miss her?”
“No-one, ma’am. She came to us a foundling.”
“But she has made close friends in the order, no doubt?”
“All my sisters know that some must move on. Not all vocations are strong.”
“And none of them will seek her out?”
“They haven’t sought any of those others who’ve left with you.”
Zalmyra smiled coldly. “When she comes down again, escort her to my carriage personally. It may put her at ease.”
Twenty-One
“The signal!” Benedict cried from above. “The signal!”
The knights and men-at-arms glanced up, alerted. They too heard it — the three-note clarion call they had been waiting for.
“Mount up!” Lucan called to his mesnie.
With hurried shouts and a neighing of nervous steeds, men leapt into the saddle. Lucan turned to Turold, who hefted the black banner. They nodded at each other. Lucan glanced at Alaric — the lad’s face was bright with sweat, but he, too, nodded.
“Remember, this is not a tourney,” Lucan instructed him gravely. “These Romans have come here to kill you. To kill all of us. And when we are gone, to enslave and despoil our families. There’s only one penalty for that… they must die.”
Alaric mopped the spittle from his lips, and lowered his visor.
THE WEST GULLY wherein Lucan and his household had been waiting contained the retinues of a many other illustrious names: Bors, Cador, Lanval, Bellangere, Daniel, Sagramore, Agravain, Galezzin, Tor and the two sons of the late King Pellinore, Lamorak and Aglovale — some six thousand men in total, all skilled and seasoned to battle.
They thundered down the gully at a canter, their horses picking up speed as the narrow passage widened out, finally emerging on the hillside to the rear of Arthur’s infantry. Briefly, Alaric lifted his visor to survey the scene. To their right, the longbow men were at rest — they didn’t want to strike their own men, and at any rate were surrounded by empty carts and wagons which earlier in the day had been piled with sheaves of arrows. Directly ahead, the infantry broke apart to create an aisle maybe fifty yards in width. Beyond that lay the open field, and a monstrous clutter of the dead, dying and maimed, stretching as far as the eye could see.
But the Romans were not yet at bay. Immense numbers were still to the fore. Their foot-companies clashed with Arthur’s infantry, and to the rear of those, more cavalry cohorts were advancing, although there were broad gaps between them.
As Arthur’s cavalry drove down through the carnage, their canter accelerated to a gallop, the rumble of their hooves amplifying to a thunderous roar. Alaric glanced left. There was no sign yet of the knights from the east gully.
At the point of the charge Lucan rode like the wind, his pace never flagging as the two forces meshed. One Roman horseman came against him after another, many armed with lances. He bore past them all, Heaven’s Messenger striking flesh and bone like a spear of flame. If they weren’t in his path, he veered towards them, his wolf-fur billowing. They drew blades and mattocks against him, but his sword always struck true, colossal strokes dispatching legionaries from this world as wind blows flies from a carcass. Even when he found himself amid a cluster of them, Heaven’s Messenger spun in a blur, smiting skulls, chopping necks. These were the men of the Eighth Legion, distinctive in their maroon livery. Expert horsemen by all accounts, masters of the sabre. But Lucan slew all he came to. He barely felt their retaliatory blows, barely noticed that his shield was soon broken or his mail rent and leaking blood. He slew and slew like a thing possessed, striking the blades from their hands, shearing through their corselets and helms.