The Eagles' Brood

XXXVI

By mid-morning I had heard nothing from Ambrose, although I had stayed close to my tent since rising, delegating my normal duties to Cyrus Appius. I had said nothing to Donuil or to anyone else about my encounter with my brother the previous night, and I could feel Donuil watching me solicitously whenever he felt I was unaware of him. In the meantime, I was content to wait. Ambrose might come looking for me at any time. I felt sure he would have passed a sleepless night with so much on his mind and had probably remained abed this morning.

It was a fine, early autumn morning, the air snapping for the first time with a hint of the winter lying in wait not far away, and the camp was almost deserted, one-third of our number on patrol duty within the town and most of the remainder at the debate itself. As I sat idly by the fire listening to the sharp, abrasive sound of the whetstone Donuil was using on the edge of my sword, a shadow fell across me and I turned to see Lucanus looking down at me, his back against the sun.

"Good day to you," he greeted me. "What's wrong?"

"Wrong? Nothing in the world that I know of." I beckoned him to join me. He approached, but remained standing. "Where have you been all morning?"

He shrugged. "Walking, and working. One of our troopers fell and broke a leg last night, badly. I set and splinted it last night, but had to set it again this morning."

"What happened? Was he drunk?"

"No, he fell down some stairs, but he was sober." He dismissed that with a wave of his hand and went on, "I'm more concerned with you. What's wrong with you? You have done nothing today but hang around here. That's not like you".

"Isn't it?" I smiled. "I'm thinking, that's all, and waiting."

"Waiting for what? Caius Merlyn Britannicus waits for nothing and no man...at least, the one I know does not. So what's afoot?"

I laughed. "Nothing's afoot, at least nothing to concern anyone. I looked for you last night. I had some news to tell you about Uther, after I had been speaking to Bishop Patricius."

"You mean about the priest, Remus?" He nodded. "I heard. I spoke to Patricius, too, after you. He told me what you had discussed." He paused, his eyes searching mine. "It must have been a great relief to know that your suspicions were unfounded." His tone made a question of the statement.

"It was. I slept well, last night. I have more news for you, too, on another matter, but it will have to wait for a while. Where are you going now?"

"To the debate. I hoped you might come with me. The formal commencement was this morning and I missed it, as did you. We did, after all, travel a long way to be here and to witness the proceedings."

I nodded. "Yes, we..." My voice died away as I saw him look beyond me and I knew, from the way his eyes widened and his jaw fell agape, what he had seen. I turned in my seat to see Ambrose standing by the side of my tent and could sympathize with Luke's shock. In darkness, Ambrose had resembled me amazingly. In broad daylight the effect was emphasized. He could have been my twin.

"Ah, Ambrose!" I rose quickly to my feet. "Welcome. Let me introduce you to a friend of mine, Lucanus, our superb physician, who thinks of himself as a surgeon." Luke's eyes were still glazed as I continued, "Lucanus, this is Ambrose.. .of Lindum." I could say no more until I knew the route that Ambrose would elect to follow.

Ambrose stepped forward and bowed slightly to Lucanus, a formal, yet courteous and friendly gesture. "Master Lucanus. Caius Merlyn misleads you, but out of courtesy, and I can see you see that for yourself. My name is Britannicus... Ambrose Britannicus."

I heaved a great sigh of relief. "Donuil," I called into the tent, "come out and meet my brother."

A period of confusion and wonderment ensued, as Donuil and Lucanus attempted to come to grips with the reality of this confrontation, but I cut it short, promising to explain fully later. I had seen from Ambrose's expression that he was not yet fully comfortable in his new role. I asked the others to permit us some time alone, and they left immediately. I led Ambrose into my tent and waved him to a seat. We sat in silence for a spell, simply looking at each other, savouring the likeness between us.

"Would you like something to drink?" I felt a sudden need to put him at his ease, but he shook his head and then seemed to relax, clearing his throat.

"Last night.. .Last night you said I should thank God my mother permitted me to live..." He made an attempt to smile and, shaky though the result was, I felt far better than I had in many hours. "I came this morning to tell you I agree with you.. .and I thank God, indeed." I could see tears welling in his eyes, and when he spoke again his voice shook, although only very slightly. "Merlyn, I spent the night thinking of all you said, and I believe now that what you told me—knowing and considering your own uncertainty—must be the truth. It seems against all reason on the one hand, but on the other it reeks of truth. We will never know for certain, as you said. I know that, and I regret it, but it feels like the truth, in here!" He pounded his chest with his clenched fist. "My thanks to you," he went on, fighting to control his emotions. "You have given me back my mother."

I swallowed hard. "I've given you more than that, my friend, and it benefits me as much as you, for I now have a brother almost like a twin, while you inherit another life: a noble father you never knew you had, plus a whole clan of kinsmen and a Colony like no other in this land...Not to mention Uther Pendragon, unknown to you at present, who will howl with mirth and outrage when he sets eyes on you. But we'll have plenty of opportunity to talk, now that you've begun to adjust. For the moment, I was about to leave for the debate with Lucanus. Will you join us?"

He shook his head with regret, rising to his feet. "I cannot, much as I would like to. I have things to do, and I have been lazy this morning, although I have told my uncle everything you told me, and he agrees with your reconstruction of events. Will you dine with me tonight?"

I felt my eyebrow go up at the mention of Jacob of Lindum's concurrence with my theory, but felt it best to say nothing about it then. Instead, I smiled at him. "With whom else should I even think of dining? Of course I will. Shall you come here?"

He nodded. "When the debate is over for the day."

We embraced for the first time as brothers, and went our separate ways, he to his affairs, and I towards the amphitheatre and the Great Debate.

After a long search of the large and strangely festive crowd who filled the amphitheatre, I found Lucanus seated among a group of single men, some of whom I recognized. They seemed to be the only people within the great place who actually appeared to be listening to the debate going on in the arena. Lucanus saw me and made room for me between himself and his neighbour who was, I noted with surprise, none other than King Vortigern, though there was nothing particularly regal about him today as he sat swathed in a huge, grey cloak, attentive to the events going on before him.

Vortigern glanced at me and nodded as I sat down. "Merlyn." He spoke softly. "Cold, out of the sun."

His eyes and ears returned to the debate and I nudged Lucanus. "What's happening?"

"You'll know as much as I, before you're much older." He did not look at me but spoke out of the corner of his mouth. "This fellow has just begun to speak, and already he has lost me. I've no idea who he is...one of Germanus's new bunch who were here where we arrived. The old fellow who spoke before him was going on about the findings of the Council at Nicaea convened by Constantine a hundred years ago...Something about Arianism and the Divinity of the Christus...I think he was defending himself against some earlier allegation, before I arrived, of Arianism, but I cannot be sure. It's quite difficult to hear clearly. These men are clerics, not trained actors."

He was correct in that. The present speaker had a thin, querulous voice that would have been indistinct from the other side of a dining-room table. From where we sat, some twenty paces from him and hemmed in by people, he was almost impossible to hear, even with total concentration. For some time I listened hard to the whine of his voice, trying in vain to decipher his words, but eventually my mind drifted to Ambrose and the changes to my life his life would bring.

When I snapped out of my reverie and returned my attention to the proceedings, another man was speaking. I had not even been aware of the change, and I found no great difference. My buttocks were sore. I shifted in my seat, searching for comfort, and the movement attracted the attention of King Vortigern, who looked at me sidelong, the hint of a smile on his handsome face.

"Are you enlightened, Master Merlyn?"

"No, Sir King." I grinned at him ruefully. "I am bored, and lost, and beginning to regret the long journey that I faced with such high hopes. I cannot hear the half of what they say, and more than die half of what I can hear flies over my head."

"You'll hear better tomorrow." Lucanus spoke from my other side and Vortigern and I both turned to him.

"How so?" Vortigern asked, and drew another grin, this time from Luke.

"Because tomorrow there will be no one here except the bishops. Look, this is the first day of the proceedings and already more than half the people have gone off to other things. The noise is dying down even as we speak. I don't know what they all expected, but it is lacking here, whatever it was. No spectacle, no pomp, no entertainment...merely a gathering of clerics, discussing abstractions." He glanced at me. "That is what we came to hear, is it not? Clerics discussing abstractions?"

I had to smile, serious as the matter underlying his question was. "It was, Lucanus," I responded, "but we did not foresee, I think, quite such abstract surroundings for the abstractions."

"Hmm! You would prefer distraction, I perceive."

"No," I demurred with a laugh, "not so. But I would prefer more concrete in the mix."

"Ooh!" He wrinkled his nose in disgust at my bad pun, but Vortigern laughed aloud.

Other people were turning around to look at us now, wondering what the cause of our hilarity might be, and Vortigern stood up, bringing all of his people to their feet with him. "Enough of this," he said, "I, too, am bored. I shall ask Germanus tonight to tell us what went on. For now, I feel like a pleasant ride in the countryside." He nodded a courteous farewell and left with his courtiers. A few moments later, Lucanus and I followed him, leaving the bishops to their polemics.

To no one's surprise, Lucanus's prediction was accurate. After the first day's dreary, arcane argument, few if any of the common people went again to the scene of the debate. I attended every day, for at least an hour or two, during the first week, but thereafter, as my disappointment with my own inability to comprehend the gist of the debated matters grew, my daily attendance dwindled accordingly. And not for two weeks, until the eve of the final day, did I have an opportunity to speak again with Germanus.

"The weather had grown gradually colder, day by day, so that men spoke of snow, notwithstanding that the trees were all still green, their leaves only beginning to show faint signs of russet. Drawn in search of warmth from the unseasonable chill of the evenings, by the start of the second week people had begun to gather in the temporary taverns that had been set up in several of the larger abandoned houses. The streets and alleys were all well patrolled by my men and by Vortigern's, so none of these places were in any way troublesome. On the contrary, they were warm, bright and cheerful for all their recent birth and temporary nature, all selling simple—and sometimes not so simple—nourishing food as well as ale and mead, and causing more than one visitor to shake his head in admiration at men's ability to turn any circumstance into profit.

Vortigern, Jacob, Lucanus and Ambrose and I, along with several others including Pellus, Cyrus Appius and some of Vortigern's circle, had formed a loose-knit caucus, gathering on most evenings, those of us who had no other duties, in one such place, which we had named the Carpe Diem, in recognition of the brevity of its existence—past and future—and of its owner's opportunism. As frequently happens in such instances, our presence attracted other soldiers but repelled most civilians, so that in a matter of days the Carpe Diem had become acknowledged as a soldiers' haunt.

On this particular evening, however, I had fallen victim to my conscience and remained in camp to show my face among our troopers and to bring my daily journal up to date, a task I loathed but one that had a long tradition in Camulod. The custom had begun with my grandfather, whose insistence upon keeping such a record had been the only thing that had saved the lives of all his men, as well as himself and my great-uncle Publius from charges of desertion and sedition. From that day forward, every expedition led by my grandfather or any of his family or descendants had been carefully chronicled from day to day. In my case, I was literate enough, and facile enough, to have perfected the art of keeping concise notations on each day's events. From time to time, however, normally once every third day, I would review these notes and amplify them into the form of a journal.

Such was my task this evening. Feeling the cold in my fingertips, I had asked Donuil to light a brazier in my tent, and had swung around my father's old campaign desk so that my back and my right side could enjoy the heat from the glowing fire. It was late, long since dark, but the proximity of so many clerics had produced a beneficial glut of splendid wax candles, fifteen of which burned steadily and luxuriously in three tripod-mounted holders around the back and sides of the desk, allowing me to write in unaccustomed brightness and comfort.

I was enjoying my task for once, writing down fully and completely my recollections and impressions of the events that had taken place and of the wealth of new friends we had encountered. I had already dealt with Ambrose and the unexpected resolution of the mystery of my father's convalescence and the attempt on his life. I was outlining my thoughts pro and contra Vortigern's employment of Saxon mercenaries in Northumbria and the entire matter of self- protection in the face of invasion, when I heard the sound of voices outside my tent, where Donuil was still moving around, attending to his own duties. Moments later, I heard the flaps of my tent being pulled apart and I swung around to see Bishop Germanus leaning in.

"Merlyn? May I disturb you?"

"Of course!" I rose quickly to my feet to welcome him, making no attempt to hide my surprise and pleasure. "Come in, please, Bishop. You are not disturbing me at all. I was just finishing off here and thinking about having a cup of wine or mead."

"Think no more." He produced a flask from behind his back with a flourish. "I bring an offering in return for my impertinence in thrusting myself upon you. They told me at the Carpe Diem you were here, labouring alone, so I sought you out."

"The Carpe Diem ? You went there?"

"He heard the surprise in my voice and grinned at me as he stepped into the tent. "I did. A minor sin of intolerance leading to another of self-indulgence. I could not stand the thought of any more learned debate this night, so chose to seek the company of soldiers." He was looking around the tent, enjoying the warmth and brightness. "You are well set up, here, for working late at least." His eyes crinkled in raillery. "Are you sure you have enough light?"

I laughed. "Aye, thanks to the excellence of your clerics supplies. From now on, when I hear mention of the light of learning carried by the Church, I'll know what it means. Please, sit down." I unfolded a stool for him by the fire and; found two cups while he withdrew the stopper from his flask and poured for both of us.

For a time we talked of inconsequential things as we enjoyed the comfort of the glowing brazier and the luxury of his excellent honeyed mead, each of us glad to idle away some pleasant time without any urgency imposing itself on us. When we ran out of trivialities, we talked of the condition of the town of Verulamium and of the similar fate that seemed to be settling upon all the towns of Britain now that Rome, with its urban influences, was no longer part of the life of the country. Germanus was convinced that all towns would eventually fall completely into disuse, an idea that sat uncomfortably with me. He pointed out that, without a unifying, centralizing force such as the Army, and lacking the necessary volume of road traffic moving from region to region in organized trading ventures, there could be no real need or use for townships in the sense in which they had grown up. Not all towns would die out, however, he opined. There would always be points of natural confluence at which colonies would cluster, much as our own Camulod had grown out of our need to defend our farms, but he convinced me that the civically governed towns of Britain, as we knew them now, would continue to decline swiftly until such times as regular commerce and traffic re-emerged on a large scale. When I asked him for an opinion as to when that might be, he shook his head and looked grim. He had no hopes that it would be soon, he said, or even within the lifetime of anyone now living. He had seen the homelands of the Saxons who were now raiding Britain so regularly, and nothing he had seen there encouraged him to think the raids would lessen. The Saxons, in his opinion, looked upon Britain much as the ancient Israelites had looked upon Canaan: as a land flowing with milk and honey, containing all the blessings that their own lands lacked. He could see no hope of freedom from invasion for this land of ours. The raiding would continue, he believed, and would escalate until God Himself saw fit to bring an ending.

That disheartening observation led us on to talk of the organization of defences against the peril, and he spoke now as Germanus the Legate as we discussed the matter of Vortigern. From there, looking for brighter skies, we talked of my new-found brother, and then of dreams and symbolism. His views on the latter surprised me, for I had believed—somewhat foolishly, I soon realized—that both as a professional soldier and as a bishop he would have little patience with either of these insubstantial, almost superstitious notions. He disabused me quickly, pointing out that, as a bishop at least, he dealt with and made use of symbolism constantly. The Christian Cross was, after all, the symbol of our Faith. I could not argue with that, but we discussed the Cross and the emerging use of the crucifix at length. The two were not the same, Germanus told me. The crucifix, with its pain-racked victim, symbolized crucifixion, as it was meant to, glorifying the horrifying fate of the Divine Saviour at the hands of man. The Cross, however, was a different entity. He assured me that it was a much older symbol of light and revelation, revered in ancient Egypt and even earlier in Babylon. The Cross was also one of the distinguishing symbols of Mithras, the god of light, whose cult had worshipped in secrecy. Mithras had also been for centuries the Roman soldiers' god of militancy, masculinity and the manly virtues. I had known these things, but I listened to him in silence, unsure of what to make of it all—coming, as it did, from a Christian bishop.

One thing was certain, he summed up, making me feel much better: an emblem, some form of simple, immediately recognizable symbol—a signet of belonging, of conformity, of identity—was essential to the success of any great popular movement. I listened and nodded my head wisely, feeling the mead making my head spin, and completely unaware that Germanus, bishop militant of God's Church in Rome, was implanting a seed in my consciousness that was to grow and influence an entire people.

More than two hours had passed before we allowed the conversation to turn towards the debate that had filled the past two weeks, and even then we approached it cautiously, he graciously avoiding the temptation to talk in terms of polemics and theology.

"Well," he asked me, "as a soldier, what did you think?"

I made a face. "As a soldier? I thought the same as I thought as a man. I was totally lost from the first day. Hardly understood a word, let alone the ideas that were being thrown around so strenuously."

He smiled, gently. "Yes, I noticed your presence became harder to detect from day to day. I warned you, however, the first time we met."

"True, Bishop, you did." I thought about that, remembering my reaction to his surprise that I should wish to be here at all. "But I wanted to be there, as I told you at the time, to witness this, because of its importance to us all. I tell you frankly, though, there were times I wanted to jump to my feet and scream for someone to say something in plain language, something a man might have a hope of understanding. Finally I lost hope, trusting instead that somehow I might have a chance to talk to you, to ask you what had happened, what had been decided."

"Well, I'm here. Ask me."

I looked at him, seeing the man and not the cleric. We had done serious damage to the contents of his flask since he arrived, and he was relaxed and comfortable. Donuil had replenished the brazier some time earlier, before he went to bed, graciously refusing our invitation to join us. Now the coals glowed at their peak, throwing out an hospitable, smokeless warmth that had lulled both of us into a condition of perfect equanimity. I smiled at him, enjoying the mood.

"Bishop, I don't know where to begin...I don't know what to ask."

He sniffed, and reached for the flask again, pouring the few remaining drops into his own cup after I had waved it away from mine. "Well then," he murmured, "let me help you, since I know what you need to know but may be loath to ask." He sipped, sighed and placed his cup by his feet. "In the matter of excommunication for past sins, I issued no decrees. I had taken to heart, you see, your eloquent observation that, in the absence of formal guidance from outside, from Rome, you and your people were and are honour bound to live by the teachings of your bishops and your early faith. No man could find fault with that, Merlyn; its truth is self-evident." He paused, mulling over his next words, then continued. "The benefit of the doubt, therefore—that sophisticated wisdom propounded by your father and so ably transmitted by you to me—must be applied to all in like case. So there have been no major..." He sought the correct word. ".. .proscriptions ordained. And yet heresy is heresy and cannot be countenanced." He stopped again, eyeing me shrewdly.

"I know how your soldier's mind works, I believe. I know you have no patience with sophistry, so I'll speak plainly." He hitched himself erect and the pleasant mellowness faded visibly from his features. "As a soldier and an officer, you have high regard for the law. You must have; it goes with the responsibility...It is the law itself I speak of now; the Church's law, with all the awesome responsibility that entails. Apart and aside from all of the polemical and theological discussions that have unfolded here in Verulamium these past two weeks, one truth has been brought home, I believe, to the bishops assembled here from all over Britain: without law there is chaos. We saw the truth of that on our arrival here. That truth loses nothing of verity in the governance of God's affairs on earth. Somehow, somewhere, there must exist a central core of ratified, accepted truth—of dogma, if you like—if existence is to continue sanely. The confrontation of philosophies between Pelagius and Augustine of Hippo resulted in an impasse that had to be resolved. A reasoning, educated man can see much apparent truth, much plausibility, on either side of the debate. But those differences are merely philosophical, Merlyn, and therefore human. They are not, at bottom, theological. Within that difference lies the ordinary man's inability to comprehend the nature, and the seriousness, of the dispute." He paused again, watching me to see how I was responding to his words. I schooled my face to impassivity, however, and he eventually resumed.

"The law requires the existence of judges—arbitrators— learned men who, by virtue of their wisdom, are considered capable of assessing and assimilating all the materials relevant to the situation under dispute and arriving thereafter at a just, compassionate and humane resolution. The bishops of the Roman Conclave, and of those of Antioch and the other major Sees, perform the same function and, in their wisdom, they have chosen to decide this issue as they have. Pelagius stands apostate, and his philosophy and teachings are condemned. You, as one man, may rail against the judgment, but you must, perforce, accept it. There is no other recourse. The case has been considered at great length, over many years and by many people, and judgment has been passed." He sighed. "The bishops of Britain have now been informed, formally, by me, of how matters stand. They may choose hereafter to ignore my message, but if they do, they will do so in full and conscious knowledge that they proceed thenceforth in defiance of the verdict of the Church at large. They will thus proceed in sin, and ipso facto under pain of excommunication and damnation... No man, however, bishop or other, will stand excommunicate for how he has believed or behaved prior to this time." He paused again, his forehead wrinkled in a frown.

"Merlyn," he said at last, "I cannot utter words of condemnation to you personally. You will live, as you must, according to your conscience. You are a good man and I see no wickedness in you. When you go to Judgment, God will know how to deal with you, and He is merciful where mercy is warranted. Bishops, however, are another matter altogether. They are the teachers, the exemplars, and their lives are subject to intense scrutiny by God and His Angels. I have decreed the establishment of schools—theological schools dedicated to the teaching of orthodox doctrine to the bishops of Britain now and in the future. The teachings of Pelagius will be heard no more in Britain's Christian instruction... That is what has been achieved here, and I believe, with all my heart and soul, that the achievement is significant and good."

There was not much I could say after that. He had put my mind at ease and absolved me of concern about Bishop Alaric and his eternal fate, and had as much as promised that, if I continued to live as I had in the past, without falling into evil behaviour, I might approach my God with rectitude and confidence. Peculiarly Pelagian attitudes from the champion of orthodoxy.

The mead was gone and we seemed to be the two last people left alive in the whole encampment. It was very late when I walked with Germanus to the edge of our camp and saw him escorted safely on his way to his own quarters.