Winter 394-5, The Danube Frontier
Midwinter on the Danube Frontier, and it was bitterly cold. Once, the river had flowed through the middle of Roman imperial lands, but the further shore had been surrendered to the marauding Goths over a century before. Although the Goths themselves had accepted Christianity and passed across the river, the further shore was still enemy territory – the Huns were there.
To guard against the possibility of enemy forces crossing, a line of forts had long been established along the southern and western banks of the river, and, although they were now badly garrisoned, with inexperienced troops, military discipline still prevailed. Sentries patrolled the walls, even in the middle of winter, and stared fearfully across the broad, slow river, into the darkness of the plains beyond. That day, visibility had been poor, due to low cloud and snow flurries, driven on a bitterly cold wind. But, as the sentries paced, they had certainly been able to hear something happening beyond the frontier, even though they were almost blinded by the falling snow.
For several hours earlier in the day, blood-chilling screams had come floating across to the Roman garrison. The sentries grimly wrapped their thick cloaks still tighter around themselves, hefted their weapons and continued to pace up and down. When the weather cleared, they looked out across the muddy banks, and across the wide, murky river, studded with floating chunks of ice and saw half a dozen black figures, hanging limply from stakes that had been driven into the hard ground. The officers of the garrison had been summoned up to the ramparts, shivered at both the temperature and the view, shrugged their shoulders, and then disappeared back to the warmth and conviviality of the mess. Before leaving, one of the Centurions had clapped a sentry on the back and tried to reassure him.
“What do you expect from the Huns? They’re complete barbarians – worse than savages. Heaven only knows why they do these things. Just keep an eye open, and make sure they don’t try and sneak across to do the same to us, eh!”
But as the night drew in, and the sentries were left almost alone in the freezing dark, the jocular words became less and less reassuring, and it became easier and easier to imagine that something was going on. Almost complete silence prevailed, even in the ramshackle little town that had grown up around the fort. The only noise came from the river, where the ice floes seemed to be grinding together, creaking and groaning. It also seemed as though the night was becoming colder and colder, colder in fact, than it had ever been. One of the soldiers turned to look out across the river, but the act almost seemed like something from a dream; bad memories, horrible memories began running through his head, before his eyes, images from long ago come back to haunt him, stronger than ever. He suddenly felt unable to stand, and had to fall to his knees, his spear and torch falling abruptly from his lifeless grip. Just enough time remained for him to see the other sentries’ torches flicker out, leaving him in darkness and then the darkness itself seemed to swallow him up.
It was in that winter that the Huns first crossed the Danube frontier, riding slowly across the now-frozen river, led by their shamans, in case the creatures sent ahead to prepare the way should come back. They would, of course, return many times, to take huge amounts of gold and silver from the cities of the empire in exchange for peace. In 450, Princess Honoria, sister of the Western Emperor, sent her ring to Atilla, King of the Huns, and he, claiming they were now betrothed, led his armies into Europe to claim the whole Roman Empire. The Huns were eventually defeated in Gaul by the great Roman general, Aëtius, but not before they had released an army of their shamans’ dark creatures to ease their path into Europe. And, of course, these creatures spread, leaving no marks, so it was said that some new plague had come out of the east, coming, eventually, all the way to the Western edges of the Empire.
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September, 700 CE
It was well-known that the point of monasticism was to find a place in the wilderness, far from civilisation and its distractions from which to contemplate God. Thus, it was obvious that the place would not be easy to find; the party could trace its journey through Britain, from the largely Saxon south up through the Celtic north and west, where the search had begun in earnest, and then north of the Roman Walls. Eventually, though, they had found it; a small island, literally a stone’s throw from the mainland in places, in the channel between the mainland and the larger islands to the west. The monastery, they were told, was on the coast, looking south and west.
And so it had proved to be. Once they had waited until low tide and carefully taken the horses across, and once they had ridden down through the Pine forests, they were able to look out from the trees and there see the familiar shapes – a communal church with a group of small beehive-shaped cells around it, all made from pieces of the same rough grey stone. They camped down under the shelter of the trees and waited until morning.
On the part of the monks, the first sign that they were not wholly alone was the smoke from the fire. Drifting up in a long pale grey column from the tops of the trees, it contrasted clearly with the late summer sky. As night began to draw in, some of the sharper-eyed among the community thought they could make out the flickering orange glow of the flames coming from behind the tree line. As the night passed, not a few lay in their cells and wondered what the omen might portend.
The only man on the island who had not rushed to stare across at the mainland was its oldest resident, Brother Aidan, who had been a pillar of the community for as long as anyone could remember, but who was now bedridden. Even he, though, immediately began questioning the young Brother Mernoc, who was regularly sent to read to him.
“The Abbot should know better” was his only, laconic, comment on Mernoc’s excited description.
But Mernoc’s excitement that evening was as nothing compared to that of the next day when he came rushing into Aidan’s cell to share the latest, momentous development. Three men, two carrying tokens of peace, had come to the monastery, whereupon the third, clearly the leader, had demanded to see the Abbot.
“Father Abbot called us into the church and told us that the men in the woods were soldiers, as he had feared, and that they had travelled a long way seeking a treasure which they believe us to possess. They have threatened to take it by force if we don’t hand it over!”
Aidan said nothing, but only stirred slightly. Mernoc couldn’t contain himself.
“Didn’t you hear me, Brother? Were you asleep?”
“Yes, I heard you, boy. I was thinking. It’s something you should consider, instead of rushing around like a headless chicken the whole time.”
There was another moment’s silence.
“Tell me, boy. Have you ever heard the stories of Arthur?”
“Many years ago, Brother, yes. But since I came to the monastery…”
“I don’t want to hear about that. We don’t have time.” The older man’s tone was harsher, more abrupt that usual. “What about Merlin? Did you hear about him as well?”
Mernoc nodded.
“Good. You know, then, that at Camlann, at the Last Battle, Arthur and Mordred fought for supreme power?”
“Were you there?” Mernoc was awestruck.
“Of course not, fool. How old do you think I am? No, Merlin came here…”
“Merlin..?”
“Yes, Merlin. He came here after Camlann. Before the battle started, he cursed both Arthur and Mordred as fools for fighting each other as the Saxons swarmed across the land. When he found Arthur dying, Merlin repented of his anger, and used his power to send Arthur to Avalon. And when Arthur was gone, Merlin went to Mordred, trying to resurrect his plan to bring Britain together under one ruler, to bring back peace. But Mordred didn’t want to know. He drove Merlin away, put a price on his head. So Merlin cursed Mordred again, as not only a fool, but an ingrate and a traitor to his lord.
“Merlin travelled the land, trying to find someone who would listen, but Mordred’s hatred followed him wherever he went. Eventually, the effort became simply too much for him, and he retired here. He called it his crystal prison, a place shut off from the world, but full of light. A good place to think, he said, even though the rules said he couldn’t leave…”
“You knew Merlin..?”
“Yes, I knew him. But only in his last years, when he was extremely old. He wanted to make sure his idea didn’t die with him. His Magnum Opus, he called it; the Great Work. I wrote it down, to his dictation, and very boring I found it, too, fool that I was. But he always said it should be kept safe here until someone came who was worthy of carrying it through. If it couldn’t be kept here, he said to have it sent to Rome. It looks as though Merlin has been proved right, as usual.” He struggled to sit up. “The book is hidden behind that stone. Take it, and hide in the woods until they’re gone. “
“But… But…”
“But what? If they never knew you were here, they’ll never know you’ve gone, will they? I’m not going to tell them anything, and I doubt any of the others will have the chance. Now, go!”
Dropping to his knees, Merdoc feverishly pulled at the stone in the cell wall that Aidan had pointed to. Finally dragging it out, his fingers found a soft bundle in a cavity behind. Clutching it to his chest, he turned and ran. He didn’t stop until he had reached the woods, from which point of safety he watched as the soldiers, as they had threatened, entered the monastery and began to search, over the vocal protests of the Abbot and monks. And he watched as they found nothing, and, in a fit of petulance, razed the community to the ground. Afterwards, when he had been left alone on the island, he turned towards the mainland and began walking.
Founders Four by sudreyjar
Chapter Notes: Many thanks to my wonderfully patient Beta Molly (Cakeordeath).
Enjoy.