Free Warrior of the West by M. K. Hume Page B

at the besieged Saxons, Artor used his bowmen to confine the enemy within the killing fields. Then his infantry and a range of war machines, built in situ, pounded the Saxon force into bloody flinders. The remnants of the Saxon force retreated back to Londinium, having learned the deadly accuracy of catapults. When Artor saw what the stones of the catapult did to human flesh, his gorge rose but he had schooled his face to reveal nothing.
    Targo constantly reminded his king that every battle was part of a learning process that wise leaders used if they desired to save lives. Artor learned his lessons well, in campaign after campaign, and he was flexible in his thinking, but he was no longer sure if it achieved anything, apart from the loss of friends, the destruction of the lives of simple men and the ruination of the land.
    By rote, Artor saw to the comfort of his troops. Camp was set and his large, leather tent was raised. With a joke and mild teasing, the High King released Gruffydd from his duties to spend time with his wife and adult children, and retired to his spartan quarters where he was assailed by the thoughts that had grown increasingly despairing over the years.
    ‘How can we become one united Celtic people when our first loyalties lie with our own tribes?’ Artor had once asked the tribal kings. ‘We must become one unified nation, a force of Britons, regardless of our tribal or racial origins.’
    He had been so naive. He had never really belonged to a tribe, for the Villa Poppinidii and Aquae Sulis had been his only roots, and they were Roman. He snorted when he remembered the eager, hopeful self that had believed it was possible to overcome the hatreds of generations in a few, short years. He had succeeded, superficially, as mixed cavalry troops and squadrons of bowmen testified, but the tribes weren’t reconciled towards brotherhood, as King Lot’s treaty with the Saxons had proved. The High King had been deluding himself when he took pride in the force that ultimately marched against Katigern Oakheart at Eburacum all those years before. Effective rulers couldn’t afford the luxury of pride.
    The High King could still taste the blood on his lips from that long forgotten battle. It was his first, brutal realization of human frailty, especially his own, and marked the death of ideals that shook his soul to its foundations.
    Eburacum had been a relatively easy conflict compared with the task that was now ahead of him. Situated at another crossroads, and surrounded by swamp, rivers, flat undulating beds of reeds and rushes, and totally unsuited for a pitched battle, the old Roman fortress had fallen to the eastern Saxons some twenty years earlier. Eburacum became a deadly base for parties of Saxons who cut communications along the roads to the north every summer. When Katigern invited the Saxons, Angles, Jutes and Picts to join him in an alliance at this unpromising site, Artor could no longer avoid the inevitable conflict. Eburacum must be taken and Katigern Oakheart must be smashed, for he had now proved his capacity to broker alliances that could destroy the frail Celtic defences. Artor had marched north with a heavy heart, feeling ill equipped to fight such an important and pivotal campaign.
    The battle had been fought on level ground, and the Saxons had outnumbered Artor’s Celts by two to one. Katigern Oakheart had taught the High King a painful lesson about the Saxons, and himself, although Artor had taken the offensive from the beginning for only through attack could any advantage be gained over fierce and motivated barbarians. The field was hopeless for charging men, so Artor’s infantry was ineffective even before he began. Similarly, his catapults and siege machines were useless in the reeds, marsh and soggy fields. But Artor still had one edge because the Saxons used the shield wall, their one certain battle technique, on this fatally flawed occasion.
    In their old, outdated way, the Saxons