"H. Warner Munn - Merlins Godson" - читать интересную книгу автора (Munn H Warner)

They must then have been going to find his friend Antor, to whom Myrdhinn delivered Arthur for tuition,
and whose diligent care developed the stripling into Arthur, the hoped-for, the undying—Arthur,
Im-perator, the great Pendragon, dictator—Arthur, save only for treachery’s intervention the savior of
Britain.

At that time he was about fifteen years older than I who, still a suckling, knew nothing of the stirring
events around me. By the time I was growing calluses practicing with sword and spear, Arthur already
was leading forays into Saxon land.

Old crippled soldiers of the scattered legion remnants trained the savage youth of Cambria to a fantastic
semblance of the iron ranks of Rome. Again the smiths pounded red iron into white blades, again sow
and pig* talked on carroballista and catapult, and at last a ghost of the old Legion marched over the
border,

* Ratchet and pawl.
with tattered standards, battle-scarred armor, dented shields.

But we marched in full strength! Our metal was bright and polished, our bows strong and arrows sharp
(every man an archer, whether a member of the cavalry, engineers or simple legionary), and leading us all
die glittering eagles gave us courage.

Sixth Legion, Victrix! Hail and farewell! Thy bones make the fields of Britain greener now.

Something of the old imperial spirit came back. Viriconium was captured, lost and held again, and the
Cymri streamed over the border, rebuilding all possible of the past glory. On the plain outside the walls
scampered the shaggy Cambrian ponies in laughable contrast to the thundering charge of the Roman
horse. But the Saxon footmen scattered before the charge, and as time went by we penetrated deeper
into hostile country, winning back foot by foot the soil of Britain to be once again free land for us exiles
and lovers of Rome.

Here and there we came upon noble steeds and mares in the fertile lowlands, and by the time Arthur’s
forces were strong enough to meet in pitched battle a superior force of Saxons, three hundred horsemen
smashed the shield walls.

The Saxons, streaming away, left us masters of the field in the first great battle to break the invaders’
power, and harrying the retreat the cataphracts pursued, hacking them down and wreaking such havoc
that from the survivors of the troop Arthur formed his noble band of knights.

Their leather armor, knobbed with bronze, was replaced with plate; stronger horses were bred to carry
the extra weight; and as Arthur came victor from field upon field, armies, chieftains, kings thronging to
him, naming him amheradawr (or imperator)—the Round Table came into being and held high court hi
Isca Silurum.

Thus from battl& to battle we passed—our glory increasing, our confidence growing, recruits coming
in—sneaking by night along hostile shores hi coracles of hide and wicker, creeping by the moored Saxon
longships—until flaming hilltop beacons farther than the eye could see marked the boundaries of
recovered Britain.

Grumbling, growling to ourselves, watching the Legion grow to double strength, we waited for the word
to sweep over the Saxon remnant. Then came unexpected help from Armorica—our compatriots across