The Sorcer part 1: The Fort at River's Bend

Finally, when I could eat no more, I pushed my platter aside and sat back to look about me. The first person I saw was young Arthur, seated at a table on my left in the* row ahead of mine, deep in conversation with a brightly attractive young woman who sat close beside him on the bench. As soon as I saw them there, heads close together, talking with that feverish intensity that full-grown adults seldom seem able to duplicate, my discussion with Derek sprang back full-blown into my mind. I had to fight the urge to go and join the two young people immediately, so eager was I to listen to all they had to say to each other. Of course I gave no outward sign of my interest, but merely sat back, focusing my gaze on them and watching intently. I was aware that Tress was deep in conversation now with Hector, to my right, but I had no idea what they were discussing. Tress, I knew, could tell me in an instant who the young girl was, but for the time being, at least, I preferred to make my own observations.

From the way the girl sat staring wide-eyed into Arthur's face, I could tell that she was entranced and enraptured with the lad. He, however, had his back to me, so I could form no real impression of his reaction to her. From the way his head hovered close to hers, though, I could guess that her admiration was being returned in full measure.

Arthur said something humorous, for the girl broke out into a clear, tinkling laugh that carried clearly to where I sat. Then she scooted even closer to him, grasping him by the right biceps to gain additional leverage as she pressed herself against his side. As she did so, another girl, this one a pretty, fair-haired thing with an open, laughing, wholesome-looking face, approached their table and seated herself on Arthur's other side. The first girl stiffened noticeably, tossing her hair, and sat there rigid while Arthur spoke to the newcomer, turning his head towards her so that I could see his expression. He spoke easily and graciously, although I could not hear what he was saying, but while his head was turned away from the companion at his back, she leaned forward, peering over his shoulder and piercing the other girl with a look that ought to have thrown her to the floor. The new girl ignored this hostility completely, leaning close and saying something in a whisper to Arthur, who remained blissfully oblivious to the tension resonating in the air about him.

"Rena and Stella," Tress's voice said in my ear. "They're at each other's throats over him nowadays. I wonder which one he'll choose tonight?"

I snapped my head around to look at her. "What d'you mean, tonight? Are you saying he chose one of them last night?"

She laughed aloud, looking at me askance. "I don't know. He may have. The gods all know he could have. The girls buzz around him like bees around honey, and so they should. He's a fine young man."

"He is a boy." I knew, even as I spoke the words, that I should have kept silent.

Tress reached over in front of me and gathered up my discarded platter, laying it atop her own, and for several moments I thought she would say no more. But then she turned more fully towards me.

"He is a boy fully intent on reaching manhood as quickly as he can. As you must have been, at his age. Don't tell me you disapprove? Would you prefer him to be lifeless and unattractive, distasteful to women, like Derek's Droc?"

I shrugged, feeling foolish. "I hadn't noticed it till now, that's all I meant. Who are the girls?"

"I told you, Rena and Stella. They are from Ravenglass, like all the other girls in Mediobogdum."

"Aye," I grunted. "But whose girls are they, and what do they do around here?"

Tress was grinning now. "They live and grow, like all young people. Stella, the fair-haired one, works with her mother, Rhea, who works with me. She'll be a good needle- worker one day, that girl, and she has a good head on her shoulders, although it's turned askew right now whenever Arthur comes around. Rena is the daughter of Longinus."

"Longinus? Is she, by God? And why have I not seen her here before?"

"Because, my love, you've not had eyes for it. You notice only those with whom you have some pressing business."

"Hmm!" I sat silent for a while, staring again at Arthur and the two young rivals for his attention. If he was aware of any tension between them, he gave no indication, and shortly afterward all three rose and left the hall. I watched them as they wait out, and then I turned back to Tress.

"How long has this been going on, this thing with the girls? Does Shelagh know about it?"

Tress laughed. "Of course! Think you Shelagh is blind? Everyone knows, Cay. There's no secret to it."

"And does she permit it?"

Tress raised her eyebrows in amazement. "Permit it? How would she stop it? As well try to turn the tide by disapproving of its progress. That's a silly thing to ask."

"So she permits it."

"Permits what, Cay? The boy is growing, awakening to himself. Shelagh has no more ways of stopping that than you have. But acknowledgment is not encouragement. She keeps young Arthur on a short, tight rein at night. Other than that, there is nothing she can do."

I shook my head. "And I had not seen it until now."

Tress bent forward and kissed my cheek, caressing my chin lovingly as she did so. "I told you, love, it had no importance to you then, so you paid no attention."

I would in future, I swore to myself, and for the remainder of that night I spent my time wondering where Arthur was and what he was doing.

SEVENTEEN

It started to rain in the week that followed the incident of the eagle and the fox, and for the following fourteen days our entire world was wet and dank and grey, with thick banks of fog and mist roiling up from the valley beneath us like displaced clouds, seeking reunion with the lowering clouds above. The forested hillsides around us faded into shifting shrouds of textured blackness, and we lost sight completely of the high Fells that overlooked our mountain perch.

It was impossible to be out of doors and dry at the same time. Everything we wore became waterlogged, doubled in weight and smelled of dampness. Exposed wrists and necks and knees grew red and chapped from the constant, chilly friction of moisture-laden hems and, in the case of the garrison soldiers, the chafing, unyielding edges of cold, wet armour. Not once in that entire period did the sun break through the overcast. From time to time, every few days, the skies above us would lighten slightly, as though to hint at brightness struggling to break through, but such intervals were always short-lived; the layers of cloud between us and the promise of new light would always grow heavier again, and more dense.

Our people became dispirited with the lack of brightness, the late, leaden dawns and the early, depressing nightfalls. Even the horses, cattle and swine huddled miserably beneath any shelter they could find, too listless to forage for food, depending upon us to bring them oats and fodder. Occasionally, we would hear thunder rolling somewhere in die distance, but no lightning flashed. We grew inured to the heavy, dull silence that pressed down on us, broken only by the constant patter and hiss and the unending, listless drip of falling water.

And then, late in the afternoon of the fourteenth dreary day, I emerged from one of die buildings and looked up to see a hint of yellow, filtered brightness on the hillside above us to the south. I waited there, almost stoically, for the phenomenon to fade. Instead, it grew stronger, and the dull yellow effulgence strengthened and spread outward, hazily illuminating a large stretch of tree-covered hillside. The sky above was still grey, but it was the lightest grey I had seen now in weeks, so I leaned my shoulder against the doorpost and lingered there, feeling a tiny thrill of anticipation fluttering in my chest.

Then, through an unseen break in the clouds, a quartet of sunbeams lanced down to splash real light on the distant trees, bringing , the late-autumn colours into startling prominence. Still I remained, fascinated to see the sunbeams thicken and spread outward, joined by others now and melding together so that, all at once, the entire hillside opposite me was awash in light, reflecting and refracting flashes of colour and dazzling glare. When the clouds began to break apart, bright blue patches appeared where before there had been nothing but dull, impenetrable greyness. A sudden brilliance blinded me, as sunlight reflected from a puddle on the ground in the roadway outside the building where I stood, and I knew, finally, that the weather had broken. I considered going back into the room I had just left and telling the others the good news, but then I decided to leave them to the pleasure of discovering it for themselves, and I walked away towards my own quarters, whistling merrily.

The brief period of warn, days that followed was summer's last song. After that, the evening temperatures plummeted, and the mornings crackled with thick hoar-frost that sometimes lingered until noon. A few, errant snowflakes drifted down on us from time to time, and the people of our little commune threw themselves urgently into a tempestuous flurry of last-minute preparations for the long winter months ahead. We men piled up vast supplies of fuel for the furnaces and fires, while the women cleaned and aired our living and communal quarters, scrubbing the concrete floors and covering them with fresh, dried rushes brought up months earlier from the wetlands below. In addition to these tasks, men laboured alongside women in drying, salting, smoking and curing the last of our meats for storage: pork, wild boar meat, venison, poultry and small game—though little of that,, that year—beef and fish, both saltwater and fresh. The fat salvaged from the butchering was rendered down in vats to give us oil for cooking and for mixing with lye to prepare soap. The last yield of berries, wild apples, plums and nuts were gathered in and carefully preserved, and several late-arriving wagonloads of bagged corn, millet and mixed grain from the fields around Ravenglass had to be husked and ground into meal and flour. Some vegetables—turnips and cabbages and kale—we had grown ourselves in the few tiny patches of arable land we had been able to identify close by the fort, and these, too, had to be collected and stored in cool, well-ventilated storage rooms. The granaries and warehouses of the old Roman Horrea were still intact, after hundreds of years, and we made full use of them, so that before the first snow fell, towards the end of December, all our work was complete and we felt confident about facing the winter.

I was one of the very few in Mediobogdum who knew that almost a hundred years before, the Emperor Constantine, assuming the role of an apostle, had decreed December 25th, the date of the ancient Roman festival of Saturnalia, to be the proven birth date of the Christ. None had argued against him, despot that he was, and despite a widespread conviction that the "proof' on which the imperial decree was based smacked tangibly of political contrivance and expedience, what had been a pagan celebration from time immemorial was Christianized and sanctified, made respectable and sacred almost overnight. The smug churchmen had won a double victory: they had nullified a godless reminder of ancient times and evil ways, and asserted their superiority, and that of their religion, over all the people of the Roman world, by creating a festival of Christian worship at a time when all the world prepared for festivities in any case. But to all those old enough to remember their elders talking of what they could recall of what had been before, December was still the time of Saturnalia, when hard-working folk celebrated together their successful efforts to bring in their harvests and prepare for winter.

Our Saturnalia that year was swelled by the presence . of six unexpected guests, emissaries from Camulod, bearing letters from home for me and several of the others. They had descended from the saddleback of the high pass in the opening flurries of the first serious snowfall, thankful to have made the long and hazardous journey so late in the year without serious mishap. Their arrival itself warned me that the letter they bore for me from Ambrose must contain grave tidings, and so I excused myself from the company to read it in the privacy of my own quarters. It was substantial, and I read it with steadily increasing apprehension, noting curiously that it contained no opening salutation naming me.

Brother:

I hope this finds you in good health, although I fear it will do nothing for your peace of mind, reflecting my concerns as it must. I know its arrival, overland so late in the year, will have filled you with distress already, fearing that all is not as it should be here in Camulod. Let me put your mind at rest at once on that. Camulod, per se, is well. We have our problems, as ever, but most of them are concerned with growth, and adjustment to the demands generated by that. I shall deal with that at greater length later in the course of this. For the moment, however, put your mind at ease over Camulod. All things here are as they ought to be.

Elsewhere, however, matters are more troubled and degenerating rapidly. The hour is late here, as I write, and that will enforce brevity upon me, since I must find time for sleep and be abroad before dawn. Come morning, I will be leading a column of our best cavalry to Dergyll ap Griffyd's stronghold in Cambria, travelling quickly even though we are too late before we leave.

Dergyll is dead. The how and why of that will become clear as you read on.

Peter Ironhair has reappeared, after long years of silence. Early, imperfect tidings of his new endeavours came to us some months ago, shortly before the last relief column left to go to you.

You should know that I took steps to strengthen our position the moment I first heard Ironhair's name resurface. I bullied the Council into approving a further intake of recruits, the largest ever since the Colony was founded. I called for a conscription of two thousand men, half immediately and the remainder within the year. There are no concerns over our ability to train and equip them; that is the simple part. The major concern arises over housing and feeding them. This is a grave and genuine concern, as you already know, since each thousand newcomers equates to fifteen hundred or more mouths to feed, once one has acknowledged the dependents who arrive with them. Some of the new recruits will bring in wives and children, while others have close family obligations that preclude their entering our service alone. Some of them, those few who are not utterly raw recruits, we will post out to Ilchester, to the garrison there, but Ilchester, large as it is, is at capacity and we dare not spread our people there beyond the walls. The space around the walls is kept strategically clear, and any houses there would be too vulnerable to attack The new intake will all be fed and housed, one way or another, nonetheless, and should we be forced into war, our numbers will be reduced again more quickly than we might wish. The dilemma never seems to change, and the answers to the problems of today provide the challenge we must face tomorrow. But the point I sought to make was that our combined forces will now be close to ten thousand men.

In the meantime, since Benedict's arrival in the north-west, your latest letter has arrived, announcing your intention of returning here early next year, when the snows have cleared. The information, and your resolved intent, both gladdened me. We need you here. Let me speak clearly and with brevity, for there is much to tell.

It would appear your suspicions concerning Owain of the Caves were not without foundation, for the man has disappeared, and rumours have come home to us that he has found a place for himself with Ironhair in Cornwall. He knew of our suspicions, I fear. Although he said no word about it to anyone, several of the people I had set to keep a casual eye on his activities all reported to me that he had become aware of their scrutiny. He finally walked out of the gates one day more than a month ago and has not been seen since—not in our lands, at least. I have no proof that he is in Cornwall, but I believe the reports I have heard, precisely because they confirm your suspicions.

Cornwall has been in chaos for more than a year now, torn apart between competing warlords, the most disgusting of whom is Ironhair's demented creature, Carthac. It would seem now - that the war there is over and all opposition to the joint overlordship of Ironhair and Carthac has been either subdued or exterminated. Last month, Carthac led an expedition by sea from Cornwall into Cambria landing near the old Roman town of Venta Silurum, called Caerwent by the local Celts. From there they began raiding inland and westward, burning and wreaking havoc, and threatening Dergyll's fort at Cardiff. Dergyll summoned his warriors and led an army out against them, meeting them close to his own fort, and in the course of the fight came face to face with his relative Carthac, who had set out to find him and kill him. Word has come to us, along with a plea for assistance, that that is exactly what happened. Carthac, in what has been described to me as a gargantuan feat of arms, hewed his way almost alone through Dergyll's chosen guard and killed the king, beheading and dismembering him after he was dead, then cutting out and eating Dergyll's heart in front of all his men.

As you might guess, the sight was too much for the Cambrian host. They ran from the battlefield and dispersed immediately, fleeing in all directions from Carthac's pursuing furies.

Cymberic, Dergyll's eldest son, managed to rally some of them eventually, but finding themselves safe, the survivors then refused to return and outface the inhuman invader, whom they believe to be accursed by their gods and therefore answerable to no living being, god or man. Cymberic has now sent delegates to Camulod, requesting our assistance in regaining his father's kingdom, and I believe that, since it is Arthur's kingdom in truth, we have no other recourse than to offer what we can. If Ironhair and Carthac are to be brought to battle by Camulodian arms—and I can see no means of avoiding that conclusion—then I would rather have it happen otherwhere than in the lands of Camulod.

Yet that is not all. Word has come to me from the other side of the country that Hengist, too, is dead, unnaturally, in Northumbria, and the territories there are plunged in war also. No tidings have yet come to me of Vortigern, and so I fear the worst, there, too. That information, and the lack of it in sufficiency, concerns me even more than this of Cornwall and Cambria. The enemy here in the west is known to us. In the north-east, however, our potential foe is alien, with many differences in beliefs and ways that are completely unknown to our people here, the first and most important being that they fight very differently from us, as you are well aware, and I am concerned that they might come spilling inland, clear across Britain, to do us mischief.

Therefore, dear Brother, waste no time in setting out once the snows have melted. If Connor reappears before you leave, come south with him and leave your men to take the slower route by road. We need you here. I need you here. Everything is as you left it, in good condition and prospering, but who knows how long that may last, with threats from West and East?

I wait to embrace you and see your smile again.

A.

When I had read the letter for the third time, I called one of the guards and sent him to find Lucanus, Donuil, Dedalus, Benedict, Philip and Falvo and summon them to join me.

Lucanus was the first to arrive, as I had expected, since his Infirmary was in the block next to my own quarters, and Rufio, who was progressing better than anyone had expected, was his only resident at the time. But the Lucanus who appeared in my doorway was not the presence I had looked for. He looked dreadful, pallid and haggard, his eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot, and he stopped in the doorway, swaying slightly and reaching out to steady himself against the door post.

I leaped to my feet and rushed to take his arm, shocked at his appearance, but he pushed me away, frowning and muttering something about merely having caught a cold. I held his elbow as he moved to a chair, nevertheless, then moved quickly to pour him a cup of wine from the flagon I had ready. He accepted it graciously enough and sipped deeply at it before sighing and placing it on a small table I had moved close to him.

I watched him closely, trying to hide my concern over the way he looked, for I knew he would resent any sign of solicitousness from me. I had remarked before, on the few occasions when I had seen him in less than perfect health, that Lucanus had no patience with his own humanity and simply refused to be sick like any other person. He seemed to take any sign of sickness in himself as a slight upon his own abilities as a physician, and that was the only vanity I ever saw in him. On this occasion, however, he was evidently ill and lacked the strength even to resent the plainness of the fact.

When he picked up his wine again I noticed that his hand was trembling so violently that he almost spilled his drink. I stood gnawing on the inside of my mouth, wondering what to do and how to do it without drawing down his ire. I resolved that, when this meeting reached an end, I would commit him to the care of Tress and Shelagh. He could bark and roar at them, and they would ignore him as casually as they did Donuil and me. Now he was staring down into his cup and I looked down at him, seeing the pallor of his scalp shining through the sparseness of his hair. My old friend had grown frighteningly aged, too suddenly, and was all at once too physically frail. Always a tall, lean figure, he was stooped now, and gaunt, his frame emaciated and his movements tentative and slow. Yet mere weeks earlier, when I had thought him far too frail to journey out to look for Rufio, he had surprised me first by stubbornly refusing to remain behind and then by travelling as quickly as the others in his party, showing no sign of weakness or infirmity.

I told him he looked sick and should be in his bed, not here, and I started to order him away there and then, but he growled at me again, something unintelligible. Then he collected himself and apologized, admitting that he had caught a chill, some nights earlier and that it had lodged in his head and chest. He was not vomiting, he told me, nor were his bowels loose. He merely suffered from some inflammation of the joints, a heavy, rheumy cough and a congestion in his head that affected his eyes, making them tear over constantly and depriving him of the ability to read. I informed him that I was going to send Shelagh and Tress to visit him, and to feed him some medicinal broths, and he muttered and grumbled but made no great commotion.

From that point, having won my concession, I thought it better to change the topic, and so we discussed Rufe's progress as we waited for the others to assemble. As each one joined us, he listened for a spell and then asked questions, so that poor Luke had to repeat himself several times. Eventually, everyone was present and each held a cup of wine and withheld from questioning me. They all knew about the letter I had received, of course, and all were curious, but they held their peace. I said nothing until everyone was assembled, at which point I read the letter aloud and invited their reaction and comments.

They were understandably slow to respond, mulling over the tidings and weighing the portent, each from his own viewpoint. Dedalus, as usual, was the first to speak, and he asked me if I would read the letter for them again.

Even after the second reading, no one had much of anything to say. Ambrose had said it all and no amount of wishing or analysis could change the content or alter the way matters stood.

Philip spoke up. "If Connor does appear before we leave, will you do as Ambrose suggests and sail back aboard his galley?"

"Aye, I think that makes good sense. I'll take my original party with me, too, leaving you and your troops to return the way you came. If things are as bad, or become as bad as Ambrose thinks they might, then the sooner we're back in Camulod, the better it will be for everyone concerned." I stopped, seeing doubt in his eyes. "You disagree with that?"

He shrugged, shaking his head. "No, not at all. On the surface, it makes good sense, as you say. I was but thinking of what Ambrose said about Carthac invading Cambria. There could be a fleet of Cornish galleys between here and the coast off Camulod, so your safety might depend on the number of vessels Connor brings back with him. We've no idea of the number of galleys Carthac has, but if his fleet is large enough to move an army, it's large enough to cause you grief on your way south. You might be safer on the road."

I glanced at Dedalus, who nodded, and then I looked to Donuil.

"What think you, Donuil?"

"Philip's right. If Connor brings a strong contingent with him, and I think he will have no less than he's been bringing for the past few years, then we ought to be safe enough. But he'll be shipping no more cattle from the south now. This latest shipment was the last. So he might not bring a strong escort. He might not come at all, in fact. I'm sure my father will have work enough for him to do in the north." He paused then, throwing up his hands* "But who knows what will happen? My advice would be to make a decision about when you'll go, but you can't even do that until we see how fierce or mild the winter will be. If there's no snow, or little; of it, you'll be able to leave early, and if you leave early enough, you'll be half-way to Camulod before Connor drops anchor here. If your departure and his arrival coincide, on the other hand, then you can make up your mind which way to go when you see how strong his fleet is. But that's months away, so any decision we seek to arrive at now will be futile."

"Aye," I agreed. "Futile, premature and foolish. So be it, we'll have to wait and see. But one thing has changed, since we first discussed returning. We now face the certainty of war, on at least one front. Even if the threat from the north-east does not materialize, Cambria will not be put to rest until Carthac and Ironhair have been stamped out. I want this winter to be spent in training for war. I don't care if the snow reaches the roof tops, we'll find some place to train our men and keep them in fighting trim. And the same applies to the four boys. They might well see their first campaign before the summer comes, so I want their training stepped up and intensified in every area."

"Rufio should be able to help there." Lucanus had not spoken since I began reading the letter aloud, and now his words brought every head around to look at him. He nodded, sniffing gently and dabbing at his weepy eyes with a square of cloth. "He will be well enough to move around within the month, and that is when he'll need something to do, to keep him occupied. His right shoulder will take months longer to knit, and he may not be able to walk much for the immediate future, but his mind is as active as ever and he needs to be kept from boredom. The boys should serve that purpose."

The assembly, in full agreement, dispersed shortly afterward.

I did not dream of the death of Lucanus, although that night, when Tress woke me from a deep sleep, raising the alarm, I leaped up in bed with a terror that I had previously known only in connection with my horrifying, prophetic visions.

Luke's health had failed completely in the days and weeks that followed his last meeting with his friends in my quarters. The cough that racked him had grown worse and he had started spitting up blood, as though something had broken loose deep within him. The flesh fell from his bones, so that he withered almost visibly from day to day, and he had grown fevered, alternating between burning temperatures that brought the sweat pouring from his every pore and agued, shivering chills that made him shudder uncontrollably, tossing and turning wildly in delirium.

He had been strong enough to feed himself at first, for several weeks, and had chafed constantly about being kept abed by Shelagh, Tress and the other women of our small community, but as his sickness persisted he grew weaker and the trembling in his hands grew more pronounced, so that by the time the first heavy snow fell he was incapable of spooning broth unaided and his meals were fed to him, with great patience and greater love, by whomever of his friends was present when mealtimes arrived.

Soon even that arrangement became impractical, when he lost the ability to chew or even swallow voluntarily, and it was Shelagh who evolved a system, adapted from the way she had fed orphaned lambs at home in Eire, of feeding him with watered honey and warm milk through an elongated teat made, like a sausage, from the tight-sewn gut of a slain sheep, one end of which she stretched and tied over the neck of a bottle. When it became clear, eventually, that he was incapable of digesting even milk, his diet shrank to watered honey, and we knew that our brave and wonderful Lucanus was doomed.

I was distraught and refused, for the longest time, to accept the evidence that lay before me. I became so obsessive in my blind belief that he must survive that I savaged anyone who seemed, to my eyes, to be too pessimistic concerning his chances. So intractable did I become that my other friends soon chose to stay away from me, rather than risk earning the rough edge of my tongue. Only Tress and Shelagh seemed to have endless patience with my despair, and it was they who earned me to bed the night my old friend died.

I had been awake for three whole days and nights—and they had, too, save that they relieved each other—sleeping only fitfully in a narrow, wooden chair beside Luke's cot. When my body betrayed me and I fell from the chair to the floor without waking up, they carried me between them to another bed close by Luke's and covered me. A short time later, Shelagh went to rest, leaving poor Tress to keep watch, and Tress, too, fell victim to Morpheus.

When she woke me, she was wild-eyed and terrified, and the sight of her terror brought out my own. Lucanus was gone, she cried, out into the snow, barefoot. I can remember thinking, as I threw my cloak over my shoulders, that he had been abducted. He could not possibly have had the strength to walk unaided. Shelagh was awake by this time, grim-faced and filled with resolve, and I sent her to rouse the others. Then, with Tress close behind me, I ran out into the whirling snow and followed the clear imprints of Lucanus's bare feet.

I followed them for more than seventy paces, to the open flight of steps that led up to the high wall's parapet, and there I found him, huddled where he had fallen sideways from the treacherous, snow-covered steps. Donuil and Benedict, the first to emerge after us, found me by the sound of my howls of grief. It was they who carried the still form between them, back into the futile warmth of the Infirmary, where he had spent so many hours and days tending the ills of others.

I have seen and known far, far too many deaths in my long life, and everyone I loved has gone before me, but only one other death in all the years affected me so deeply and so grievously as that, the tragic ending of my closest, oldest friend.

By the time we came to bury Lucanus, I had managed to bring my grief under control and was able to perform the funeral rites with something approaching dignity. On the day of the ceremony, I visited his bier alone to say my last farewell, and I wept as I stood over him, my hand touching the cold hands crossed upon his breast. The widow's peak of his hair was perfect in its symmetry, but the flesh of his face had already fallen in upon itself, settling tightly over the skeletal bones of his cheeks and jaws, and it came to me that this presence I was facing contained nothing of my dear friend and companion, the man whose empathy had healed a score of thousand wounds and bruises. This corpse had nothing in it of the kindly face that laughed so warmly, although rarely enough to make the sight a joy to behold. Where had that warmth and kindness gone, so suddenly?

I can recall speaking to his corpse, but I have no idea what I said to him. I know I was almost overwhelmed several times by the realization that I would never again speak to him or hear his voice. God, how I wanted to honour him in some majestic, all-embracing way! I thought about burning him, as we had my father, in honour of his enormous contributions, not just to us alone in Mediobogdum, but to the generations of Colonists and soldiers he had tended to in Camulod. In the end, however, we interred him on the threshold of his Infirmary and covered him with a simple slab of the local stone, inscribed by our stonemason with a representation of the caduceus of which he had always been so proud and the plain, simple name LUCANUS.

As our masons laid the stone in place and levelled it, I saw the tears streaming down Arthur's cheeks, and I laid my hand on his shoulder, drawing him aside. He walked with me a way, then stopped and looked back at the grave. The snow around it had been tramped into slush by all our feet, but it was still snowing lightly, and the stone stood out stark and black, against the pale ground.

"It's so ugly," the boy said, more to himself than to me.

"Aye, it is, lad," I said softly, knowing he meant the grave and not the stone. "But it's the common fate of all mankind. We all go there, eventually."

He turned on me, angry. "Why, Merlyn? Why should we?"

I had no good answer for him.

"Why must we go into the grave?" he continued. "It's too ... final, too utter!"

I found myself frowning at him. "What d'you mean by that? It's inevitable, Arthur. The grave awaits all men and women."

"And most deserve no more. But there are some ... like Luke ... who deserve more. Now he is there, in a hole, in the ground. Identifiable. Ended. Finished. He's done! There's no more hope that he will ever again ... achieve ... "

"How could he, lad?" I asked softly. "Luke's dead."

"I know that, Merlyn!" He was almost spitting out his words, so great was his frustration. "But that doesn't make it right that he should come to such a public and a final end right here ... " His voice failed him and he shook his head tightly, his fists clenched by his sides.

"It's not his death that angers me, Merlyn. It's this visible statement we are making that everything he ever did—all his achievements—have ended here, in a clearly marked hole in the ground. There's no need for that, other than that created by our need to honour him. But his honour is in our hearts and memories. We should enshrine him in our minds, but leave his final resting place obscured from all men's eyes. In the spring we will be gone, and he'll be here alone, forgotten and neglected. When men pass by this way and see his stone, they won't know who he was. They'll walk on him, or sit on him, and even though they may think they knew him, they'll know nothing of him save that he's dead and he's rotting here! Better to bury him someplace unmarked and secret. Then he would be safe from gawking fools and left alone to live in our memories."

I found that my mouth was hanging open in amazement, not at his eloquence but at the content of his speech. I had never heard any man utter such perfect and incontestable good sense and wisdom, and my own bafflement in the face of such obvious truth left me speechless. But there was nothing I could do at that time. I had a momentary vision of the reaction of the others, were I to walk forward and uproot the stone prepared so lovingly to mark Lucanus's grave.

To cover my confusion, I reached out and placed my arm about young Arthur's shoulders, with no notion that, years later, I would recall those words of his and act upon them on his own behalf. Instead, and perhaps foolishly, in retrospect, I looked for a way to break his train of thought and take his mind off on another track. I turned him to face me directly and grasped him by the shoulders.

"Listen to me, Arthur! Where a man rests after his death is unimportant. His importance lies in his life and what he did with it. Luke's life was exemplary. He was, I think, the finest man I've ever known, apart from my own blood. In all things that he did, he was a giant among men, the very soul of wisdom, of compassion and of strength. He stood for the nobility of ordinary, commonplace people. If you seek to emulate him in that aspect alone—in knowing who you are and what you stand for, and perfecting that—then you will live a fine and honourable life.

"Luke's task was to be a surgeon, the very finest surgeon he could be, and he was proud of that. He trained in the finest school on earth, in Alexandria, and then in the Corps of Legionary Surgeons, and he devoted five decades of his seven to serving his fellow men and women. A fine life. A fine record. As you say, he will continue to live long in the minds of those of us fortunate enough to have known him. So face him now, and make your last farewell as it ought to be. Then come and walk with me for a while. After that we will visit Rufio. He'll be despondent over having missed this farewell to our old friend."

I followed him as he turned back to the graveside. There he stood for several moments with his head bowed. I walked slowly towards the parade ground. Arthur caught up to me and walked beside me, and as we went I spoke at length, and he listened.

"May God rest his soul, as befits the soul of one who has done all that was asked of him and all that he asked of himself. His task is done. Mine is ongoing, and yours is about to start." I glanced sideways at him, to make sure he was paying attention. His eyes were looking directly into mine. "Your task is to be a leader of men—a warrior and perhaps even a king some day, in your father's land." I stopped walking, forcing him to look at me again.

"Beginning in the spring, your school will be the field of battle. You'll come to Camulod with me, and you'll ride to war, as a servant and a student, sometimes to me and at others to your Uncle Ambrose. You'll keep our weapons bright and clean and dry. You'll keep our horses fed and clean and dry. You will run errands and fetch and carry messages and orders and dispatches, and you .will learn at every turn. And one day, when you have earned the right to do so, you will have messengers and servants and your own armies at your own disposal. This is your real training.

You have learned much, till now, yet you have not even begun to learn. War is a harsh teacher, Arthur. Its lessons are stark and chastening and its punishments are death and deprivation."

I saw the fire kindle in his eyes. He drew himself up to his full, imposing height, his chest swelling with pride, and I saw a question forming in his eyes.

"Will I have a sword, of my own?"

"Aye, a short-sword at first, purely for self-defence. I will give it to you today. It was made by your own greatgrandfather, Publius Varrus, and you will find none finer the length and breadth of this land. It has a matching dagger, perfectly appointed, and a belt to hold the sheaths that house both weapons. But bear in mind at all times henceforth that your primary task in this endeavour will be to learn to follow and obey, not yet to fight. You will obey orders and follow your commander wherever he may lead you.

"In the year ahead of you, you will remain a boy, and yet you'll be expected to comport yourself at all times and in all things as a man. In following, and in obedience, with due attention and observance, you will learn to lead, and to command the honour and respect of the men who will fight with you and for you." I paused, watching the excitement in his eyes dim, and I recalled the bitter chagrin I myself had felt at his age, constrained to ride out with my elders knowing I had not yet earned the right, in their eyes, to fight as a man. The memory bloomed fresh in my mind as though it had been only yesterday. I clenched my fist and laid it against his jaw, nudging him.

"Believe me, lad, although you may not think so now, the time will come soon enough when you will have your own command. Far sooner than you can imagine. Now look at me, eye to eye and man to man." He raised his unique, yellow-flecked eyes to gaze into mine. I felt my throat swell in acknowledgment of his physical beauty and his splendid youth.

"Hear this of me now. I promise you that on the day you take up the burdens of a man, I myself will give you your own sword, and it will be a weapon the like of which men have never seen. These are not idle words, Arthur." I had seen a moment of doubt flickering there in his eyes.

''Yours will baa weapon to set men staring in awe. Not simply your own sword, but one for all the world to marvel at. I promise you that."