Filled with the joy of battle, Connal swung his battle-axe, splitting skulls or cleaving limbs with almost every stroke. A trumpet-call rang out, then from either side a mass of armoured cavalry hurtled down upon the Angles, smashing into their flanks to carve red swathes through their close-packed ranks, before withdrawing to let the horses breathe. Desperately, the Angles tried to force a gap in their opponents’ line, knowing that, as long as the British centre held, they themselves would be exposed to constant onslaught from those terrible mailed horsemen.
But the centre did hold. Time and again the British cavalry charged, after each attack leaving in their wake windrows of enemy dead — whereupon the archers took their turn to pour in volleys of deadly shafts. Like standing corn in a wheatfield when the mowers have begun their work, the Angle host by slow degrees attenuated, until at last, weakened and fought to a bloody standstill, they began to give ground. Their retreat was no rout, however; fighting grimly all the way, they withdrew in good order from the field.
At length a trumpet-signal called off the pursuit, and the Exercitus Britanniae took stock. Though the enemy had been repulsed with great loss, British casualties were high, and one appalling discovery robbed the day of triumph. Artorius was sorely wounded; finding a weak point in his armour, a spear had pierced his lung. His captains gathered round the cot where he lay, tended by Myrddin and the nuns in the field hospital beside the lake.
‘Cei, Bedwyr, my faithful comites,’ gasped the stricken Dux, frothy pink bubbles escaping from his lips, ‘I leave the army in your charge. Today we have earned a respite, but no more than that. The Angles will return; persistence is in their very bones. You must hold the ground we have won. To ensure that you can do so, I will send for help to the Votadini, our kinsmen to the north-east, who have offered their aid. Myrddin, old friend, will you be my emissary? You know the way, and your skills in diplomacy will prove invaluable. Meanwhile, these holy sisters here have, in their kindness, offered to nurse me — though I fear they will not save my life, only prolong it a little. So now, dear comrades, I will take my leave of you. Vale.’
Watched by his assembled soldiers, many in tears, Artorius was rowed by the black-clad nuns to their island convent in the lake.
Three days after the battle, three travellers came in sight of an arresting spectacle: a mighty ribbon of stone undulating along the horizon. Twenty feet high, studded with turrets and blockhouses, it dipped and rose across the landscape like an endless serpent.
‘There she is, the Vallum Hadriani,’ announced Myrddin. ‘Built four centuries ago “to separate the Romans from the barbarians”’, as the emperor said. Did a good job for close on three-quarters of that time. But eventually the greater threat came not from the north but from the east, across the German Ocean. As we know to our cost.’
‘Makes you wonder how a people who could raise a thing like that could lose an empire,’ murmured Connal, awestruck. (A combination of skill, strength, stout mail protection and a modicum of luck had enabled him to survive the battle unscathed, barring a few contusions and minor cuts.)
At Petriana, a fortress near the western end of the great Wall, they requested shelter from the ‘commandant’. He was a chieftain of the Selgovae who, with his war-band, occupied the fort, continuing a tradition established by Cunedda, a Romano-British leader who had maintained a military presence on the Wall after the departure of the legions. Myrddin was known by repute among the Britons everywhere. Following the disclosure of who he was and what his mission, the welcome given him and his companions was warm indeed. (As a result of Connal and Cella staying to help Artorius, a strong bond of friendship had developed between them and Myrddin, leading to the pair deciding, for reasons of comradeship and mutual security, to accompany the medicus on his mission to the Votadini.)
‘Let me see that hand,’ Cella said sharply to Myrddin, as the three companions prepared to bed down in one of the fort’s old dormitory blocks, which they were to share with members of the war-band. ‘I noticed you’ve been favouring it — at supper you used your left hand to hold your spoon.’
‘It’s nothing,’ murmured Myrddin, holding out his bandaged right hand. ‘Caught it on the barb of a javelin I removed from a patient’s thigh, during the battle.’
‘Infected,’ pronounced Cella, after removing the bandage. He shook his head at the sight of the puffy, inflamed flesh that surrounded a ragged gash below the thumb. ‘It’ll need regular cleaning and dressing — as if you didn’t know that. Lucky I’m here to do it for you.’
Next day, the trio headed through the Wall via the fort’s North Gate, and pressed on in that direction across open heathery moorland, until intersecting a considerable river flowing to the south-west. This Myrddin pronounced to be the Isca.* Over the next three days they followed the stream to its head, travelling through a desolate landscape of great rounded hills, and sleeping rough at night wrapped in their thick woollen robes. The weather kept fine and dry, which was as well, since the condition of Myrddin’s injured hand continued to deteriorate, despite constant washing, rebandaging and treating with salves, a supply of which the medicus had in his scrip.
From the headwaters of the Isca, they crossed a watershed to pick up a young river flowing north and east, the Tuesis,* according to Myrddin. His hand was now grotesquely swollen, with an ominous red line ‘tracking’ steadily up his arm. Urgent medical attention was called for, but in this wilderness of moors and barren hills that was a forlorn hope. There was nothing for it but to press on and hope soon to reach a settlement, where rest, and the ministrations of persons skilled in the arts of healing, combined with the patient’s own medical lore, might effect recovery.
But it was not to be. After two days following the course of the Tuesis, Myrddin was delirious and could go no further. Making him as comfortable as possible, his companions laid him down on a bed of bracken. For a time he tossed, and muttered incoherently, then he fell into a slumber. When he awoke a short time later, the fever seemed to have left him, for he began to speak in a faint but clear voice. ‘My friends, you must complete my mission for me. The way is not hard to find. Follow this river for a further two days; it will take you to Trimontium, a fortress of the Romans beneath a three-peaked hill. There you will meet the great road Agricola built, which will lead you north through a range of hills. From the summit you will see the plain of Lothian stretching to the Bodotria Aestuaria, and in its midst a huge eminence shaped like the shell of a tortoise. That is Dunpender, crowned by a mighty hill fort, the capital of the Votadini.† You know what you must tell them.’
‘But we cannot speak the British tongue,’ Cella pointed out, his voice breaking.
‘You both acquired a smattering when we travelled through the Cambrias. It will be enough for your purpose. Besides, some may have a little Latin. The Votadini were always Friends of Rome, and maintained contact with the empire to the end. You will manage, that I know. And now, my friends, I must say farewell, for the sands of Myrddin’s life have run their course.’
Weeping, they clasped his left hand in their own, and in a little space he breathed his last. With their knives they scraped a shallow grave, and gently laid him to rest.*