The Singing Sword

XXVI

By the time the hawthorn blossomed in March that year, there was a steady stream of two-way traffic on the new road every day from dawn until dusk. Everyone in the Colony was completely absorbed in the task of preparing our new quarters, with the exception of my own womenfolk, who had a wedding to worry over, too. There was an air of buzzing activity everywhere, and even the absence of the soldiers withdrawn from the fort for active patrol duty — about two-thirds of our forces — seemed to make no great difference to the tempo of the work.

The extra horses Picus had promised us, including two magnificent and unlooked-for stallions, provided purely for breeding purposes, arrived early in March and were put into service immediately, making a major difference to our capabilities.

One of our colonists, a white-bearded veteran of many wars, had approached Caius in January with the idea of starting our young men's training early. He was prepared, he said, to take on that responsibility and Caius was happy to allow him to do so. Now he commanded a body of forty-five young men between the ages of fourteen and sixteen who spent their days marching and countermarching, learning the use of weapons and studying the new cavalry tactics.

It was a warm spring, full of promise. We were moving into a new, safe home, facing a new century, according to the Christian calendar, and we felt sure of our destiny. All around us, where we had been prepared for threats and danger, there was only tranquillity. We were ready, however, for anything that might occur. Our farmers ploughed their fields under the gaze of watchful soldiers and the wagon train we sent to Glevum that spring went under heavy escort. We were determined that no raider would find any sign of weakness among us.

The wedding was to be in April, the feast time sacred to both Celtic Druid and Christian alike, and by the end of March, Ullic's people began to arrive. They set up their camps in the open fields around the villa, mainly along the new road to the fort, and Ullic and his main party arrived in pomp and savage Celtic splendour on the first day of Eastertide. His arrival coincided with the far less ostentatious arrival of Bishop Alaric, who had come, as promised, to conduct the wedding services and to celebrate the completion of our Council Hall with a special Mass.

Ullic brought gifts and barbaric excitement; Alaric brought our new, hand-dressed altar-stone. Ullic brought love, laughter and song; Alaric brought love, laughter and piety. Ullic brought Druids in his train; Alaric brought one priest, a gentle giant of a man called Phonos who was barely out of his teens. The scene was set for war or peace the first time the Druids and the Christian priests came face to face on that first day. That, at least, was the way I saw it, but as it turned out, I had no cause for concern; there was no sign of any hostility between the two groups then or later.

At dinner that night, a festive gathering, the talk was all about the prospects of the bride and groom and of the great hunt I had arranged for the following day. Caius was at his mercurial best that night, and the conversation around the table sparkled with wit and humour.

I am not normally a superstitious man, but I remember feeling that night that everything had been going too smoothly. It suddenly seemed to me, looking around the table and feeling the warmth and love there, that our lives, for the past eight months, had been too easy. I felt as though somewhere, out there in the night, forces were gathering to annul our gaiety, so that all during dinner I half expected to hear the slap of leather soles on the floor outside as someone came running with news of catastrophe. But no one did, and the evening passed with no alarums, as did the week that followed. The wedding was set for the day of Easter, the festival of spring and resurrection, the emergence of new life. It seemed appropriate and correct and approved by Heaven. Our hunting was successful every day and we enjoyed a plethora of fresh meats of every kind and fresh fish, both salt-water and fresh-water.

There was one young woman there, with Ullic's group, who turned the head of every man who saw her, including me. Her name was Enid and she was Ullic's youngest sister. Her skin was golden and her teeth were fine, snow-white against the amazing redness of her lips. Even my gentle Luceiia showed her claws the first time she saw Enid, warning me almost, but not quite, playfully to keep my attentions to that one casual. This surprised me, for it was the first time that my wife had ever made such a comment. I mentioned it jokingly to Caius later that first evening and he was wise enough to observe immediately that Luceiia probably felt she was no longer young enough to compete with such an animal as Enid.

And an animal she was, although I say so with not the slightest hint of malice. She was wild in the way a deer is wild: sleek and clean-lined, apparently timid and easily startled, giving one the impression that a too-sudden movement would cause her to disappear from sight immediately. And yet she was savage-looking, with all the allure and grace of the great cats of Africa. Her eyes were green-blue and her hair was startling in its tawniness among the black-haired, blue-eyed Celts. She was high-breasted, and her breasts were large and firm, and even though I was innocent of any lustful feelings towards her, I was tempted more than once, finding her close beside me, to attempt to span her tiny-looking waist in my big hands. Of course, her waist could not have been that small, but placed as it was between the lushness of her breasts and the sweeping swell of her hips, it looked that small. And I looked, as did every other man there who was not related to her directly. My own admiration of the young woman, conducted from a distance and modified by a need to give no offence to my wife, was avuncular — a combination of "I wonder...," "What if...?" and "There was a time ...". There were others in our gathering, however, who were unhampered by the twin constraints of age and marriage, and among them they managed to keep Enid from becoming bored. She was the undisputed centre of attraction for every single young male in the Colony, and for a fair number of others who were neither young nor single. My youngest apprentice, Joseph, at not quite sixteen years, was sore smitten with first love and followed her around like a pup, sitting as close to her as he could get, and sometimes forgetting even to eat.

Luceiia had made a point of getting to know the beautiful newcomer, and had now decided that she liked her. It was she who told me Enid's history. The woman was beautiful, headstrong, stubborn, thoroughly likeable and quite prepared to go to her grave unwed. Her one, true love had died saving her life from a giant bear and she had found no man to compare with him in the years that followed. She was almost thirty now, in reality a half-sister to Ullic, sired by his aged father upon a second wife, and Ullic had despaired of matching her years ago. Enid, Luceiia told me, was quite happy with that state of affairs and wanted nothing to change it.

The day before the wedding was a day I tried hard to avoid. The entire household was a madhouse. I attempted to slip away to the smithy to spend some time with Equus, but it was not to be. Luceiia called my name as I was setting out and sent me on an errand to the fort, and from that moment on I was caught up in the general insanity. Not until we were preparing for bed did I have another moment to myself that day.

Bishop Alaric was to consecrate the altar-stone here in the villa the next morning and bear it in procession to the hilltop. It would be a long walk for the old man, but he was adamant in his determination to do it. The journey, he said, would be symbolic in several ways: symbolic of the Christ's walk to Calvary, and of our own struggle upwards as a Colony towards a better, more Christian life. I was not sure what he meant by that, but I had no wish to argue with him.

The bride, my own Magpie, Veronica... I had to shake myself hard to realize what that really meant... would be carried uphill on a litter specially built for her by one of our carpenters. An honour-guard of sixty infantry would provide ample muscle for the long haul up the hill. Luceiia and her friends would ride in chairs upon the shoulders of more infantry. I myself, as father of the bride, would lead the way, mounted, with Caius and ten other friends constituting a formal vanguard to the entire procession. The weather had been perfect so far. If it rained tomorrow, the result would be a fiasco. I preferred not to think about that. It was going to be a long day.

Luceiia's voice broke into my tired thoughts. "Picus didn't come."

"No. He said he would try to get here, but he is at the mercy of the Saxons, love. When they invade, he moves. I would have been very surprised to see him here at this time of the year." I fell onto the bed, pulling the fur robes back, and crawled beneath them like an animal crawling into its den. Luceiia blew out the lamp and there was silence between us for so long that I was almost asleep when she spoke.

"Do you realize, Publius, that this time tomorrow our little daughter Veronica will be a woman? She will belong to her husband, not to us."

"Aye," I answered, turning to face her. "I'm aware of that. She will be wife and woman, and if she's half as good at being either as her mother has been, she'll do well by herself and by her man." I reached out and slipped my arm about her waist, which was still slim enough to belie her years.

"You don't sound upset at all!"

I was surprised. "Why should I feel upset?"

"Less than three years ago you almost went to war with Ullic when he mentioned this marriage."

"Ahh!" I said, thinking rapidly about the impossibility of attempting to explain any of that. "I see what's bothering you..." I allowed my voice to fade away and then said, "Shh, woman! That was almost three years ago. Veronica was a child then. Now it is time for her to be a woman and to enjoy the pleasures you enjoyed as one."

"Do I hear a past tense? I still enjoy them, husband."

"Aye, but not so often."

"No, not quite as often. That is true... and sad."

"Why sad?"

"Because I do not want my man to grow old, leaving me with my lusts unsated."

I raised myself on one elbow, looking down at her in the darkness, knowing she would hear the smile in my voice. "Unsated? Woman, I hold myself back only because of your advancing age. Yours are the bones growing fragile. I would hate to break any of them in the name of love."

Her hand came behind my neck. "Come here, you old goat, and break me. I defy you."

The following morning dawned golden and perfect. I heard the noises of preparation begin while I was still steaming in the bath house, and I took an unusual degree of care with my ablutions and dressing, to the point where Luceiia herself was ready before I was.

I wore my official uniform for this occasion, something I seldom did. I had spent so much of my life in military harness that the finery of my commander's regalia gave me little pleasure; I was far more comfortable and felt far better dressed in the leathers that Luceiia had made specially for me. Today, however, for my daughter's wedding, I was cordially prepared to suffer. I wore helmet, breastplate, backplate and leg-greaves of solid bronze. The helmet and breastplate were magnificently worked, if I do say so myself, in some of the finest Celtic ornamentation that Father Andros had unearthed in his far-ranging travels. The outsized crest on my helmet was of tufted horsehair, dyed the same scarlet as my cloak, the shoulders of which were so crusted with finely worked bronze and silver wire that the garment itself resembled a piece of armour. My dress tunic was of white linen, edged with scarlet, and the straps of my armoured kilt were of bronze plates wired loosely, end to end. I wore my finest sword, with its bronze hilt and scabbard, and when I had everything finally strapped and buckled on I paced the room a few times, distributing the weight of all of this regalia comfortably about my body and wishing I could have worn my good old boots instead of the stiff new sandals and leggings that went with the outfit. Finally I could put the moment off no longer; I went out to join my wife and my daughter.

The sight of them took me aback. I had never seen my daughter looking so beautiful. On this, her bridal morning, she was radiant, dressed all in white so that she shimmered from head to foot. Ten years earlier, Luceiia had bought the material for that gown, knowing exactly what she was buying and the use it would one day be put to. The fabric, whatever it was, had come from Africa, and its fineness and purity were astounding. When I had first seen the gown made from this fabric, it had seemed to be the simple stola that the young women of republican Rome wore every day. That, however, was only at first glance. A second look had shown me that this was far from being a simple stola or a simple anything. The material, and I know Luceiia had a name for it although it eludes me now, had been piled layer upon layer, finely stitched together and worked with thousands of tiny, opalescent sea-shells. Whenever Veronica moved, these tiny shells clicked and rattled together, but their noise was muffled in the layers of the cloth. It was a marvellous creation.

My daughter smiled at me and came forward to take my arm, and as I felt her fingers touch the skin of my forearm I sucked in my breath and swelled with pride and fierce paternity, finding myself swearing a silent oath that I would flay this new husband of hers if he did not lay the moon and the stars at her feet. I had a large lump in my throat as we moved together to the doorway of the house, her mother and her sisters close behind us. As we stepped into the sunlit morning a spontaneous cheer broke from the crowd of more than three hundred who waited for us, already formed in line for the procession to the hilltop. I handed my daughter into her litter, and her mother and her sisters into their chairs, then marched my finest, limping march to the head of the column, where my horse was waiting. Equus himself helped me up onto Germanicus's back and, once seated, I turned my horse and inspected the honour-guard minutely. Finally satisfied that they could have looked no better, I gave the signal to proceed and nudged Germanicus forward.

It was a slow progress, but I felt peaceful and well content with my post in the vanguard. Caius rode on my right and ten more of our close friends accompanied us, but no one spoke. Everyone seemed to appreciate my unspoken need for silence in which to enjoy this occasion.

We had gone about one-third of the way to the hill along the new road when I saw a sudden flash of light in the distance off to my left and my heart gave a sickening lurch in my breast. No one else had noticed it, but I had and I knew what it was. The early morning sunlight had reflected off metal where no metal should be this day. I raised my arm immediately to stop the column behind me, my mind racing as I tried to decide whether to run for the fort or break back to the villa; I was more than aware of the number of women in the train. And then I remembered that we had our soldiers deployed in force behind the home farm, and I knew there was no danger to our column.

Caius asked me why I stopped and I merely nodded in answer, pointing my head in the direction of the reflection I had seen, and presently we were able to make out the swift-moving column of mounted men and the great black-and-white standard of Picus Britannicus.

He came in splendour, to the cheering welcome of the crowd behind me and the blaring of horns from the hilltop fort, where Ullic's people watched. And Picus, too, came dressed for a grand occasion, in his finest, gilded armour, his men, in spite of having ridden far and hard, turned out as for an imperial parade. As his column approached ours, his standard-bearers formed up behind him, the SPQR standard of the Senate and the People of Rome taking pride of place beside Picus's own, directly behind Picus himself. Each bearer took a position some twenty paces behind and forty paces to the side of him. The three lesser-formation or squadron standards formed up behind them, again with some forty paces between each. Together, including Picus at the forefront, these standards formed a small arrowhead of six mounted men at the head of three great forty-man arrowhead formations.

The people behind me in the wedding train were cheering even louder as this proud cavalcade thundered towards us and slid to a halt in perfect formation with Picus at its head, less than four paces from me. Picus snapped me his clenched-fist salute.

"Hail, Publius Varrus. We were detained, but here we are now as honour-guard for a beautiful bride on a beautiful day."

A silence had fallen as he had clattered to a halt, so that all heard his shouted greeting clearly. Now the cheering broke out again as I answered him.

"Well met, Picus Britannicus. When you have paid your tribute to your father, Caius Britannicus, and to our bride today, I shall be glad of your company."

His troops remained motionless as Picus danced his horse from his father, beside me, to Veronica's litter and his Aunt Luceiia's chair. His respects paid, he returned to my side at the head of the column, smiling broadly.

"Uncle Varrus, I am impressed! This is not just a wedding — it is a gala of epic proportions!"

"Aye, Picus." I smiled back at him. "It is. It is the beginning of the coming-true of all our dreams, your father's first among all, and it is the first major celebration we have indulged in since the Colony's founding. How do you want to dispose your men?"

He looked over at his troops and then glanced up the hill to where the new road wound upward to the fort.

"I was thinking of that as we approached. Your train is formed and under way and to attempt to change it now would cause confusion. Why don't I send my troopers on ahead to line the road on both sides up the hill? Ten paces between each two men would give you better than a quarter-mile of guards."

"Splendid," I said, laughing. "That's a fine idea. Do it. And when you are no longer a soldier you can grow rich arranging spectacles in the Circus Maximus."

He turned and approached his standard-bearer, signalled to his squadron commanders and pointed up the hill. The result had obviously been prearranged, but it made a wonderful spectacle. His men wheeled smartly, changing formation as they kicked their horses to the gallop, and then took the road before us in columns of four, quickly leaving us far behind. I gave the order to resume our procession, raising my hand to the train behind me, and we followed Picus's men at a pace far more sedate and dignified.

As soon as I was satisfied that we were all safely under way again without incident, I turned back to Picus, who rode at my left.

"So, lad! What's been happening out there in the world? I must admit I had not expected to see you here today."

"No more had I, Uncle." His voice was unexpectedly low and serious, and I glanced immediately to Caius, seeing his own gaze sharpen as he nudged his horse closer to hear what was coming. Picus waited until his father was within easy hearing before continuing. "All Hades has broken loose in the north. We'll never be able to hold the Wall if things continue the way they are at present."

"How so?" Cay's voice was urgent. "What do you mean?"

"Just what I say, Father. It is sheer, absolute chaos up there. We've been under constant, escalating attack ever since last October. Never a let-up. We've been hit at every point along the eighty-five miles of the Wall — usually in three or four places at once, miles apart. There's just no way to defend against them. And our cavalry is useless, except as back-up to the regular garrison. If there's a breakthrough, we can clean up the people who come through the gap, but only if we are close enough to hit them instantly do we stand a chance of driving them back."

There was silence for a few moments as Caius and I digested this disquieting news, and then, as usual, it was Caius who spoke up.

"I had no idea things were so bad up there. We heard some rumours, of course, but we thought the enemy in the north was being held, by and large, in abeyance."

"They are. For now." Picus sounded sceptical. "But that won't last long. They're too well co-ordinated. They have some first-class military minds directing them."

A female shriek rang out behind us and then a booming roar of laughter. I swung around to look back, but I could see no sign of the source of the hilarity, nor the cause of it.

"Anyway," Picus continued, paying no attention to the noise, "that's talk for later, when the ladies are abed. This morning should be for pleasure alone."

We rode in companionable silence for a time, enjoying the beauty of the day and listening to the tinkling of the Celtic musicians entertaining the ladies behind us. The first of Picus's troopers sat his horse on the left side of the road about half a mile ahead of us, right at the bottom of the hill.

"Look," Picus observed, "Janus has staggered the men, ten paces apart on opposite sides of the hill. That's good. I like a man with initiative. Now you have almost half a mile of mounted guards."

"Aye," Caius grunted, good-naturedly, "that will please the ladies." He paused, as if reflecting, before he observed, "Do you know that yours are the only imperial troops some of our people have ever seen? Especially the young ones."

Picus's voice showed his surprise. "I suppose they are, now that you mention it. You are a bit off the beaten track."

"Aye," I added, "and, please God, we'll stay off it. By the way, what news of your young friend with the wild ideas? What was his name? Pelidorus?"

"Who? Pelidorus?" There was bafflement in Picus's voice, then, "Oh, you mean Pelagius!"

"Aye, Pelagius, that was it. The theologian. What of him?"

Picus shook his head. "Nothing. No news. I haven't heard his name mentioned in ages. Not since we spoke of him that day, in fact."

"Do you think he's still alive?"

"Why not?" Picus laughed aloud. "It was a bishop he offended, Uncle, not the Emperor. And speaking of bishops, when did you last see Bishop Alaric?"

"Alaric? About an hour ago. He's right behind you, about the middle of the column. He will consecrate the wedding and our new altar-stone at the same time."

"Altar-stone? What's this?"

"You'll see. The good bishop has talked the Council into establishing a meeting-place for priests and prayers alike, in the Council Hall."

"Has he, by Mithras?" There was ungrudging admiration in Picus's tone. "How did he do that?"

"Cleverly," I answered him, smiling. "And at a time when it had most effect. It got the chamber finished."

Picus pursed his lips and glanced from me to his father and then back to me.

"You said this morning marks the start of all my father's dreams coming true. The marriage I understand, but what else is there?"

"Well, there's the new Council chamber, as I said, and our new quarters. The fort itself is coming into full use today for the first time as well. This is the first procession of our people as a group along this new road, too. And this is the first springtime of a new century in the year of our Lord the Christ. Think about that, Picus. What you will witness today is, in its own small way, the birthing of a new society, in a new place, surrounded by new walls at the opening of a new age. And all of it — the people and their dreams, the place, the soldiers and their weaponry, and all the hope for the future — has sprung from the mind and from the dreams of your father."

Caius coughed and cleared his throat in embarrassment and would have demurred, had I not cut him short in mid-cough.

"No, Caius, you may not interrupt and you may not dismiss my words. Everything I say is true and there is no way you can escape retribution for your plannings and machinations, so you might as well not try."

Picus spoke for his father and for himself. "Publius Varrus," he said, "your words make me both proud and humble that I should be my father's son."

"Good. That is as it should be. In both instances. Pride is a strong man's sword, and a little humility does no man harm."

We had drawn abreast of Picus's first man who sat stiffly at attention, reining his horse in hard, his naked blade shining in the sun as he stared straight ahead, his motionless eyes fixed on infinity as his Legate rode past. Both Picus and I had drawn ourselves up into our formal stance as we approached him and we remained that way, our bearing a reciprocal tribute to the guards themselves, until we reached the gates at the top of the hill.

The noise there was unbelievable — a cacophony of horns, whistles and cheers of welcome for the bride and her escort. The inside of the fort was brightly and appropriately decorated for the day's festivities. Long bolts of brightly coloured cloth hung from the walls, and Ullic's Celts, brightly clothed at the best of times, were all bedecked in their gaudiest finery. The entire scene was a maelstrom of colours. My ears picked out several sources of music of one kind or another, and off to my left I saw the gigantic brown awesomeness of a dancing bear. Then, as the lead party started to enter through the gates, someone began to beat out a slow, welcoming cadence on the Celtic war-drum, and others took up the beat, the tempo increasing gradually and steadily until the very air throbbed with the rhythm of the percussion. These were the drums that had frightened the lights out of Caesar's men four hundred years earlier, and their effect had lost nothing in power over the centuries. Yet they looked deceptively flimsy, being light, easily carried affairs, nothing more than a dried skin stretched over a wooden hoop a handsbreadth deep, reinforced by two cross-braces that formed a handhold at their junction in the centre of the drum. Struck with either end of a short wooden stick, which these people wielded with amazing dexterity, these devices produced an inordinate amount of fierce, martial, reverberant and threatening noise.

Ullic, grand showman that he was, stood waiting to greet us, surrounded by his family, his chiefs and his Druids, the latter dressed in either all-black or all-white robes, depending on their function. Ullic himself was something to behold, blazing with colour, crusted with jewellery and wearing on his head the symbol of his kingship, the huge eagle helmet I had last seen at our first meeting at Stonehenge. His men had built a platform for him and for his party so that they stood head and shoulders above the surrounding crowds. Uric stood on his father's right, a proud young man wearing a simple tunic of blue cloth tied with a crimson sash and trimmed with a Greek pattern of golden squares. His legs and feet were encased in fur-lined boots with golden studs, and on his head he wore a ceremonial helmet adorned with the horns of what must have been a mighty ram, for they curled downward to rest on his shoulders.

Caius, Picus and I kneed our horses directly to the space left clear for the approach of the bridal party and halted directly in front of Ullic's dais, leaving enough room between Caius and me for Veronica's litter, and between Caius and Picus for Luceiia's chair. The remainder of our people spread out on both sides of us in good order, so that when the bride and her party entered the enclosure of the fort they were able to make their way unhampered to their proper place.

It took about one-third of an hour for our entire group to wend its way into position, but at last everyone was in place and Ullic raised his right arm high, commanding an instant silence, since all eyes were already upon him. He allowed the silence to grow to a point just short of discomfort before he began to speak, and then he welcomed everyone, singling out Caius Britannicus as the prime reason for the wedding being celebrated here in this place and enumerating the achievements of the man that everyone present there had grown to admire, if not to love. After a few minutes of this, and amid a growing tide of approbation, Caius raised his own hand in protest and Ullic stopped.

"You wish to speak, my friend?"

It is amazing how dense a silence a thousand or more people can generate from time to time. Cay's voice rang into the stillness clearly.

"King Ullic, we are here this day to witness the joining of your son in marriage to my niece. These two young people are the celebrants. Eulogies are appropriate for them only, today. May we not come to the ceremonies directly?"

Ullic barked a single roar of laughter. "Hah! So be it! You have the right of it, old friend, we are here for a wedding. Then, by all the gods at once, let us have one. Sound the horns!"

Amid a roar of approval from everyone assembled, a party of Celtic hornsmen began to blow in what was obviously a carefully rehearsed series of calls involving some six or seven different sizes and sounds of horns. I had never heard the like of it; the sounds lacked the brazen clarity of our Roman trumpets and cornua, but the effect was stirring. As soon as the last notes had sounded in the sequence, another party — of drummers this time — beat out an intricate rhythm, which was followed by the same horn sequence, played this time at double the tempo, and followed again by the drummers. At the climax of this second, exciting drum sequence, Bishop Alaric entered the courtyard from the direction of the new Council chamber, whose great, thatched roof dominated everything else in the place. He was accompanied by his acolytes, Father Phonos and our own Father Andros, and by a group of Ullic's Druids, one of whom was robed entirely, from head to foot, in a cowled garment of royal red.

This procession approached the dais and stopped directly at the centre, between Ullic and Uric and Caius and Veronica, and Alaric himself and the red-robed Druid mounted the dais and turned to face the assembly. The silence was complete, and it held more than a little tension mixed with the anticipation. There was a sense of great occasion here, a feeling of portent, for as Caius Britannicus had pointed out to everyone and anyone willing to listen, this was no ordinary marriage.

Alaric looked around him and began to speak in the voice of a trained orator, which surprised me, although it should not have, since he was Roman-born and educated well. I found myself realizing that I really knew little of the man, longtime friend though he was, outside of his life as a bishop. I resolved to find out more about him as he began to speak in the grand, oratorical voice, his words ringing strong and clear, betraying little sign of his age.

"People of Britain," he began, "Celts and Romans alike. We are here together this day in preparation for the coming of a new age: an age of opportunity, but also an age of fear and uncertainty in many places.

"We stand today in communal assembly before the eyes of God, and neither He nor I care what name you give to Him, each in your own heart, so long as you believe that you stand here with us, each one among you, alone in His sight. He is the One God who embodies all the gods men thought to appease when they had no thought of any god being as powerful as He. He is Mithras, the soldier's god; He is Amon-Ra, the sun god of Egypt, for He made the sun itself; and He is the pantheon of the Celts, whose mystical presence fills the sacred groves." He stopped abruptly and glanced sideways to the Druid beside him, who immediately began declaiming in the rippling, liquid language of Ullic's Celts, obviously repeating and translating Alaric's words for the benefit of the Celtic-speakers. When he had done, Alaric began again.

"Today, we make a new beginning, a complete departure from the ways of old, and yet we will do it in a way that keeps the best of the old ways — the best of the Celtic ways and the best of the Roman ways.

"These two young people represent the best of both our bloods. Uric is your king's son and will be king some day in his own right. His blood is pure, his ancestors known for twenty generations back and more. Uric's fathers ruled their own people in their own hills long years before Caesar's eye beheld the shores of this, their land. He is a Celt, unsullied and unstained by foreign blood." Alaric stopped and his red-robed consort again repeated what he had said. Alaric waited patiently, allowing the surge of comment from the listening Celts to subside before he spoke again.

"Veronica, whom Uric will take to wife here in your sight this day, is no less nobly fathered. Her veins are rich with the patrician blood that made Rome mighty in the days of old. And her blood is pure. Pure Roman, from the hills of Rome itself, unmixed with that of any other race ..." He paused and allowed the echoes of his words to die away as people absorbed what he had said. Then, when the silence was barely beginning to vibrate with tension, he continued, his timing perfect.

"Until today. Until this union... this marriage. This bonding of two people, each unto each, that is more than a simple bonding, far, far more. For this joining of two people that we, together, will witness here today shall mark the bonding of two peoples!" Alaric's voice was ringing now, vibrant and strong. "Two peoples! Roman and Celt together!" He held up his hand to still a noise of speculation that did not come, and then he nodded to the Druid, who repeated his words, right to the final gesture, after which Alaric took up the cadence again.

"Here in this land the Romans have named Britain, there have been many tribes, many peoples. Before the Romans came, you called yourselves 'the People.' They called you Durotriges and Belgae. They named your neighbours to the west of you Dumnonii; and across the river's mouth to the north-west, the Romans named the people the Silures. And we all know that this was foolishness. You were, and are, the people of this land, holding it in strength long before the Romans found its shores...

"Now, it appears the Romans may withdraw. This is the word of reason that has come from Caius Britannicus and has convinced all his friends. From that belief has sprung the existence of this Colony. Rome today, the Empire, is like a bubble that has grown in a tarn of pitch. The winds of time have dried the surface of the bubble, taking away its power to stretch and grow, or even to burst. The bubble is collapsing, falling slowly in upon itself, losing its shape, its substance and its life. And as it falls ..." His voice rose to a shout again, bringing the image he had created into the forefront of each listener's mind. "As it falls, my friends, its edges will sink back beneath the surface of the tarn, melting again, shrinking the bubble's very girth until, in time, only the wrinkled, dried-out centre will be left for men to look at and wonder." He had thrown his hands high in the air, holding them far apart, and now he brought them slowly down and in, towards his breast, until they formed a cup in front of him. Every eye in the crowd followed the gesture.

"This lovely land of Britain that we hold so dear lies at the outermost edge of the Empire's bubble. It will be among the first imperial territories to be neglected. Rome has problems close to the heartland of her Empire. She has no problems here. Our land is rich, and though our wars seem great to us, they are as nothing to the Empire, which contends with barbarian hordes far greater than can be mustered against us. So Rome will leave us, perhaps one day soon, to see to our own defences."

As the Druid took up the recitation again, rolling the Celtic syllables out for Ullic's people, Alaric watched the faces of the crowd, noting the fascination on the faces of Celt and non-Celt alike as they all hung on the words and sounds of the Druid. When the red-robed priest's voice fell silent, Alaric was prepared and raised his voice high again in the grand manner of the accomplished orator.

"There is reason for great joy here today, my friends! For our joy today will be our strength tomorrow! United, our two peoples will withstand invasion and we will win! We will survive! For the children of this marriage will be ours, the best of all of us, combined in strength! The start of a new people — named by us, and not by foreigners! Their children — our children! — will be the people of Britain. Not Romans, not Celts, not Belgae or Dumnonii but BRITONS!" He stopped, for the space of three heartbeats. "BRITONS! You have all heard the word before. The Romans talk of Britons, meaning the folk who live in this land. But the children of this union, our children, will be Britons of a new and different kind! Their pride in the name of Britons will become legend!"

This time, when he stopped, his listeners broke into spontaneous cheers and whistles of approval, even those who would have to wait for the Druid's translation to truly understand. My own heart was thumping violently in my chest and the small hairs on my neck and arms were bristling with excitement. Finally, when the tumult began to die down, the old bishop, timing his moment again to perfection, raised his hands and silenced everyone.

"Let the bride come forward."

I dropped down from Germanicus — almost nimbly, for once — as the drums started up again, and stepped across to help my daughter down from her litter. She was weeping and smiling and one teardrop hung sparkling on the lashes of her left eye. I kissed her hand as she stepped to my side, and then I led her up on to the dais to stand before her husband.

As Uric stepped forward to claim her, his father leaned across and whispered in my ear. "Well, Roman, you out-peacock me today! I did not know you had such finery." I smiled and said nothing. "Come on," he continued, "it's our turn now."

We stepped forward, to the front of the dais, where we faced each other, about a pace apart, placing the crowd on one side of each of us and the bridal party on the other.

"Publius Varrus," Ullic addressed me in a stentorian voice. "Here, on this starting day, do I render unto you the bridal price agreed upon between yourself and me. Into your hand, as purchase of your daughter, I submit the wealth of all my family and my land, giving your grandson and my own, as yet unborn, the right and title to my name as King, after his father."

The crowd was thunderstruck. This was unheard of. What if the union should not produce an heir? Such must have been the thought of every person there to hear those words. And never before in history, to anyone's knowledge, had there been a marriage at which the bridal price did not change hands in physical form: cattle, gold and treasures. Quickly, before this stunned reaction could wear off, leaving doubters free to voice their doubts, I answered him in the terms we had worked out with Caius.

"Ullic Pendragon," I responded, my voice as strong and clear as his, "I accept this price, and, in fair token of good will between our peoples, here on this starting day, in full view of all people, I likewise submit the riches of all my family and my lands, together with the riches and the lands of Caius Britannicus, to your grandson and my own, as yet unborn, granting to him also the right and title to the rank of Duke, Leader, Commander and Ruler of all our estates and, in the fullness of time and by the voted and sworn oath of all the Council of this Colony, the right and title to the name of King in these lands of South Britain."

There! It was out: the news of Caius Britannicus's greatest triumph; the admission of the greatness of his vision; the proof of his persuasiveness and of the power of his personality. For one man — any man — to have convinced the Council of our Colony to endorse a king was contrary to all the mores and the history of Rome. I held my breath and waited for the inevitable reaction, prepared for anything. But the time was right and the people primed.

"Long live the Britons! And their King! Hip, hip, hip, hurrah!"

I have no idea which brawny throat that first cry sprang from, but it brought instant and enthusiastic response from the huge crowd and the cheers went on and on. Four hundred years earlier, when Caesar first landed here, the sound of that strange chant, "Hip, hip, hip, hurrah," the battle-cry of the fierce, woad-daubed clansmen, chilled his battle-hardened men because, unlike most of the battle-cries they had encountered, the nature of this cry — one voice calling for response and receiving it from everyone, instantly — suggested an inborn, savage discipline and a united will to win.

Today, the enthusiasm of the cry and the criers was unmistakable. I smiled at Ullic and we threw our arms around each other, to the approving cheers of the crowd. Then we stepped back and away, allowing the bridal couple to be wed.

Apart from my euphoria, I have almost no recollection of the ceremony itself. The bride was lovely and the groom was young and strong and fine. At one point they were wrapped together in a single, finely spun robe and tied with a golden cord; then the robe was peeled down from their heads and left hanging over the cord as they stood revealed from the waist up, concealed from the waist down and still bound, face to face, breast to breast, man to wife. It was done. Ullic stepped forward and announced that a feast was prepared on the hillside outside the walls and, still cheering, the crowd began to disperse.