Aramis followed, as did Gaetan, Téo, and the big hairy dog, but the others remained with the horses and possessions. They were essentially in enemy territory, so no one was going to follow Gaetan and leave their assets behind to be picked over by people who were circled around them, all looking at them quite suspiciously.
As Aramis, Gaetan, Téo, and the lady disappeared into the collection of rock huts, the rest of the knights stayed very close to the horses. They were watching the inhabitants of the village as closely as the villagers were watching them. Like an odd standoff, they simply stared at one another.
Mistrust was in the air.
“Look at this place,” de Moray muttered to de Lara. “This is fairly large village here beneath the trees. And look at the homes; neatly built, avenues laid out. This is not the design of barbarians.”
Luc was looking around as well; with Gaetan away, he was in command. “Nay, they are not,” he said. “But look at them – fair skinned, pale-haired, dressed in robes and skins. Even their manner of dress suggests some kind of civility.”
As the two of them were scrutinizing the crowd, Wellesbourne walked up beside them. He, too, was watching the people surrounding them.
“My father spoke of lost tribes like this,” he said, his voice low. “This is a group of people untouched by the world. They live by themselves and die by themselves. And look; did you see their monument when we came in?”
Marc and Luc hadn’t. They strained to see what Wellesbourne was pointing at, finally seeing what looked like a neatly stacked pile of stones with a pole of some type rammed into the top of it. It soared several feet above the ground and, curious, the knights moved away from the crowd of gawkers and went to investigate.
Moving around the front of the monument, they could see that it was a long staff of some kind of metal, probably bronze, with several round metal discs fastened to it, discs that contained images that were faded and weathered. Near the top of the staff was a trencher-sized disc with laurel leaves carved into a circle around the edges, and in the middle of it was what looked like the figure of a goat.
It was quite fascinating. As de Moray moved in closer to touch it, de Lara spoke.
“I have seen staffs like this before,” he said. “Near my father’s home in Bayonne there is one in the cathedral. Look at the top – see those letters? SPQR. That has to do with the ancient legions from Rome, I believe.”
“It does.”
The knights turned to see Antillius walking up behind them, looking up at the large bronze staff just as they were. There was reverence in his eyes as he gazed upon it.
“My ancestors carried this staff across the sea, across England, and settled in this land,” he said. “This is a shrine to those men who conquered the savage lands of Britannia but, specifically, the lands we live upon. This was the province of Flavia Caesariensis, the land of our ancestors. It is still our lands, although the Saxons have taken most of our territory. But not all of it; we continue to fight for what is ours but our struggle is never over. We fight for our continued way of life.”
That explained a great deal about these people and how they came to live in this extremely inaccessible area. Now, the knights were coming to understand the background of this isolated tribe. It was a remarkable story.
“The Romans have not been here for hundreds of years,” de Lara said. “They were in the Pyrenees, near where I was born, and all over Spain and France, but they are only a whisper of a dream now and nothing more. But here, you keep their memory alive?”
Antillius looked at the knight, a big man with a crown of black hair. “They are still here,” he assured them quietly. “Look at my people. We are the descendants of these great men who forged their way into a cold and unfriendly country. The term Tertium is the name of the legion we are descended from – Legio Tertium Augustus. It means Augustus’ Third Legion.”
He pointed to the top of the staff where faded letters were etched into the bronze and the knights looked upward, trying to make out the name of the legion.
“And you have survived here, as a race, all this time?” De Lara was incredulous.
“We have.”
“Your customs, your manner of speaking… this is all part of the ancestors you pay homage to?”
Antillius nodded, looking around to his people, who were starting to disburse now that the excitement of their visitors had faded. “We keep to ourselves and we protect ourselves,” he said. “That is why we fired upon you when we found you within our borders. We patrol our lands constantly for invaders and when we saw you, we naturally assumed the worst. We did not know you were searching for an injured woman.”
De Lara nodded. “In truth, she was looking for us but she was mistaken in both her sense of direction and her reason for searching,” he said, not wanting to explain it further at this point. “Thank you for showing mercy. We shall not forget your kindness.”
Antillius nodded faintly, his gaze moving from Luc to Lance, Denis to Kye, and over to Bartholomew and then Jathan. It was clear that there was something more on his mind than the history of his tribe or the injured woman.
“You are not Saxon,” he finally said. “I am acquainted with those who rule these lands and you are not from here. You mentioned that you are from Spain and France?”
Now, the reason behind their appearance had been introduced and Luc was reluctant to explain too much, at least not until Ghislaine was tended and they had the opportunity to flee what would undoubtedly be angry men fearful of a Norman invasion.
In fact, as Luc pondered the situation, he knew the Normans would not leave these people alone as centuries of Saxons and Danes and Celts had evidently done. Nay, the Normans would wipe them out if they did not comply and there was some sadness in that thought. His Norman brethren would assimilate the Tertium until their memories, their traditions, were no more.
“We are all from France,” he said after a moment. “We are here in England because we have a mission to attend to.”
Antillius cocked his head curiously. “What mission?”
Luc was careful in his reply. “One of our comrades has been taken hostage,” he said. It was the truth. “We are heading north to find him and free him.”
“But what about The Beautiful Maid?”
“She is our guide in these strange lands.”
Antillius clearly had more questions but he didn’t pursue it at the moment; truth be told, he suspected that wasn’t the entire truth. He found himself looking at heavily-armed seasoned knights, bigger and more fearsome than anything he’d ever seen. Surely there was more to their presence than what he was being told.
In fact, Antillius was very curious about the outside world and what went on away from his isolated life. He would often speak with the Saxons he traded with to learn such things. But before him, he saw a grand opportunity to learn more than the foolish Saxon farmers could tell him. Warriors from France, he thought with satisfaction. Aye, he would discover their purpose, if only to gain news of the world around him.