After a while, my ears became attuned. There was a great deal of what I took to be an ancient version of Welsh, some old English, from which I could distinguish the odd word, and even after all this time, a little Latin was still being spoken. Indeed, when I first heard it, a woman was telling off two small boys. I assumed she was saying that if they didn’t behave then they would be carried off by bears, but as we walked around, I heard it everywhere. Ursus. The Bear. Everyone was talking about The Bear. I listened carefully, but couldn’t make out whether this was a good or a bad thing. Whoever or whatever he was, he commanded some very healthy respect. It was only as I passed a large group of people all talking away at the tops of their voices that I got it. The pronunciation confused me a little at first, because they were speaking in Welsh and I was listening in English, and then suddenly, it hit me like a hammer blow.
They were talking about Arth.
Oh my God.
And now that I’d heard it once, variations of the word were everywhere. On everyone’s lips.
Ursus.
Bera.
Arth.
Arthur.
I felt my heart pick up. It surely couldn’t be … There’s no record of him fighting here … We couldn’t possibly be that lucky …
Peterson gripped my arm. Hard. He’d come to the same conclusion.
‘Max …’
‘I know.’
At the same time, I heard Sands say, ‘Max …’
And then, suddenly, something was happening.
A group of soldiers, armoured and armed, pushed their way in through the gate, split up, and started around the enclosure, pulling out people, apparently at random.
No, not at random. They were lining up the men. Men who could fight.
‘They’re conscripting all the able-bodied men,’ said Sands. ‘Looks like we’re in the front line this time.’
None of them seemed particularly worried.
I was. ‘You’re not able-bodied. None of you is able-bodied. If we added you all together, you wouldn’t make a whole person. You’re all missing feet, ears, upper arm muscle.’ I thought of Roberts. ‘And facial hair.’
Now we were in real trouble. Not because of the actual fighting, although that would be hazardous enough, but because we’re not allowed to kill contemporaries. Not under any circumstances. We’ve saved a few in our time – and don’t think that doesn’t lead to problems as well – but we’d never actually killed anyone. We’d never be allowed to get away with it. If History doesn’t get us, then Dr Bairstow will. Even setting aside the question of ‘who were we to decide who should live and who should die’, History has very strong views about meddling historians. Terminally strong views.
On the other hand, we probably wouldn’t live that long. A pitched battle was about to be fought and none of my boys were up to spec in the body-parts department. Apart from Roberts, of course, and even he appeared to have stopped developing around the age of twelve.
I ordered them back to our camp, and we all clustered together, watching what was going on. There was no escape. Nowhere to run. We could only stand quietly as two soldiers approached, gave us all the once over and jerked their heads in the direction of the group of men assembling near the gate.
I watched them being led away. There wasn’t anything I could do and I didn’t want to draw attention to myself. Around me, some women wailed, but the majority seemed resigned. One woman desperately tried to hold on to her two young lads, neither of whom looked above ten or eleven. Two men pulled her off, but gently. She stood, white and shocked, and was surrounded by other women who took her away.
I stood alone. Above my head, the warm wind tore the clouds to shreds, trailing them across the sky like tattered banners. I pulled my thick cloak around me, more for comfort than warmth.
I watched my team join the column of other men, all being herded towards the gate. Most of the conscripts were either very old or very young. One or two limped. I guessed these were second-rank fighters. The 6th-century equivalent of cannon fodder, possibly.
Peterson turned, waved cheerfully, and disappeared.
They’d gone.
I found I could barely breathe. They’d be at a huge disadvantage. What could they do? If they killed someone …? History might not even allow them to defend themselves. And they couldn’t run away – they’d risk being killed as deserters. And I could do nothing. There wasn’t a single thing I could do to help them. I had a terrible vision of them being overrun by a horde of blood-soaked Saxons. Going down without a fight. Because that was the correct thing to do. The historian thing to do. I might never see them again. Any of them.