The Sorcer part 2: Metamorphosis

Camulod

ONE

There is no more important day in a man's life than the day he formally takes up a sword for the first time. At that fateful and long anticipated moment when a youth extends his hand for the first time, witnessed formally by both his elders and his peers, to grip the hilt of the sword that will be his own, his life and his world are changed forever. In the eyes of men, he has become a man, and his boyhood is irrevocably and publicly discarded for all time, much like the shed skin of a serpent. Far more important and traumatic than his first knowledge of a woman, the commitment of taking up the sword is the last and greatest rite of the passage across the gulf between boyhood and manhood.

Arthur Pendragon's transition, and the ritual entailed in it, was a source, for me at least, of joy, wonder, great satisfaction and an immense, deep glowing pride. It has been extremely difficult to condense into mere words. A score of times I have set out to write of it and ended up with ink stained fingers, a blotted, much scratched sheet of papyrus and a quill destroyed because its feathered end is chewed, matted and soggy with my own sucking. Only recently, after many attempts, have I been able to assemble a coherent account of the occasion, and of the events leading up to it, from countless scraps and annotations. Even so, I fear it resembles less a chronology than an anthology of incidents and impressions. Each of those incidents, however, had a direct bearing upon the way in which Arthur came to that threshold of manhood.

Did ever a more alienating gulf exist than that which stretches between boy and man? Few things can be more difficult or vexing than the task a grown man will face in the attempt to recall how it felt, or what it meant, to be a boy. The very coin of life in which the two must deal is different. Boys in their prime, between the ages of eight years and twelve, are yet unburdened by sexuality; they are consumed by other, no less insistent forms of curiosity, and are intent upon learning and discovering everything there is to know about being male and potent, powerful and victorious. Men, on the other hand, may still be curious in their prime, but all their curiosity is tainted by their sexuality: for the ruck of men, all that they do is dominated by the urge for gratification of their sexual needs.

Because of my unique relationship with Arthur Pendragon

throughout his life, I was able to observe him closely as he made the transition from one state to the other, but analyse it as I will, I can recall no catalytic moment that marked the transition from boyhood to manhood in the youth whom I had come to regard as my own son. The outward, public moment is a matter of history, but I cannot tell, to this day, when the boy became the man within himself. I know only that I was, and I remain, grateful that all I had loved most in the boy remained present and vibrant in the man. His adult sexuality, all consuming though it frequently appeared to be, never quite broke free of the restraints imposed by his gentle nature and his fierce, boyhood sense of justice and the fitness of things.

In the years that elapsed between the destruction of the enemy Erse fleet at Ravenglass in the great storm and the day when Arthur Pendragon took up his sword, many of the goals I set out for myself were accomplished, and many of my schemes were set in motion; conversely, many planned events did not transpire. I never got the chance to leave Mediobogdum and travel with Arthur as I intended to. Fear for his safety, and a threat to die safety of our Colony on two fronts, in Cambria and in Vortigern's lands to the northeast, eventually dictated our return to Camulod that spring. And so our final winter in Mediobogdum came and passed with a swiftness I would not have believed possible.

Connor arrived in February, a full month and more sooner than any of us could have thought to look for him. Though an unseasonably early snow had spoiled much of our harvest and threatened a harsh winter, the ensuing season, in fact, had been so mild as to have been no winter at all. In Mediobogdum, the dark, intervening months between the snowfall and the first promise of spring brought almost incessant rain and heavy cloud cover that seldom broke. Only the high peaks of the Fells above our heads showed their normal whiteness. The fierce winter storms that normally ravaged the coastal waters did not occur that year. All of Britain, it seemed, enjoyed the unprecedented warmth and calm.

Connor, never one to linger safe at home when there were things he might be doing, had taken full advantage of the mild weather, keeping much of his fleet afloat year round for the first time in die memory of his people. Normally, his vessels would have been beached all winter long, for the annual cleaning of their hulls, but, defying all the gods of sea and storm, Connor had kept them in the water, plying up and down the hundreds of miles of coastline of his father's new northern holdings and dispatching galleys individually, in rotation, to have their hulls cleaned and stripped whenever he or his captains came upon a suitable expanse of beach.

He arrived in Ravenglass without warning, and then appeared at our gates the following day, accompanied by a smiling Derek and riding in his flamboyant personal chariot at the head of a cavalcade. And of course, as it always did, his advent brought joyful chaos for the length of time it took everyone to grow used to his mercurial presence and the excitement caused by the appearance and behaviour of his colourful companions.

He came, as usual, burdened with gifts—for me, a claspknife, made of bronze and iron, its handle clad in plates of polished ram's horn mounted in silver. He tossed it to me as soon as I arrived to welcome him, almost running in my haste to greet him before anyone else could. He had not yet climbed down from his chariot and he paused halfway, with his false leg suspended before him, before lobbing his gift to me. For an instant, before he began to move, I saw an unknown, yet strangely familiar face beyond his shoulder. I had only a momentary glimpse of it, however, before I had to concentrate on catching the magnificent knife, and for the next few moments I was caught up in admiring it, depressing the bronze dorsal spine with my thumb to release the iron blade from its clasp, then flicking my wrist, allowing the blade to spring open. Connor came striding over immediately in his swinging, wooden legged gait and paused in front of me while I examined it, then stepped forward with a great grin to throw his arms about me when I looked up to thank him. As I embraced him, I looked again for the face I had seen behind him, and saw the stranger being embraced by Donuil. The family resemblance was unmistakable.

"Welcome, old friend," I said into Connor's ear, hugging him hard. "I see you've brought another brother with you this time. Which one is this?"

"That's Brander." He released me and turned to where Donuil and Brander were talking together, looking each other over in the way people do when they meet after having been apart for many years. "Brander! Come you here and meet the man you should have met long years ere now."

Brander and Donuil approached us, their heads close together as Donuil finished saying something to his eldest brother. Brander laughed, and then looked directly into my eyes as he stretched out his hands to me.

"Merlyn Britannicus, finally. I feel as though we have been friends for years."

I clasped hands with him, liking the man immediately. "Brander Mac Athol, Admiral of the Northern Seas. You are welcome here in Mediobogdum, as you will be in Camulod should you ever come that way. Your brothers, and indeed your father, when I met him, have had nothing but good to say of you, and your deeds on behalf of your people ensure you of a place of honour in our homes."

Brander inclined his head and smiled. "They were right, my brethren. They told me you had a golden tongue and more charm than you need to hide the iron in you. I thank you for your courtesy." He paused, his head tilted slightly to one side. "You look... perplexed. Is something wrong?'

"No, not at all! Forgive me, it is more curiosity than concern you saw." I glanced from him to Connor, and then back to Brander, shrugging my shoulders. "I simply never thought to see both of King Athol's admirals together in one place without their fleets. Who have you left in charge, up in the north?"

Both men laughed together, but for a fleeting moment I thought I detected a hint, the most fleeting suggestion, of something unspoken, some minor tension, passing between them.

"Oh, the fleet is in good hands," Brander answered me. "I've always thought the best thing that die Romans left for men like me and my brother, here, was a single word: delegation. Authority passed downward from the commander, is that not what it means?"

"Aye, it is, from the Legate." I had to fight to suppress the smile tugging at my lips. "I'll admit to you, though, Admiral, I have not heard the word itself in many years, and never thought to hear it used by an Erseman."

"I'm not an Erseman, Merlyn Britannicus, I'm a Gael." He pronounced it "Gaul" as in the name of the country across the Southern Sea, but there was no rebuke in his words. "All of us came from Gaul once, long ago. Didn't you know that? Julius Caesar did! So we have taken once again to calling ourselves by the ancient name, in order to distinguish ourselves and our blood lines from the likes of the Sons of Condran and the Children of Gar, who are barely human, and who remain, you will note, in Eire while we seek sustenance in a new land. So we will be Gaels, henceforth."

"Why not Scots?"

He gazed at me with narrowed eyes, apparently considering my words, then nodded. "It's a Roman name, but it sits well on the tongue." I waited, but it was plain he had finished.

"So," I looked again from the one seaman to the other. "What is it that brings you here?"

"Lust," said Connor, laughing explosively, so that heads turned our way. "Brander has finally fallen to the common fate of men. He has married."

"It's true," Brander admitted. "I have never had a wife till now. Never had time to see to it. But now the wars have , slacked a bit. The Sons of Condran and the others from Eire have not dared to show their faces in our north these past three years, and will not do so again, I judge. So I have had time to spend ashore, and there I met—" He broke off, turning to look about him, and his brother cut in.

"The fair Salina! Merlyn, I watched the dissolution of this man, this dauntless warrior, from the moment he first set eyes on the woman who is now his wife."

"Salina? That is a Roman name. Is she—?"

"No, she's a Pict, from the mainland of your Caledonia," Connor answered.

"In truth, she's not." Brander had been gazing around, clearly looking for his new wife, but he now turned back to me. "She is of the Painted People, as they call them, but not from the mainland. She comes from the farthest islands to the north, beyond the mainland, a place called Orcenay. Ah, there she is, among the other women. I'll bring her over."

When he returned, he was accompanied by two women, the younger tall and radiantly beautiful even from afar, and the other older, richly dressed, walking slightly behind them, head downcast as she looked at something she held in her hands.

"She's glorious," Donuil breathed. "And so young."

Connor snorted. "Young? That's her niece, Morag. Think you your brother's an old goat? Salina walks behind her."

As they drew closer to us, the woman Salina raised her head and quickened her step to walk beside her husband, and I watched the way Brander took her hand and brought her forward, slightly ahead of him, to present her to us. Perhaps because of the youthfulness of her companion, some part of me was surprised that this new wife should be so mature, "old" being a word that no man with blood in his veins would ever have thought of applying to a woman such as her. She was a woman in her prime, beautiful, with high cheekbones and a full, sensuous mouth beneath deep-set eyes of blue so bright that even the whites surrounding them looked blue. She wore a hood of some kind, covering her hair, and she moved with great self assurance and dignity. I watched her closely and with intense curiosity as she greeted her good-brother Donuil, taking his hands in both of hers and smiling radiantly into his eyes. It was clear she had heard much about Donuil, and equally clear, from the flush that suffused his cheeks, that Donuil was abashed by the unexpected warmth of her greeting, so that he sounded flustered making excuses for the absence of his wife, who had ridden off into the hills just after dawn to commune with her own gods on the anniversary of her birth.

Then the younger woman, Morag, moved forward and was presented to Donuil, and I lost awareness of her aunt. I felt Salina's eyes fasten on me, but I was too smitten by the beauty of her niece to look back at her. I was amazed at how Morag had changed in the two score paces she had taken since I saw her first. In that first glimpse, she had appeared a glorious young woman of eighteen years; now she was a beautiful child, tall and slim and delightfully formed with high, proud breasts. But breasts and face were startlingly at variance, for while the former denoted a woman grown, the latter shone with the utter innocence of youth. It was a truly lovely face, with wide, grey eyes and a laughing mouth set between silken, dimpled cheeks. I gauged her age now, on seeing her this close, as being less than Arthur's; newly thirteen, I thought.

And then it was my turn to meet Salina, but as I turned to greet her I saw Tress approaching, tucking her hair hurriedly into place and looking flustered. Her first thought on hearing we had guests had been that our guest quarters were all unprepared, and she had rushed off to rectify that. I smiled towards Salina, holding up one hand in a mute plea for her indulgence while I turned very slightly away, extending my other hand to take Tress's as she arrived.

"Lady," I said then, returning my full attention to my new guests and bowing slightly from the waist before looking fully into Salina's eyes for the first time. "You and yours are welcome here in Mediobogdum. Our home is yours, and everything we possess, crude though it is, is yours to command. Your arrival fills me with pleasure, the more intense for its gladdening suddenness. I have heard many wondrous things about your husband, but none of them mentioned his eye for beauty." I looked from her to Brander. "I wish you well in your new marriage and will pray for many years of happiness ahead for both of you." I urged Tress forward, holding her tense fingers tightly in my own. "May I present my own lady, my Tress? We are to be wed soon, too." I smiled now at Tress, who was wide eyed with trepidation. 'Tress, you've heard much about the celebrated Brander, Admiral of the Northern Seas and brother to Donuil and Connor. This is he, and his new wife, the Lady Salina."

As Tress exchanged greetings with the newcomers, I glanced across at young Morag, with the intention of including her in my welcome, but she was standing, wide eyed and oblivious, staring at something behind me. Curious, I turned my head and saw Arthur, gazing back at her transfixed.

I might have said something to Arthur at that moment, had I the time, although I doubt if anything could have influenced the outcome of what had already happened there. I know I thought of introducing him to young Morag, but even as I raised my arm to sign to him, I saw the thunderstruck expression in his eyes and knew I might as well be miles away. At precisely the same instant, I saw swift movement from the corner of my eye as Connor surged forward to sweep Tressa off her feet in a great hug, and then the civilized pause we had enjoyed gave way to a swirl of movement and the noisy exchange of greetings among friends.

Connor had more gifts to present, including a supple and intricately worked, fleece lined leather coat of ring mail for Arthur and an array of weapons, equipment and clothing for the other boys. Tress was dumbfounded by the gift he gave to her, and it was plain to me he could not possibly have pleased her better. It was a carved, wooden chest of ancient, blackened oak, filled to the lid with hundreds of brightly coloured balls of yarn and thread—yellows and reds and blues and greens and blacks and white and greys— all dyed, Connor maintained, in the mountainous northern mainland close by the islands where he and his father's people now lived. Unable to respond adequately with words, Tress merely smiled at him through tears and then caressed his cheek before removing her treasure, with the willing assistance of several hands, to a private place where she could pore over it in solitude.

As we ushered Connor, Brander and their immediate party through the throng to the quarters they would occupy for the duration of their stay, I learned that Brander's visit was, on the surface at least, simply a temporary and belated visit to his brother Donuil, predicated upon opportunity. Without a war to demand all of his time, Brander had found himself uniquely able to spend time with his new wife, and as a wedding gift to her, he had decided to accompany her southward to visit her sister, who was wife to the Pictish king of the peninsula called Gallowa in Caledonia, a mere two days' sailing time to the north of Ravenglass. Morag's mother had been unable to attend her sister's nuptials, so Morag had attended in her place, and the bridal couple was now escorting the bridesmaid home to Gallowa. Naturally, since chance would bring Brander thus close to Donuil, whom he had not seen in twenty years, he had decided to combine one pleasure with another and to meet, at last, not only Donuil and his wife, but also Merlyn Britannicus, whom he had missed by mere hours years earlier, at the outbreak of the Eirish war, arriving from the northern isles with his father's fleet just after we had left to sail eastward to return to Camulod. It struck me immediately that the political ramifications of a visit from the admiral of the upstart Island Scots to a Pictish mainland king, when both of them had wives who were sisters, were too obvious to be remarked upon there, during a casual stroll. I resolved to find out more about it later, when the timing would be more appropriate.

The quarters assigned to Brander and his people were the best we had at our disposal. As we reached the doors and entered, a group of cleaners rushed to remove themselves, flowing around us on either side to reach the doors, their hurried work completed. The beds, I could see, all had fresh, dry coverings, the concrete floors had all been swept and covered with fresh rushes, and fires had been lit in the braziers on the flagstone squares in each room. I thanked Ascoridorus, the one in charge and the last to leave. He smiled at me and nodded, glancing only briefly at my companions and dipping his head in silent greeting to Connor, die only one he recognized, before he left.

I closed the door behind him and looked again around the room we had entered. The shutters had been opened and bright oblongs of light painted the rush strewn floor. "Good," I said. "Brander, this entire block of quarters is yours. Distribute your own people where you will, but you might wish to save this space here, on the end of the block, for yourself and your wife, since it is the largest. Connor's accustomed spot lies at the other end,, and it is the same size. There are eight living units between the two, and each of those can accommodate as many as four people easily, and six if need be. "

Brander had crossed to the brazier and was warming his hands at the new fire, smiling as he looked at his wife. Salina was obviously pleased with the spacious brightness of the room, and Donuil was lounging by the window, leaning against the open shutters.

Beside me, Connor shrugged his heavy travelling cloak free of his shoulders and folded it over his arm. "Well, " he grunted, "I don't know about anyone else, but I'm looking forward to undoing this damned harness on my leg and lying back at ease in your hot pool, my friend. I've had a long winter of cold water, and the thought of your bathhouse has sustained me since we set sail almost a week ago. "

I grinned and bowed again to Salina. "We'll leave you now to gather yourselves after your journey, and I will have hot water brought to you immediately. " I saw her eyes brighten at the thought. "You will be comfortable here, I think. These quarters are reserved for the use of King Athol himself, should he ever come to visit. " I glanced at Brander. "How is the King, by the way? I trust he is in good health?"

As I asked the question, everyone went still, and my heart jumped. I saw the way Brander looked immediately to Connor, whose eyes then shifted towards Donuil. He, in turn, stiffened, as alarmed as I had been by the sudden change in the mood. Connor and Brander both looked back at me.

"Of course, " Connor said, "I knew that would be one of your first questions, but we had hoped to put it off for at least a little while longer. " He turned to Donuil. "Our father is dead, Donuil. He died last summer, while I was at sea to the south, on my last call to your good-father Liam, in south Cambria. By the time I arrived back here, on my way home, he was already dead and in the ground. I found out when I arrived back at his hall. "

Donuil's face had drained of all colour. He drew himself up to his full height, sucking in a great, deep breath, then moved away from the window to where he could lean one hip against a high table for support. My eyes were flicking swiftly among all three of them, looking for—what? I could not have answered that question had my life depended on it. Nonetheless, I looked, and carefully. For long moments none among us moved, and I felt Tress's fingers digging deep into my arm. Finally Donuil spoke, his voice tight.

"What—" He coughed, clearing his throat. "What happened? How did he die?"

Connor looked at Brander, inviting him to speak, and the eldest brother cleared his throat.

"He fell, Donuil, boarding my galley. It happened suddenly, as he was stepping from the gangplank to the deck— a fit of dizziness, a sudden nausea, none of us know what caused it, but he threw up his hands to his head, reeled and suddenly staggered backwards. I was right there, and I lunged to help him, but his foot slipped from the gangplank and he fell back, against the wharf. He broke his back. " The silence stretched until Brander spoke again. "We pulled him unconscious from the water, thinking him dead, and carried him home. But he revived. "

"His back was broken?"

"Aye. He lay paralysed thereafter, completely unable to move from his shoulders down, although he could use his arms and hands for several days. On the fifth day, he died.

We did all we could for him, but there was no way we could ease his pain. "

"Did he... was he able to speak at all?"

"Aye, he could speak. Much of the time he was out of his senses with the pain, but there were intervals when he would talk, mainly to me, sometimes to others. Salina was there throughout. I sat with him for hours at a time, and my wrists were blue from the grip of his hands as he fought the pains that racked him. By the time he died, I was thankful to the gods for releasing him, for I had begun to think of killing him myself, so great and ceaseless was his agony. I could not bear it, simply watching him. "

Donuil turned away and stood staring out the window, his massive shoulders slumped and his hands dangling by his sides.

"He spoke much of you, " Brander told him, "for among us all I believe you were his greatest pride. And he passed on to me much that he wanted you to know. You will not want to hear it now, but I'll be here when you are ready to listen. "

Donuil turned back to face into the room. His face was lifeless, his eyes seeking out Salina. "What were you doing there, in my father's hall?"

"She was there to discuss an alliance, " Brander answered, but Donuil cut him short.

"Let her tell me, " he said in a dull tone.

Salina glanced from him to her husband. "I was there to discuss the terms of treaty with your father, " she began.

'Treaty? A woman, discussing terms of treaty? Women have no business with such things. "

"In Eire they may not, but in my land they do. Among our folk, in the far northeast, the women fight beside the men, and often against them. I am Chief among my people, and I am a warrior, as much the king in my home as your father was in his. You call us Picts, a Roman word drawn from our tradition of going into battle painted in the colours of our ancient gods. Your father sought secure holdings in Tod of Gallowa's northern lands, in return for which he was prepared to offer certain accommodations. Tod saw advantages in such an association, but he could not treat openly with Athol for various reasons—among them the fact that his neighbours on all sides would have come together against him, had they suspected he was making alliance with an Outlander king. I could treat with Athol openly, however, as Tod's envoy, since his southern people think, like you, that women have no business with such things and hence they would never consider that a man like Tod would use a woman for such purposes. So I went. While I was there, King Athol had his fall."

"And had you made this treaty, when he fell?" Donuil sounded utterly uncaring.

"No."

"So there is no treaty."

"No, the treaty is in place."

Now Donuil frowned, clearly perplexed. "Made by whom?"

"The King of Scots."

"But—"

Connor cut him off. "Donuil, Brander is king now."

I felt my heartbeat begin to pound in my ears as I turned now to gaze at Brander, seeing him suddenly in an altogether different light.

"King? King Brander?" Donuil seemed bemused, then he gazed at the floor in front of his feet. "Of course," he said quietly. "With Father dead, that's as it should be." He looked up again at Brander and then nodded, once, in acknowledgement, before turning and making for the door. No one sought to hinder him as he made his way outside, but Salina spoke up as soon as he had gone.

"My love, perhaps you should go with him. This has hit him hard. "

Brander nodded and followed his younger brother, and when he had gone I heard Connor expel his breath in an explosive rush. When I looked at him he was shaking his head.

"I know how hard it hit me, when I found out, " he said. "But Donuil loved the old man even more than we did. I've been dreading this. " He paused. "My father Athol is sorely missed, but even so, things have proceeded swiftly. You and I have to talk, Merlyn. I know you'll have a hundred things to ask of me, and I have half a score of things to talk with you about, but—" He stopped, and turned to face the women apologetically. "But it must be alone. I ask for your understanding in the face of what may seem surliness, Salina, and Tress, but what I have to say is truly for Merlyn's ears alone at this time. What he may choose to do with the information afterwards is his affair, but I must deliver it in confidence. Will you pardon us? Merlyn?" He turned to me again. "Take me to my quarters, if you will. "

It was some time before Connor and I were truly alone. When we arrived at his quarters, four of his men were moving his gear from where it had been piled in the road outside, stowing the chests and boxes neatly against the wall that faced the door. While we waited for them to finish and leave us, Connor hung his cloak on a peg by the door, placed his helmet on the table by the window and began undoing his armour. I helped him with the buckles that were most difficult to reach, then moved two chairs close to the brazier, which had now been alight for long enough to throw out solid heat. A jug of Shelagh's mead had been placed on the table where Connor's helmet lay, and I poured us each a small measure. The news of Athol's death had shaken me and I wanted to drink deep, but I restrained myself, aware that this was one time when I needed to be clear headed, for I suspected much that I was about to hear would be surprising; I could only hope it would not be unpleasant, too.

Connor's men left as I moved to sit down, holding the two cups, and he held the door open for them, thanking them for their services. When they were gone, he closed the door and clumped across to where I sat, scratching his armpit and evidently deep in thought. He took the mead I offered him, then stretched his legs towards the brazier, and sat staring into the flames for a spell, sipping occasionally at the cup.

"Well," he grunted finally, turning his head to look at me, "I imagine your head's in a turmoil. Ask me anything you want."

"No, better for me to listen at this stage, I think. You're the one with all the information. I have matters of my own to discuss with you, but even those may be affected by what you tell me now. What is so urgent that we have to speak of it alone?" I waited, saying nothing, giving him room to think.

"Change... Or changes..." He was thinking aloud, rather than speaking to me, but his voice, and his focus, hardened rapidly, and he launched into a flood of words the like of which I had never heard from him before. "It has been, what, ten years since we first met? Probably more although it seems like less. In that time I've seen more changes than I could ever have thought possible. We've left Eire behind, abandoning our holdings there, and moved our entire people to the north, successfully. So successfully, in fact, that those who choose to stay there now are calling themselves Isles men, and with pride..." He lapsed into silence for a while, then grunted in disgust.

"I wish I could spend all my life at sea, Merlyn, because I'm not suited to deal with stubborn, stupid, discontented people and their changing wishes all the time, and since my father died it seems that's all I've done. Sometimes I wish I had been born a kern with nothing more to worry over than my next good meal or my next bloody fight or even my next belly bump with some wet, willing woman..." He stopped, staring into the fire and picking idly at the hairs of his moustache. "But I was born my father's son, as we all are, and that means I must shoulder my father's burdens...

"Think of what was involved in moving all our folk from Eire, Merlyn! It was a fearsome task, demanding years, a whole lifetime, of effort, and it was my father's life that went into the doing of it. Oh, we all took part, but his was the vision. He was the one who had to face his people and convince them that the land could no longer support them and their neighbours and that wars and famine were unavoidable unless they, his people, did something they had never done before. Then, on top of that, he had to make them believe they could live better lives elsewhere, beyond the home their fathers had created from the forests, beyond their family fields, beyond Eire itself, in a distant land that none of them had ever seen. I tell you, my friend, I could never have done that, had the task been mine. But Athol Mac Iain did it, and then, having lit the flame of hope within their breasts, he brought them there in safety, despite a raging war against far greater numbers than he himself commanded.

"And what then? After it all was done and they were safely moved, many of the ingrates, hundreds strong, looked about them at the islands of their new home and decided he was wrong to have moved them! They could not stay there, they cried. They wanted to return, knowing well that the old place was lost to them and that no life there would be possible. Faugh!"

"They still wish to return, today?"

"No, they've already gone, long since... late last year, five hundred of them, not counting children."

"But how? Were they simply landed there and left to die in their old home?"

He looked at me quickly, frowning. "No, what do you take us for? They landed on the northern coast. They'll build a new home there."

"But what about Condran and his people? That's their territory, is it not?"

"It was." His voice was absolutely flat, and the way he said the two words, and then paused, raised the small hairs on the nape of my neck. Fortunately, his pause was brief, because when he spoke again I discovered I had been holding my breath.

"The Sons of Condran have seen change, as well. Brander's last voyage brought an end to them as any kind of force. He sailed right into their harbour and caught them unprepared, in high summer. He took a great risk in doing it, hazarding everything upon surprising them, but it succeeded. He planned his campaign carefully—drew off their main fleet in pursuit of part of his, and as soon as they had cleared the horizon, he struck at their home base, which lay upriver from the sea, much like our own old base to the south. Condran himself was killed in the early fighting, along with three of his blood sons. That kicked the resistance out of the remaining defenders.

"Brander then destroyed their shipyards systematically, managing to capture half a score of unmanned galleys in the process. He made sure that all their master shipbuilders had been either killed or captured —he knew all their names and paid willing turncoats in the town to betray their whereabouts, and he took pains to identify the corpse of each one who died in the fighting. He wanted to leave no possibility of new war galleys being built there in the time to come. Then he set fire to everything that could be burned, the entire town. When that had been achieved, he left some of our men to occupy the lookout posts in the approaches to the river mouth, to give no hint to the returning enemy galleys of anything being wrong, and he withdrew further down the coast to await the return of the enemy fleet. He attacked it in the river mouth and destroyed it by setting fire to all the galleys he had captured earlier and then driving them into the fleet. It was a crushing victory, final and complete. The Sons of Condran will not emerge from their holes again."

"What happened to the smaller part of Brander's fleet, the ships their main fleet chased?"

"Nothing. Brander had sent them out to sea, to pass by Condran's base unseen, on a southward course. Once there, they turned about and waited, concealed in a cove, for a foggy dawn. The remainder of Brander's fleet lay to the north. When the fog came down, the smaller group rowed northward as though they were returning from raiding to the south and were lost in the fog banks, so that they had blundered and been seen. They fled, and Condran's folk gave chase. Our galleys were double crewed and kept ahead of them, close enough to be pursued, but always too far off, thanks to their extra oarsmen, to be brought to fight. They kept the main fleet occupied for several days, so that the fires on shore had time to burn and die. When Condran's fleet gave up and returned home, they burned, too."

"My God," I whispered. "It sounds final enough almost to be a Roman vengeance."

"Aye, well it was the vengeance of the Gael," he said. "That was last year. Since then, we have reseeded the north coast with some of our folk, as I told you. They have their own galleys and can guard themselves, and we are close by, should they need us."

"Changes indeed. Tell me about the mainland, this treaty of Brander's."

"A different kind of change." Connor sipped again at his mead. "The treaty was necessary, and I hope it's merely the first. It will be, I know. My brother Brander may have the makings of an even greater king than Athol Mac Iain was."

"How is it different?"

"Well, few one thing, we have become, over the last ten years, a race of fishermen. Now that is a change that alters every aspect of our lives. We've always fished, of course, because we lived beside the sea, but now we live among the seas, so now most of our food comes from the water. We eat fish, and shellfish, and seal meat, and sometimes whale meat. We eat birds that taste of fish. Most of our lands are rocky and inhospitable to crops. The bigger islands have good soil, but they're all forested, and until we clear them we can't farm them. We grow a little grain, and we have a green crop, kale, that grows well in shallow soil, even through a mild winter. It's not the most pleasant stuff to eat, but it's nourishing and wholesome enough.

"We have hundreds of islands on which we can live, although many more are too small for human habitation. Our people have spread out among them in the past few years, though, and will survive. But we need land that we can farm, and that means we need a foothold, at least, on the mainland, and not simply on the rocky shoreline. Soon after we arrived and had begun to spread our folk about, that need became too urgent for my father and his counsellors to ignore. Our fishing boats were few, back then, too few. So we sent out... scouts? What's the word you'd use? Peaceful messengers, looking for opportunities to deal with other kings..."

"Emissaries."

He looked at me, quizzically. "If you say so. Emissaries. Sounds impressive. Well then, we sent out emissaries to the kings up and down the mainland coast. They went unarmed, and bearing gifts, and some returned alive. One of the first such groups made contact with a king in the region called Gallowa, to the north of here, a man called Tod, who showed an interest in an alliance. He was willing to exchange land in his northern holdings in return for the protection of our galleys along his southern shores. Turns out that the Sons of Condran had been harrying him for years. He has large armies, but they're almost useless against a fleet, unless they happen to know in advance where the fleet will strike."

I nodded. "I know. The Romans had the same difficulty." I had a sudden thought. "Do you know a king called Crandal?"

"No. Should I?"

"Hmm. He's a Pict. I thought you might have heard of him, at least. I hear he has raised an army and is marching southward into Britain, over in the northeast."

Connor shook his head. "We have made no great attempt to penetrate that far inland. The whole mainland is a morass of different tribes, all at war with each other and all divided by mountain chains. Any attempt to travel is madness, even for the Picts themselves. It means fighting new enemies every step of the way. Worse than it was in Eire. We've heard of one great valley that divides the whole land from sea to sea, with mountains to the north and south of it, but we hear it's thickly peopled and the folk are warlike. "

"Then if that is the case—" I stopped, perplexed. "If things are as chaotic as you say, with constant warfare—"

"Raiding, " Connor interrupted me. "It's more raiding than warfare. No large armies, no long campaigns, merely one raid after another, unendingly. "

"If that is the case, then, how did Salina and her sister come to be involved with your King Tod? You said she comes from Orcenay—was that the name ?—in the far northeast. "

"Aye, but she's like us, an islander. Her people have boats, galleys of a kind, and travel by water. "

"Tell me about these people. What do you know of them?"

He shrugged. "Not much, but I know they are not the same people as the mainlanders. They're very different. Not greatly numerous, from what Salina has told me, but fierce and warlike. " He anticipated my next question. "And Salina is a chief. She rules one of the two groups of islands they control. Her brother Lot is king over all, in name, but Salina's is the power that counts in her domain. "

"Lot? Did you say Lot? I hope he's no relation to your former good-brother of Cornwall?"

Connor barked a laugh. "You know, I had almost forgotten that! No, he's no relation. His name's not even Lot. That's just a name they use in dealing with strangers. His real name's unpronounceable, one of those grunting, cough like sounds no normal human tongue can grapple with. Every time I hear someone say it, it sounds like he's retching and I pull my cloak around me to avoid being splattered. Salina's is the same. She chose the Roman name herself, for her dealings with people she calls Outlanders, like us.

"Anyway, Salina's sister married Tod of Gallowa some years ago, and there's some trade between the two kingdoms. Mostly sheep's wool coming down. I don't know what the Gallowans send back. When our emissaries arrived in Tod's kingdom that first time, Salina had just arrived with four of her ships. She took part in the talks, and when it became clear Tod would have problems with some of his chiefs, who knew nothing of us and hence did not trust us, she offered to sail to us and to deal with my father on her good-brother's behalf. That first visit led to Father's crossing to the mainland later that year to meet with Tod and his chiefs and counsellors. The meetings were successful, but it took two more years before a treaty was forged." He paused, remembering.

"It was completed last spring, when Condran's fleet carried out some heavy raids the length of Tod's coastline. Suddenly it became an excellent idea, they realized, to conclude the matter. No sooner were the final agreements reached than Brander sailed off to deal finally with Condran. Of course, we have made no mention to this time of the true extent of the destruction of Condran's sea power. It would be foolish to announce the removal of the prime need for the treaty. And besides, Condran's destruction really makes no difference to the substance of the contract, which promises the protection of our fleet in return for the right to farm the lands in the far north of Tod's holdings, which were lying empty and unused."

I had but one more question for him. "You said you expect more treaties of this type?"

"Aye. We require more mainland territory. Brander is dealing now with four more kings, further to the north, although they call themselves chiefs. He'll be successful, too. He has great strength in that kind of dealing. Then, once we have established footholds for our folk on fertile land, we can leave their prosperity to time and human nature. And we can hope for success now. With the extermination of Condran, we are at peace for the first time in many years. That's why Brander decided to get married, and then to make this journey with Salina and the girl. When we leave here, they'll sail to visit Tod."

"And where will you go?"

"On patrol. Now that Brander is king, he will be bound ashore. I am sole admiral."

I told him them about my decision to return south to Camulod within the month, abandoning our temporary home here in Mediobogdum, and I asked him if he would ferry my main party southward, one last time. He listened quietly, making no attempt to interrupt, but when I had finished he grimaced.

"Normally, I would say yes, but you've reminded me of what I set out to tell you .before you distracted me with all this talk of treaties. Do you recall the big ship you encountered, in that coastal town, that first time you met Feargus?"

"Of course, the Roman bireme that the Berbers brought to strip the marble from the buildings of Glevum. What about it?"

"Liam Twistback arrived in the islands just before we left to come here. He undertook the journey in the winter, with only three companions, preferring to run the risk of storms and shipwreck rather than remain where he was, on the coast between Camulod and Cambria. He says the invaders from Cornwall have two of those things, aiding their troop movements. Massive vessels, Liam says they are, with multiple banks of oars and enormous sails. He says they have wooden decked towers, fore and aft, for soldiers and bowmen to fight from, and one of them even has siege engines mounted on the stern platform... catapults, can you credit that? And they have long, metal-clad rams projecting from their bows, below the waterline, for sinking enemy ships. They make our biggest galleys look like coracles, Liam says."

"Ironhair possesses these things?"

"No, I did not say that. Twistback knows nothing of this Ironhair. He merely said that the forces invading Cambria have two of these wondrous vessels assisting them."

"Aye, then they're Ironhair's." I heard the deadness in my own voice. His words had stunned me, but hard on the shock had come an immediate though unwilling recognition of the truth of what he had told me. Ironhair had proved already in the past that he was no fool and that, like his predecessor, Lot of Cornwall, he knew the value of money shrewdly placed and lavishly provided. The fact that he had followed Lot's example and procured an army of mercenaries with promises of plunder bore that out, but now it was evident that he had carried the procurement of alliances even further and ensured his maritime superiority with these great ships. I looked at Connor more carefully.

"You're sailing south, aren't you?"

"I had considered it." His tone said Yes, l am.

'Then you'll take us with you?"

"No. I won't. It's too dangerous. You have women and boys in your party, one of them my own nephew, Arthur. His presence alone would make this voyage far too dangerous."

"But—"

He cut me short with a slash of his open palm. "Sit down, Merlyn, and think of what's involved here!"

I was furious, insulted by his outright dismissal of my request. Harsh, angry words sprang to my lips, demanding to be spat out. Yet I knew I was wrong. Finally, I mastered myself and sat down, aware that Connor had much more to say, and that he, not I, commanded on the sea. He watched me with narrowed eyes, and when I sat down, moving slowly, he continued, speaking clearly and calmly.

"Merlyn, I have no idea what we'll encounter when we arrive down there, but the very last thing I might need is passengers aboard my vessels, women and children. I might round some headland there and find myself committed to a fight. We're sailing south, right into the middle of a war, and I tell you frankly, I have no plan, no stratagem for dealing with these... things, these biremes. I might have to turn tail and flee before them. I might not find them at all. Then again, I might not even have the opportunity to approach the coast, let alone find a suitable place and sufficient time to land you and your party. Then where would you be? You'd be stuck there, aboard my vessel headed northwest, with no safe way of getting back to Camulod. Better you return by road, with your own garrison. That way your party will be safe and well protected, and you'll experience the land you haven't seen yet." His mouth twisted into a small, ironic smile. "You'll probably arrive in Camulod long before we could deliver you there, given the probable congestion on the waterways."

I sat gazing at him in bafflement, unsettlingly aware that I was missing something here. Finally I grunted in belated realization of another point. If these biremes had seemed threatening enough to Liam Twistback to encourage him to face the perils of a sea voyage in winter in a tiny boat, they also represented a threat to Camulod, which lay within a two day march of Liam's farm.

"Did Liam say if be had managed to warn Camulod about these vessels?" I asked. _

"He didn't have to. Some of your people were there with Liam, on their regular patrol, when the things last approached the shore. They wanted Liam to return with them when they rode back to warn the. Colony, but for some reason he chosen to sail north and take his chances with the winter gales. Anyway, they know in Camulod. I imagine all their defensive preparations are in place by now. "

All at once I knew what it was about Connor's words that had been unsettling me. "Liam was the last of your people down there, wasn't he?" He nodded. "So why are you going there at all? You have no interests to be served down there, now. "

His mouth twisted again in a wintry smile. "What about gratitude to you and yours and to the Cambrians who let us use their land?"

"Admirable, but unnecessary. What would your people have to gain from such a course? God knows, you've much to lose, going against such ships. "

"I want one of them. "

He spoke so softly that I barely heard his words, and then I doubted my own hearing.

"You what?"

"You heard me clearly, I want one of them—at least one. Both, if I can have them. "

"Are you mad? You've never seen these things. I have. The two of them together could probably defeat your entire fleet, just by their combined weight and strength. Your galleys would be wrecked and ruined before you ever could approach them. Those catapults you mentioned are used to hurl burning pots of oil into an enemy's rigging and sails. You know what fire does to ships, Connor—it was you who described it to me, on the walls of Ravenglass—and you've just been telling me about Brander's destruction of Condran's fleet with fireships. And even without the fire, their prow rams would smash even your biggest galley beneath the waterline. Then the weight of the forepart of the ship, propelled by hundreds of great sweeps, would thunder down and crush your vessel like an egg. Their archers would slaughter those of your men who didn't drown immediately. No, Connor, if you have any mind for the welfare of your ships and men, empty your mind of any thought of fighting these machines. They're Roman built, my friend, and Roman designed to be invincible in their own element."

"Aye, Liam said something of the same, although he didn't know the workings of the things as you do. Where did you learn all this?"

"From books. I read it all. The Roman navy ruled the seas for hundreds of years, and their genius lay in taking infantry to sea. Their warships were built as floating platforms for their soldiery—"

He held up his hand to prevent me from saying any more. "I'm as sane as you are, good-brother. I've no intention of sailing to my death and hearing the noise of my own galleys being destroyed."

"Then what?"

"I shall wait. They must put into land at some time or another, these mighty beasts. They sail like other vessels, and they're being used to supply the armies on the mainland. The Pendragon Cambrians have no naval force, so these great ships can have no opposition. They'll be like shepherds to the smaller galleys in their fleet, plying between whatever southern port they use and their base in Cambria, and when they arrive, they'll put into shore, to be unloaded. That's when I'll take them."

I laughed aloud in simple disbelief. "You intend to walk on board and take over a ship like that? Don't you think they'll be guarded?"

"Of course they'll be guarded, dear good-brother, but how well? Think about that. These things are without equal on the sea, requiring special skills and seamanship to operate them properly, and when they come to shore, they'll be among their own. They will be guarded, certainly, but who among their crews would dream that anyone would ever be mad enough to think to steal one from its base ashore?"

"How will you get close to them?"

"Mercenaries, Merlyn. We'll be among their own, in their own camp. Why should they suspect us of anything? We're not their enemies. In fact, they won't know who we are or whence we came. We'll be but mercenaries like the rest of them."

"By the sweet Christus! What happens then if you succeed and get aboard, past the guards? How will you get the thing away?"

"We'll row it out of there! If we can be mercenaries on the land, why shouldn't some of us be afloat, too?" I realized only then that Connor was extemporizing, improvising even as he spoke. "Who will know we are not theirs? They have no enemies afloat, they think—or I believe they think that." His brow was creased now with the speed and concentration of his thoughts. "A small number of galleys, extra crewed, their arrival timed to coincide with our attack... But returning galleys... galleys that left the same harbour the day before... no one will think to question their arrival, if they think it's their return. And When the moment's right, we strike. We take the ship and board a crew from the galleys, on the water side. It will work, Merlyn, it will work"

He slapped his hands on his knees and stood up, suddenly alight with resolve.

"When will you leave?" I half expected him to rush off then and there.

"A week or so, no more." He clumped his way across to the window, his false leg sweeping aside the rushes on the floor with each step, and opened wide the shutters, twisting his neck to lean out and look up at the sky. I was surprised to the see the sun was still shining brightly. I felt as though we had been cloistered here for hours.

"Have you any food around here?" he asked. "I'm famished."

I had to smile. "We'll find something cold in the kitchens, but there won't be anything hot until the evening meal."

"Then cold it is, so long as it be soon."

As we walked towards the kitchens in the refectory block, my head was spinning with all we had discussed, and I had the feeling that much of the ensuing week would be dedicated to the Admiral's new developed stratagem for enlarging his fleet.

TWO

By the end of that week, the days had warmed up almost to summertime heat and the skies remained cloudless. New grass shot up everywhere and the first mountain flowers, Which would not normally have begun to grow for at least Mother month, matured swiftly and broke into bloom, so that the hillsides outside our walls were soon dotted with tiny clusters of brilliant yellows, blues and whites. By the roadside, beneath the trees along the forest fringes, thick clusters of dark-green growth sprang up and blanketed the ground, promising that within the next few weeks the entire hillside, seen from the fort beneath, would be misted with a purplish haze of bluebells to perfume the air.

In the fort itself, life progressed with a high spirited urgency made the greater by the beauty of the weather. Connor's estimated week before departure lengthened to two as he enlarged and refined his plans to voyage south. He spent most of that time working closely with Feargus and big Logan, his most trusted captains, their counsel strengthened and abetted by contributions from Brander, whose enthusiasm for the task ahead was greater, if anything, than Connor's own. Brander might be King of Scots today, tied to the land henceforth, but he was still very much Brander the Admiral, and his eyes glistened at the thought of having a Roman bireme, or perhaps even two of them, added to his fleet.

I sat among them frequently, listening to their conversations, and often I had to force myself to keep silent, stifling my criticism by reminding myself that they knew exactly how dependent this entire venture would be upon the disposition of the enemy ships when Connor arrived in the waters off Cambria. They accepted the hazards, the high degree of random chance they faced and the seeming

impossibility of outmanoeuvring the gods of war and fate;

and in that acceptance, they attempted to foresee all the

variations of opportunity that might present themselves and

bent their combined abilities to create the simplest, most intrinsically flexible strategic outline they could devise.

I had my own tasks to perform while the mariners were planning their great quest. We had committed ourselves to return to Camulod in the spring, and that withdrawal could no longer be deferred. Spring was here now, and early, and despite long months of systematic preparation, we were not yet ready to leave. I worked all day, most days, and long into the nights, bullying everyone time and again into checking and reviewing all the thousand and one things that had already been reviewed and checked, packed and loaded and made ready for transportation.

In all of this, Rufio was one of my greatest strengths. He worked even harder than me. His recovery from the awful wounds the bear had inflicted on him had been more complete and more rapid than any of us would have dared to hope. But Rufio would never fight again. The deep gouges on his shoulder and upper arm from the beast's claws had turned toxic, and while Lucanus had been successful in keeping the killing poisons in the wounds from spreading, the damage to the muscles of Rufio's left aim had been irreversible, so that the limb now resembled a withered stick rather than a human appendage. His spirit, though, remained indomitable, and within two months his legs were sound enough that he could walk almost without a limp.

Rufio's first request was to be given a task that he could organize alone, without assistance. That was when I came up with the idea of wiping out all visible traces of our occupation of the fort. Mediobogdum had sat unoccupied for two hundred years, we believed. Were we to leave it looking as though it had not been occupied since then, that might encourage others to avoid it. If we were successful in that, and if we then decided to return at some future date, we could simply move in again without obstruction.

Rufio thought this was an excellent idea, and he took the task I had set him very seriously. At one time or another over the ensuing weeks and months, everyone in the fort worked to his orders, stripping the place of every sign we could find of human habitation. We shut the bathhouse down, for instance, and boarded up the doors as we had found them, then blocked the entry to the furnaces with care, protecting them from damage and decay as best we could.

Then came the day I knew we were ready, and we could appoint a day for our departure. Our guests were still hip deep in their planning sessions, however, and that presented me with a dilemma: should I or should I not inform them that we were now fully prepared to leave Mediobogdum and ought to leave immediately? The laws of hospitality demanded that I give no sign that they might interpret as an invitation to be gone, and yet I was acutely aware of the urgencies in Camulod, where Ambrose was awaiting our arrival. Fortunately, neither Connor nor his brother was as blind to what was happening as I had begun to fear. That same afternoon, when I joined them both in Brander's quarters, they were ready for me, and they informed me that they would leave for Ravenglass the moment I decided on the day of our own departure. I told them we would leave in three days' time, thereby giving them another full day to conclude their own affairs in Mediobogdum.

Later that afternoon, while I sat alone in my quarters conducting one more check of all that had been done, working with the long lists compiled by Hector and his clerks, I called Donuil in and asked him if he would find Arthur and send him to me. He left at once and I went back to work, losing myself in my lists again and making notations, until I realized that the room had grown quite dark and Arthur had not arrived. It had been late afternoon when I sent Donuil to find him, the light from my window still bright enough to read by, and now it was dusk. Frowning, I left my table and made my way outside in time to meet Donuil coming back. He had searched the entire fort without finding Arthur, he informed me, so he had sent Gwin, Bedwyr and Ghilly outside to look for him and to send him here immediately. Better that they, who knew all the boy's favourite haunts, should look for him directly, he had reasoned. But that had been an hour earlier. He had heard nothing since then.

That he should have had to send the boys was, in itself, a worrisome revelation, and it set me fretting. For years, all four boys had been inseparable. Where one was found, the others were close by, and that had always been a simple fact of life. Until today. What, in the name of the sweet Christus,

I wondered now, could Arthur be about? Where would he have gone, without his friends? And then my mind leaped to consider unpleasant possibilities. Had he been harmed? Was he perhaps in danger, lost or injured somewhere out in the rough country beyond the walls? A sudden vision of Rufio, lying bleeding after his encounter with the bear in the forest, chilled me to the bone. But even as these thoughts teemed in my head, I saw Arthur running towards me, rounding the corner from the central road that divided the fort. He was red faced and out of breath, and I merely stood and looked at him, disapprovingly, as he came to a halt before us, panting as though he had run for miles.

"I'm sorry, Cay," he gasped. "I would not have kept you waiting had I known. I came as soon as Bedwyr found me." I said nothing, and his face grew redder. "I was out on the hillside, beneath the walls. I had no thought you might have need of me."

"You had no thought at all, that's plain." I was aware how very unusual such behaviour was for him, and yet I could not let the occasion pass without a reprimand. "You know better, Arthur, than to disappear without informing someone of your whereabouts. Have you forgotten Rufio's misfortune so soon, and the upheaval it provoked?" He hung his head now, shamefaced and making no attempt to defend himself. "Have you nothing more to say, then?"

He sucked in a deep breath, then shook his head, his eyes still cast down. "No, nothing more, except to say I'm sorry."

There was little more for me to say. The lad had committed no crime. He had not even misbehaved, other than to slip away on his own. No point, then, in punishing him further, for I was under no illusions; his red face and his general air of guilt declared that he considered this questioning a form of punishment. I thanked Donuil, who had been standing beside me, and allowed him to leave before I led the boy into my quarters. He stood meekly in the middle of the floor until I waved him to a chair and seated myself across from him.

"I know I seldom send for you at this time of the day, so there's no reason why you should have kept yourself available to me, none at all. I was concerned when I discovered that you had gone off alone and could not be found immediately, that is all. If you think about it, you'll agree that that is most unusual, as well as simply dangerous and foolish, when the woods and hills about us are full of savage animals who see us as the interlopers on their mountains. What were you doing?" I waved him to silence as soon as I had asked the question, seeing the alarm that flared in his wide, gold flecked eyes. "You needn't answer that. It's really none of my concern, mere curiosity."

He answered anyway. "I was close by, Cay, close beneath the walls. I was merely... in an unusual place, that is all. Bed found me, by accident, on his way to rejoin Gwin and Ghilly. As soon as he told me you were looking for me, I ran all the way here. But I was never in any danger and never beyond shouting distance of the guards on the wall."

"Hmm," I grunted. "Well, that's some relief, at any rate. Now listen, I have decided that we'll leave in three days' time to return to Camulod. We'll travel by road, with the returning garrison, because Connor has other affairs to be about and he believes the sea route may be much too perilous to risk at this time, with Ironhair's armies invading Cambria by sea and therefore plying to and fro across our only path." I paused, to see that I had his full attention. His eyes were fixed on my lips, waiting for me to speak again. "So," I continued, "everything is ready now, at last, although I had begun to doubt it ever would be! I want you to ride to Ravenglass, to take that word from me to Derek. You will leave in the morning, as soon as you have broken your night fast. You may take the others with you if you wish, but there will be no time for play along the way. I need you to go there, as quickly as you may, to find Derek, and give him word from me in confidence, for his ears alone. Is that clear?"

"Aye. What must I tell him?"

"Straightforward tidings, for the most part. You will inform him that Connor and his party will leave here tomorrow, later in the day, to return to Ravenglass. We Ourselves will leave Mediobogdum to return to Camulod on the second day after that— What's wrong with you? Are you not well?"

His face suddenly looked ashen, but when I questioned him he sat up straight and shook his head, the muscles of his jaw outlined, so tightly were they clenched.

"No! I'm..." He blinked then, widening his eyes and fluttering his eyelids and shaking his head like someone waking from a dream. "I'll be fine, Cay." His voice, very slightly slurred, made him sound dazed. I stood up, alarmed, but he stopped me with an upraised hand, shaking his head. "It was... a sudden vertigo, that's all." He shuddered and then sat straight, evidently attempting to pull himself together. "Perhaps from running," he continued in a more normal tone.

I watched him silently for several moments more, then thought to offer him something to drink. He cut my offer short, however, albeit not rudely, and his voice sounded normal again. I was thankful to see, too, that the colour was beginning to return to his cheeks. "No, Cay. I thank you, but I'm well enough now. It was a momentary thing and now it's gone. You were telling me about the message to Derek. Please go on. Why must it be so secret? Nothing you have said indicates a need for that."

Reassured by the calmness of his tone; I nodded. "That's correct, on the surface, but I believe there is a need at least for circumspection. When I first spoke to Derek of our decision to leave here and return home, he spoke of coming with us and leaving his kingdom to his eldest son, Owen. He was adamant about it at the time, but he has not mentioned it since. I don't know whether he has changed his mind and decided to stay here in Ravenglass, or whether he is simply waiting for the word from me to join us. You will carry that word to him tomorrow, simple and unadorned, but you must deliver it to him alone, in private, for whether he still intends to come with us or not, he is king of Ravenglass. The announcement of his departure must be his to make. Similarly, if he has changed his mind, he might not wish it to be known, for reasons of policy, that he had considered leaving. Do you understand?" The boy nodded. "Good. How are you feeling now?"

He nodded again, frowning slightly. "I'm perfect. Nothing wrong with me at all. May I go now?"

"Aye, of course. You'll leave in the morning, as soon as the sun is up, and I'll expect you back before nightfall." He stood up and started to leave, but I stopped him as he reached the door. "Will you take Bedwyr and the others with you?"

"I don't know." He hesitated, his hand on the latch. "Could I remain in Ravenglass tomorrow night, and come home the following morning?"

"No, Arthur, not this time. That's the day before we leave. You'll be needed here. Everyone will be needed that day, every pair of hands will work at packing and lading. We'

must be away from here and across the pass long before noon on the morning after that, and beyond Galava, on the Great Mere, before nightfall."

His frown grew more pronounced, suggesting a hint of defiance, which perplexed me. It was unmistakable in his next words. "But what about King Derek? If he is to come with us, he'll come the following day. Could I not ride back here with him?"

I turned slowly to look directly at him, feeling, for the first time ever with the boy, a real need to assert discipline. "What?" I said, keeping my tone cool and level yet with a hint of asperity. "And leave your work here to be done by others who will have their own hands full while you amuse yourself in Ravenglass? I'm surprised you would even think to ask such a thing. No, you will return tomorrow afternoon, obeying my instructions and arriving before nightfall. Is that clear enough?" He nodded, but his face was set in lines of displeasure, almost a scowl, and I hardened my voice. "Good, then we understand each other perfectly. Besides, you will find that if King Derek has decided to come with us, he will be ready and will doubtless ride back with you tomorrow. He has known for months that we are leaving as soon as we may. If he has decided to remain, on the other hand, he will come back with you tomorrow anyway, to say goodbye. So the true answer to your ill considered question is both no and yes. No, you may not stay in Ravenglass, and yes, you may ride back with Derek. Clear? Good. That's all, young man. You may go now."

He stood there in the doorway, clearly angry and struggling for words, but then he lowered his head, biting at his lip. Finally he nodded, his head still downcast, and went out without looking at me again, closing the door gently behind him. I had the distinct impression that he wanted to slam it shut, however, and I opened it slightly again to watch him walk stiffly away into the gathering dusk with his fists clenched and his entire bearing radiating anger and frustration. Then I heard Tressa's voice calling his name from the street on my right and I pulled the door to as he turned around to look for her.

Moments later, she opened the door and came in, unwinding the long stola she had wrapped around her shoulders.

"Cay, what on earth did you say to Arthur? I've never seen him so upset. He could barely stand to talk to me and I swear he was on the point of tears. Did you two quarrel?"

"No, my love," I said with a sigh, "we did not." I went to her and threw my arms about her, holding her close and kissing her deeply before moving away again to the high backed chair at my table, where I seated myself and told her everything that had passed between the boy and me, making no attempt to disguise my bafflement at his strange behaviour.

When I had finished, throwing up my arms and declaring my exasperation, she simply smiled and shook her head. "Rebellious, was that the word you stopped yourself from saying a moment ago?" She did not wait for me to respond; she had heard me correctly. "Arthur is not rebellious, Cay, you know that. He's the best natured boy in the world, and what you've said here confirms that. But the first words that come to you when now he shows a spark of his own feelings are 'surly' and 'selfish.' You really have no idea what's wrong with him, do you?"

I placed both hands flat on the table top and looked at her, raising my eyebrows, aware I was about to learn. "Haven't I made myself clear on that, woman? If I understood any of it, I would not be so frustrated, would I?"

'The boy's in love, you great, clumsy, dimwitted male!" Her perplexed but understanding smile robbed her words of any sting, and in the tone of them I heard her ask, wordlessly, What am I going to do with you, when you are so thick-skulled? "Have you no sense at all, no eyes, no empathy in you? He's changed, Cay, forever. Gone, vanished. What was that great long word you told to Derek, about butterflies? Meta..."

"Metamorphosis."

"Aye, that's it. Well, that's what's happened to the boy. He's metamorphosized."

I had to smile, she looked so earnest and concerned. "Metamorphosed, we say."

"Pah! You say it—it's too big for me, twisting in my mouth like something alive. But changed completely, that's what it means, howe'er you say it. The Arthur that you've always known is lost, Cay. Lost in love, for the first time in his life, and all he knows is that it's about to end and he is powerless to stop it. For you've just told him that you're ending it, tomorrow, come sunrise, tearing him and his love apart, sending her home and carrying him away to Camulod."

"Love?" I sat staring at her, attempting to grapple with what she had told me. "Arthur's in love? That's nonsense. With whom?" But even as I spoke the words, I saw it, my mind showing me images that I had seen in open view these past two weeks and chosen to ignore: Arthur, cow eyed and spellbound as he sat at dinner, gazing wordlessly at the beautiful young woman who sat demurely with her aunt and uncle, turning her head from time to time to smile in his direction; Bedwyr, grinning and slyly nudging Gwin as they watched Arthur watching her; the two young girls from Ravenglass, Stella and Rena, their faces the very picture of dislike and open hostility as they glared at the sight of Arthur in the street, standing alone with Morag between the buttresses of the central granaries, in a flood of bright sunlight that painted the entire west wall; and last, but most telling, the memory of that first moment when I had seen the two of them staring raptly at each other on the day she first arrived, each of them utterly, compellingly, immediately absorbed in the blinding totality of the other.

Thunder bolted. The term sprang into my mind, jarring me with bittersweet recollections forgotten thirty years before; the word we had used, as boys, to indicate the crippling swiftness with which love could strike. I had been thunder bolted once, and lost my love, a bright faced girl of twelve whose father had been banished for some crime against the Colony, and now the sharp, aching strangeness of the feelings that had filled my breast returned—the incredulous joy and wonder of sharing the world with her— and unreal though it was, the merest, fleeting shadow of a memory, the painful sweetness of it yet reminded me of what it had been like to live with such a love possessing me: terror and awe, offset by wild, thrilling joy and disbelief that I could be so blessed; capering, carefree madness spurred by an excitement beyond bearing; soaring elation blended with an incendiary purity of thought and purpose and the grand resolve to lay the whole world at my true love's feet. Her name had been Lueth, and now I wondered, for a flickering moment during which her face burned in my mind, how life had dealt with her. I thought, too, of Publius Varrus and how he, in his day, had been thunder bolted by a girl in blue, a girl whose real name might or might not have been the one she had given him on the sole summer afternoon they spent together. He had lost her in finding her, that single afternoon, and had spent years searching for her face throughout the Empire.

Tress moved now to sit on the floor by my feet, and she leaned against my knee, her bent arm on my thigh, supporting her face in her hand as she gazed up at me.

"What is it, Cay? What are you thinking?"

I reached down to stroke her hair, then looked at her, feeling suddenly very old. "About first love, and what it does to us. It shatters us, that first time when we see that there's another species in our world of men, a species concerning whose existence we had been in utter ignorance—the

goddess species. First love, the thunderbolt, is the loss of

innocence." I stopped, feeling a swelling in my throat the like of which I had not felt in years. And then, because Tressa was so wide eyed and intent, staring up at me, I rubbed my thumb against the smoothness of her cheek and spoke what lay within my mind.

"I simply never thought of that before, and even so, had I ever thought of such a thing, I would never have imagined that I might... that I might be the one to cause such direct pain to any boy, far less a boy who means as much to me as Arthur does. And yet there's nothing I can do to change it, to change anything. We have to leave this place now, and so does young Morag. It's time for us to go, and the world of men and women cannot wait upon the love of almost children."

The melancholy that I felt at that moment was almost insupportable, but Tress saved me from the depths of it. "You can do much to help him," she said, in a tone that pronounced my anguish to be baseless. Ignoring my philosophical maunderings, she had fastened on the crux of the matter. "You can support him through this pain. You can give him hope."

"How?" I was looking at her keenly now, "Forgive me, Tress, I don't know what you mean. Hope of what? Meeting another such goddess? He never will. Never again another first love."

"No, not another! Hope of seeing Morag again, you silly man. Her father is a king, is he not? Well, so was Arthur's. King's sons wed the daughters of other kings, is that not so? Her uncle, married to her beloved Aunt Salina, is Arthur's uncle, too, and he's another king, in his own right, the king of the Scots. Have you no plans to welcome him to Camulod some day? Well, when he comes, if you invite the lass and play the game with anything approaching wisdom, might not King Brander and his wife bring the fair Morag to visit with them, serving her aunt, as the queen's own attendant? You talk of politics, among your friends— is that not politics, to talk of binding kingdoms and close friendships? Talk about that, then, to Arthur, and see how he responds. But do it now, before he has to leave in the morning with his whole world tumbling about his ears."

I found Arthur in the dining hall, where the tables had already been prepared for supper. He was moping alone in a corner with a mug that I suspected, from the way he straightened up on seeing me and pushed it furtively aside, might be full of ale, or of forbidden, full strength wine. I did not approach him but merely beckoned, crooking my finger at him, and then turned to walk out without waiting to see what he would do. Now that I understood his pain, I also understood his anger and I had no wish to provoke a possible confrontation in such a public place.

I walked slowly and quietly on the cobbled roadway, placing my iron studded boots with care to reduce the noise they made, while I listened for the sounds of him following me. He was there, behind me, and I slowed even more, waiting for him to catch up to me. And then I heard Connor calling my name and I cursed quietly, even as I turned to wave and greet him. He and Brander and some others would be gathering after the evening meal, he told me, to say their mutual farewells over a jug of ale or a beaker of mead, and he hoped that I would join them. As Arthur came up beside me I reached out and gripped him gently by the back of the neck, and I told Connor that I would be glad to join them and that Arthur, too, might come along with me.

We were going to talk now, I said, about an errand he must do for me the following day, but we would meet everyone at dinner and proceed from there.

Tressa was absent when we reached my quarters, but she had lit a fire in the brazier before leaving and it was evident that she had left only moments earlier. I waved Arthur to a seat and crossed directly to the carved chest that contained my mead.

"Will you drink some mead with me?"

He stared at me as if he thought I had lost my wits. He might have tasted mead before this night, but never in my company. The rule we had was simple and absolute: mead was for adults, as was wine. Boys might drink ale—one cup, no more—with dinner. Otherwise they drank water, infrequently mixed with a modicum of wine, for flavour, and occasionally they drank milk and the juice of crushed fruit when it was in season. Now I was offering him mead, in my own quarters, and I was sure the significance of that would not escape him for long.

Finally he nodded, very slowly and judiciously, evidently fearing to appear to be too eager. I poured him the same measure that I poured for myself and carried it to where he sat. He took it and watched me warily as I sat down across from him and raised my cup, saluting Bacchus in the ancient way. He pursed his lips and savoured the liquor cautiously, as though afraid of what it might do to him. Perhaps I had been wrong, I thought. Perhaps this too, like Morag, was a first.

"Well, what do you think? Your Aunt Shelagh made it. " He had not said a single word since I found him, and I would have been prepared to wager that he had not, in fact, spoken since he left Tressa, in the street, an hour and more before. Now he nodded again, sucking at his cheeks.

"It's very sweet," he said, his voice pitched low. "But fiery. It catches at the throat. Makes you want to cough."

"Aye, but if you sip it, you'll find you can handle it and the urge to cough will pass." I looked into my cup. "Drink it too fast, or drink too much of it, you'll feel the urge to vomit, and that one is irresistible. Then, after that, depending on how much you've had, you'll think you're going to die, and if you've had too much, you'll sometimes wish you could die." I spoke slowly, overemphasizing certain words, hoping the humour of it might encourage him to smile, but he was too far gone in his self absorbed tragedy. I decided to be direct.

'Tell me about Morag."

He flinched as though I had hit him. "What? Who?"

I sighed elaborately, gesturing with my cup. "Arthur, that is mead. It is the drink of men. I gave it to you freely, as a man. Now, I believe, we need to talk as men, about the girl Morag and the parting I have thrust on you today. I know that you and she are in love—"

"How can you know that?" His challenge was sharp edged and defensive.

I raised my eyebrows. "Tress told me."

"And how could she know such a thing?"

"Because, my bold young cousin, she's a woman. Women do know such things. No man can hope to fool them, not for long, at least."

I stopped short. His eyes were frantic, filled with panic and with shame, fixed on some point beyond my shoulder, and his entire body was straining as though he meant to leap to his feet and run out into the night again. My heart went out to him in his needless agony.

"Arthur," I said, keeping my voice pitched low. "Look at me. Look me in the eye, Arthur." My words sank home to him and he looked at me directly, his face pale, the knuckles of his hand bone white with the pressure he was exerting on the cup he clutched. I nodded towards that. "That cup is hard fired clay, but you're about to break it. " His face flickered with doubt, and he looked down at his hand, and then, after the space of three heartbeats, the hand relaxed and he began to stoop, to place the beaker on the floor.

"No, don't do that, " I said. 'Take another sip. "

He did, and I watched his eyes, locked on my own, above the rim of the cup. He lowered the cup and swallowed, convulsively, fighting the urge to cough, but the panic was gone now from his eyes.

"Good. Now what is so dreadful about Tressa knowing how you feel for Morag?"

He shuddered, perhaps from the mead. "I... I didn't think it was so obvious. Didn't know everyone knew. "

"Everyone didn't know. I certainly did not, for if I had I would have made allowances and warned you what must happen, given you the chance to prepare yourself for this parting in advance, you and the. girl. I hope you can see that? I had no idea you felt so strongly about Morag until Tress belaboured me for my blindness. Yet I watch you all the time. So if I didn't know, then no one else knew either, among the men. If they had, they surely would have let me know, probably in jest. The women knew, but women never jest about such things as sweet young girls and brave young men in love... unless they're jealous, and then that's merely spite. So be at peace... " I allowed that to sink into his mind before I continued. "Besides, why should you feel shame? A man's love is the dearest thing in his heart, whether it be given to a woman, or to a shining cause, or to a strongly held ideal—and the love of a good woman is all three of those. Where is the shame in that, in knowing such a love, in being thus fulfilled? Love that's shared and returned is a cause for pride, Arthur. It makes towering giants out of ordinary men and gentle gods out of towering giants. Have you heard one word of what I've said?"

He sat nodding now, his face transformed, and this time when he looked at me he smiled, although fleetingly, and then his mouth drooped down again, as though afraid to lose the bitter taste of sorrow.

"What's wrong now? Come on, take another drink and spit out what you think. There are only we two here."

He gulped at the mead this time and I braced myself, prepared to leap up and pound him on the back, but the fiery drink went down without producing anything more than a brief shudder. Then he sniffed and looked me in the eye. "I'm sick in my soul, Cay, terrified to lose her. I'll never see her again once she goes home and we ride south to Camulod. She lives in Gallava... in Caledonia!"

"A different land, aye. But you're wrong, lad. You'll see her again, and soon, and I'm going to tell you how and why. But first I have some things to clarify, for myself, and for you. They are important to me—to both of us in truth—so let me deal with those, ere we move on to talk of Morag. Will you listen?"

He nodded, sipping at his drink again, more temperately this time, and I wondered how long it would take for the potent brew to work its will on him. I had, in truth, poured but a small amount for both of us, but he was unused to its effects.

"Good. Here's the crux of it, so listen closely." I stood up and moved away from him, speaking directly towards him as I moved about the room. "The main thing I want you to know is that, had I been aware of how you feel about Morag, I would not have thrust the matter upon you so suddenly and so thoughtlessly today. I would, however, have given you the same instructions, and the same restrictions would have governed your obedience to them. You must go to Derek tomorrow morning, and you must return without fail tomorrow evening. None of the imperatives governing our behaviour have changed since first I spoke to you. You have duties to perform here and, in justice you must be seen to perform them. If you are to lead men of your own in the time ahead, you must be seen to be above claiming privileges unavailable to those you lead. A really great leader is the one who shares the burdens of his men in the small trials. They cannot take his place when great events occur, but he will share their tribulations, and then he will assume his own burden, unaided, when the crisis is at hand. At that point they will follow him and fight for his cause, and die for his objectives and his will, for love of him and what he represents: their best interests. That is true leadership, Arthur, and it is almost impossible to achieve, though thousands attempt it. And one of the most chronic difficulties in achieving it lies in the kind of thing you faced today— the temptation to advance your own desires, your own well being, at the cost of those who depend on you and trust you to be true to them. Give in to that temptation once, and you'll do it again, and as surely as running water erodes rock, you'll destroy your own leadership."

I stopped pacing and faced him across the back of my chair, leaning my hands on the topmost rung. "That's really all I wanted to tell you. Does it make sense?"

"Aye," he said, his voice a husky growl. "It makes perfect sense."

"Good, I'm happy you see it. Now, what I said, among all that, was that you'll leave tomorrow and return tomorrow, doubtless passing Morag and the returning party on the way. But several matters have come up since first we talked of this, and I have something now to offer you." I stepped around my chair and took hold of his hand, tipping his cup towards me. There was still some mead in the bottom of it. "Do you want to finish that?'

"No, not really."

I took it from his hand and poured the. remainder into my own cup. "You heard what Connor said as we were coming here. The men will gather after dinner, to drink mead and make their farewells. It will be a celebration, probably long and noisy. The women will attend as well, of course, but there will be much drinking, and no doubt songs and music. I invited you to come with me—I mean as a man— and Connor made no objection." I sipped. "It occurs to me, however, that you might not wish to come with me. Tress, I know, has talked of returning here tonight, after dinner, to show her finest needlework to young Morag. If such things interest you, I'm sure Tress would be proud and pleased to show you her work, too. What say you?' The joy on his face was all the reward I had hoped for. "Very well, then, I'll make excuses for you to the other gathering, since you must be astir and away to Ravenglass early in the morning. Now, there's one thing more: the future. Morag is a king's daughter, and you are a king's son..."

I went on then to describe to him at length, using Tress's logic and words, how he would, in fact, see young Morag in years to come, providing he and I emerged victorious from our wars. By the time I had finished, he was a warrior indeed, sparks flashing from his eager eyes, and I knew he would ride into Ravenglass the next day with his soul ablaze with hopes and dreams.

I placed our empty cups on the table top and we walked together to the dining hall, my arm about his shoulders and my chest swollen with the satisfaction of hearing him talking normally again, his excitement and exuberance spilling out into my ears. He did riot mention Morag once by name, but all his fire, his passion and enthusiasm, was for her and for the hope that lay ahead of them.

THREE

In my travels the length and breadth of Britain, I have always found time and provocation to wonder at the influence of the Romans—an influence they have continued to exert long decades after their withdrawal. Perhaps one should expect no less; after all, Britain was a Roman province for nigh on five centuries and thus almost purely Roman in all its civilized ways. But the ubiquitous Romans were predominantly urbanites in Britain, seldom venturing outside the vicinity of the towns they built around their forts, which nurtured them and their civilization. Beyond the towns, the land itself knew another life, supporting other peoples who had lived according to their own ancient ways since long before Julius Caesar first turned his acquisitive eyes towards these shores. These were the true Britanni, the real people of Britain, and they were a tribal race, perhaps a mix of races commingled in the lost and ancient past. The Romans, with their passion for organization, named these clans according to their tribal territories, Romanizing the alien sounds of what the federations living there called themselves and labelling them Trinovantes, Belgae, Iceni, Dobunni and similar names, most of which have been long since unused.

The entire north-western area, through which we travelled first that spring, was the traditional territory of the Brigantes, the clan from which Derek and his folk had sprung, and it stretched clear across Britain to the Eastern Sea, into the area Vortigern had claimed, within living memory, as his Northumbria. We had left Ravenglass and travelled inland, north by east along the Roman road, the Tenth Iter, to a place that had been known as Brocavum and that now lay empty and abandoned, too close to the Pictish lands above the Wall to be safe for habitation. From there, we, turned south, following the high road to yet another empty, ruined fort, this one much smaller and so long forgotten that its name had been lost, despite the fact that it stood at a crossroads. We spent a pleasant afternoon and night in the shelter of its crumbling walls, then swung west on the right arm of the crossroad for a few miles, before turning southward again at an unnamed bridge over the river there. After travelling some fifty miles, we gained the westward fork that would bring us to Deva, the great fortress town of the Twentieth Valeria Victrix Legion.

There, even decades after it had been abandoned by its renowned garrison, we found that little had changed. The great fortress that had stood invulnerable and inviolable for so many scores of decades had not yet begun to bow its mighty head to decay, and it hosted a strong and self sufficient populace who had no patience with visiting soldiery, even those who came in peace. These people, presumably descendants of the Cornovii whose ancient territory this was, called their fortress home Chester, a corruption of the Latin word castra, meaning the fort or camp. Although the people there showed us no overt belligerence, they locked and barred their massive gates against us and disdained to recognize our overtures of peace and friendship.

Regretfully, we left them to their self willed isolation and continued southward, embarking now upon a journey of more than two hundred miles, on roads that stretched through otherwise impenetrable forest, towards the town the Romans had called Corinium, which had been, for untold centuries, the main territorial town of the Dobunni. From Corinium it would be a mere fifty miles to Aquae Sulis, and from there another overnight camp would bring us within reach of Camulod.

Only near the fort towns where the Roman garrisons and their suppliers once lived had we seen signs of organized, if limited, agriculture: cleared lands, regular fields and marked divisions and boundaries. Now, however, as we approached Corinium, the forests fell away and disappeared and we found ourselves moving through what had evidently once been an arable, treeless landscape with extensive meadows and even cultivated fields, some of which, despite having lain fallow for decades, still showed clear lines of boundaries distinguishing each from its neighbours. We saw no signs of recent agriculture in the first few miles of this terrain; what had once been fertile fields were grossly overgrown with weeds and thistles, rioting shrubs and acres of thriving saplings. Eventually, however, we reached an area where small plots of land had recently been ploughed and planted. These were few and far between, at first, but as we neared the district surrounding Corinium, the cultivated plots grew larger and more numerous. Less than one quarter of the land available had been ploughed or planted, but every field, including those that lay fallow and overgrown, showed the evidence that proclaimed its origins in Roman organization.

"They grow bigger and more numerous as we approach the town, but you'll see no sign of the fanners. " Philip, who had been riding by my side in silence for more than a mile, must have been watching me eyeing the fields and had read my mind.

Surprised by his comment, I turned to face him, grimacing and shifting my seat in the saddle. "Why not?" I asked, granting involuntarily as the movement sent a spasm of pain through my buttocks.

Philip grinned before he answered, his eyes flicking downward to my seat. "Because they've learned to stay well away from targets. Growing things—fresh foodstuffs— attract two legged predators. They fade into the greenwood the moment any unknown faces appear in the region. Farmers nowadays are a strange breed. They've grown afraid of strangers since the armies left, and who can blame them?" His grin widened at the sight of my obvious discomfort. "You've been spending too much time afoot, these past years, Commander Merlyn."

"Aye," I agreed wryly, "but we've been in the saddle now for fourteen straight days. My seat should be toughened again by this time."

Philip laughed and shook his head. "This has been a long day. My own backside is sore enough that I can think of nothing else but climbing down. We camped close by here on the way up—an old legionary marching camp on the right of the road, about two miles further on, close by a clear stream. There's little left of it by this time—you can barely see where the old dirt walls used to be—but it's a good spot and still defensible, should the need arise."

"Excellent. Then we'll use it, soon, I hope." I reached down and dug my fingertips tentatively into my right buttock, then winced from the pain of it. "Tell me more about the local fanners. Ambrose told me some time ago that they had started gathering close by the old Roman towns again but were not living in them. Where do they live, then?"

Philip shrugged, lifting himself up in his stirrups to look over his shoulder, checking on the group that stretched out behind us. Satisfied that all was as it should be, he settled into the saddle again and eased the weight of his helmet from his forehead, loosening the catch beneath his chin and pushing the brim of the heavy headpiece upward with his thumb.

"Anywhere they can find a place that offers them some safety. And you're right, they avoid the towns." He hawked and spat, leaning forward and away from me. "That seems strange, I know," he continued, straightening again and curbing his horse, which had shied at the sound of his spitting close by its ear. "But it's as it should be. The towns attract unwelcome attention from visitors, and the walls around them too often represent more of a prison than a defence. They also tend to avoid living together in groups of families, and that's something new to me, although I can see a certain sense to it. There was a time when strength in numbers meant safety, but that's no longer the case when the threat to your safety comes from greater numbers who are better armed and trained to fight in concert. Under those conditions, the surest safety lies in flight, and the advantage of flight lies in being alone, or at least fleeing in the smallest possible group.

'The farmers nowadays tend to isolate themselves in small, tight family units. Each family takes care of its own fields from a distance, travelling to and from them every day. It makes sense, considering the risks involved in growing crops. If a family decides to tackle it at all—and they really have no choice—they'll farm at least two fields, but more often three or more, and they take care that each is as distant from the others as possible. Once the crops are ready to be harvested in safety, then they'll bring them in as quietly as possible, one field at a time. If a crop is lost for any reason—if one, let's say, is harvested by bandits forcing locals to do the work for them—why then the family simply hopes that their remaining fields will rest untouched, and they'll be able to live off those crops. In the meantime, they live in a hut or a lean-to somewhere close to the woods. If they're threatened, they flee into the forest, and if their hovel is burned or torn down, they can build another just like it within a day or so."

As I listened to Philip, the realization came to me, tinged with a sense of shame, that I had never thought, analytically, about the lives of ordinary people, out here in the open countryside, without the benefit of a colony or a fortified town to protect them. While I had dreamed of the future of Britain in the safety of my secluded fort, with the strength of Camulod's troops and all the trappings of Roman civilization at my disposal, these people—the very people who would live out that dream and bring it to fruition— were leading lives that were brutal, bloody and fearful. I found myself staring at Philip, appalled both by the implications of his words, and by the casual way he uttered them. I had to fight down an unjust urge to turn the rough edge of my tongue on him. Instead, I forced myself to sit quietly and look about me until I had regained control of my suddenly turbulent emotions.

"So," I said eventually. "I have not heard you say so, but you give me the impression you believe these people deserve their lot in life?"

Philip looked at me now as if I were the one saying appalling things, and then his eyes narrowed and he nodded, a tiny gesture of acknowledgement. "They live the only kind of life they know, Commander, and it is their lot, beyond our power to change or influence." I noted his use of my formal title, rather than the name he was entitled to use as an old friend. "All we can do is thank God our lives are as they are, and not like theirs. Short of establishing a garrison in Corinium, which would be impossible, I can't think of a thing we could do to improve their lot."

I grunted, and spurred my horse to a trot, leaving Philip behind. He made no effort to catch up to me, and for the next half hour I rode alone, mulling over what he had told me.

I was still thinking on it when we reached the appointed campground and our people began setting up our tents and horse lines for the night. I maintained my distance from everyone, even at supper, carrying my meal away and sitting alone with my thoughts. Tress obviously knew that I had some concern or other nagging at me. She was clever enough and considerate enough to keep her distance and allow me to stew in my own juices for as long as necessary, knowing that I would come to her soon. I was grateful to her for that, and aware that she would also keep others away from me.

Philip and the others might think of these farm folk as a breed apart, but I knew that opinion to be a vessel that would not hold water. Most of the soldiers of Camulod, and the majority of our most worthy Colonists, had been drawn from this region and from the ranks of these same people. We had been forced to close our gates against the others, immuring ourselves for our own protection and welfare in the face of the impossibility of feeding and protecting everyone in Britain. This was something I had always known and accepted, from my earliest boyhood. Why then, I asked myself, should I be feeling guilt and anger at myself now?

I was still thinking the same discomforting thoughts as I made my way to my tent, but there was to be little sleep for me that night. I had barely begun to unbuckle my armour when I heard a minor commotion outside. I refastened my harness and made my way back out into the firelight, wondering what was happening. At first I could see nothing, although the rising sounds of voices and approaching feet told me that I would, soon. I started towards the centre of the encampment and saw the crowd come into view: at least half a score of men carrying spears and looking purposeful.

Philip had emerged from the headquarters tent and was moving towards them, but as I approached the central fire I heard my name being called quietly and saw Dedalus coming towards me. He held up his hand to silence me before I could speak, and, taking me by the elbow, he steered me away from the fire again.

"We have a prisoner."

"A prisoner? Ded, we're not at war."

"Well then, we have an unwilling guest."

"Who is he?'

"I don't know. A local, I suppose. Falvo's people picked him up, on the far leg of their patrol. He was alone, and armed. He tried to run and they surrounded him. Didn't know what to do with him, so they brought him back."

"Very well, then, what was it about this man that made Falvo decide to bring him in? I'm presuming the man's no ordinary farmer, otherwise, knowing Falvo, he'd have knocked him on the head and left him there asleep, where they found him. And yet you said the fellow's local."

"Well, that's my guess, but he's no local Celt. I'm sure of that. He's Roman or I'm a barbarian. And judging from his clothing and weapons, he's wealthy."

"What d'you mean, Roman?'"

The answer was preceded by a snort of impatience. "What should I mean? He's short, squat, arrogant, black eyed, clean-shaven, and he's got a beak like an eagle. He's as Roman as I am."

I sighed. "Hmm. Roman, well dressed, well armed and wealthy. Well, we haven't seen much evidence of his like around here. So let's go and meet him." I paused, looking across the fire to Falvo's patrol. "Before we do that, though, perhaps you should tell me exactly what happened."

The knot of men surrounding the newcomer was no more than ten long paces from where Ded and I stood watching, and I could see the glint of firelight reflecting from their spearheads. Philip, who was Officer of the Watch, was huddled there with Falvo, slightly apart from the group, his head down as he listened. I looked beyond them, hoping to find a glimpse of the stranger, but I could see only my own men. Dedalus, in the meantime, had launched into his account.

"Falvo and his troop were at the far end of their sweep, about ten miles from here—"

"Ten miles? What in Hades was he doing that far away?"

Dedalus shrugged. "What he was supposed to be doing, scouting. He had good reason to be there, too. Falvo will tell you all of it himself, in his patrol report, but I think you should hear the gist of it now, before you speak to our pris—, to our guest. They were about five miles out, on a normal, uneventful sweep, when one of Falvo's men remarked that the fields they were riding through were very different to those they'd passed earlier. They were bigger, and more of them were under cultivation. Falvo realized the man was right and that the further they went, the more fields they saw, but they'd seen no farms, no houses, no people. He was curious, and so he decided to keep riding. Within a few more miles, they were riding through the richest farmland Falvo has ever seen. He says it looks as though someone has organized land holdings out there at least as big as ours in the Colony.

"They were riding in an arc, veering eastward and following a river valley, looking for any signs of life they could find, and they saw none. It was about mid-afternoon, and Falvo told me he was starting to grow itchy—not because he was afraid, but because he knew he was well beyond where he ought to be, out of touch with us. Anyone he met out there would be hostile—because they'd think he and his men were up to no good. And he was beginning to realize, too, that trouble could come in large numbers. Hundreds of fields, hundreds of angry people.

"Falvo decided to finish his sweep then and there by swinging east. There's a road there, which leads directly south again to join this one just outside Corinium. Then he discovered that there's a mile thick belt of forest between the fields and the road—obviously a screen to discourage visitors. As they approached the edge of the trees, riding in skirmish line abreast, one of his men, Samuel Cato, flushed our visitor, by sheer accident. The fellow's a fighter, that much is obvious. He attacked Cato on foot immediately he was discovered. Charged right at him with only a shortsword. He should have died right then and there, but he succeeded in frightening Cato's horse and unseating him. He ran then, making no attempt to injure Cato once he was unhorsed, but before he could get away the troopers on either side caught up to him and one of them, seeing what the fellow was wearing, tripped him by thrusting a spear between his feet. Knocked the wind out of him, apparently, and by the time he recovered they had him in custody."

"What was he wearing?"

"Armour—Roman armour."

"Hmm Quick thinking on the part of the trooper who tripped him. He should be commended. Was Cato badly hurt?"

"Only in his dignity. He'll be more careful in future. Anyway, as soon as Falvo saw what this fellow looked like, he thought you might like to talk to him, so he brought him in under guard, although he did permit the man to keep his weapons. Fellow was on foot, and only had a shortsword and a dagger, but he seemed honourable. That was Falvo's word. It impressed me, coming from him. Anyway, Falvo spoke to the fellow in Latin, told him he wasn't really a prisoner but that he'd have to come along, and asked him for his parole not to attempt escape, in return for being able to ride behind one of the men. I met up with them a couple of miles from here, down where the road forks, and the rest you know. And now, if you're going to ask me what I think you should do, I've no idea."

I smiled. "We have absolutely no idea who he is?"

"No, nor where he comes from. Only thing we know is that he was either there alone or he has very pusillanimous friends."

"Hmm," I grunted again, my thoughts racing. "Well, let's find out."

As we approached the group on the other side of the fire, I saw the stranger notice me and fasten his attention on me. The others fell back on either side, and Dedalus stopped a few paces to my rear. Soon I stood facing the newcomer, taking his measure as he was taking mine.

Dedalus was right. This man was a fighter—it was stamped into his bearing. And there was no mistaking his Roman heritage, even had he not been wearing the telltale armour; his Romanness leaped from his face and form as though written there in letters of light. His stance and bearing showed that he was accustomed to deference and to obedience—more than a mere fighter, this was a leader of men, and the fact that I towered over him by a full head and more made absolutely no difference in my assessment of him. Publius Varrus, years earlier, had described the Emperor Honorius's regent, Flavius Stilicho, as a Vandal hawk; the man who faced me now was the same type, radiating menace, self confidence and absolute competence. He was young, on the lighter side of thirty, his well formed muscles full of the vigour of prime manhood. High, sharp cheekbones defined a lean face with a wide mouth, narrow lips and deep, dark, sunken eyes on either side of a dominating, sharp ridged, aquiline nose. The breadth of his high forehead was emphasized by the sharp widow's peak of hair that bisected it, reminding me fleetingly of Lucanus and drawing my attention to the raptor like quality of the face beneath. He was clean shaven, and his hair was close shorn in the Roman fashion.

From his broad, strong shoulders, a dark-red cloak hung, fastened in the Roman manner through the breast rosettes of the metal cuirass he wore. He wore a quilted, knee-length tunic of thick, white wool, and an officer's kirtle of heavy, armoured straps was belted about his waist. The red cloak showed clear signs of having been carefully repaired in several places, and the relief work and decorative rosettes on his metal breastplate were worn almost smooth from years of polishing. The same polished lustre of loving care betrayed itself on the worn scrollwork of the bronze sheathed sword and dagger at his waist.

I returned my gaze to his eyes, which, as he stared back at me, betrayed nothing of his thoughts. I nodded, keeping my own expression benign, if noncommittal.

"Welcome, " I said quietly, "although you may doubt my sincerity at this point. May we know your name?"

He sucked in one cheek, biting it as he gazed at me, narrow-eyed, and considered his response. "Call me Abductus," he said eventually, his voice betraying no emotion.

I nodded, twisting my own mouth to hide an admiring smile. "Hardly accurate," I responded mildly. "You were not really abducted, nor were you taken prisoner. You were merely invited—"

"Forcibly..."

I nodded. "Forcibly, and I suspect tacitly, but nonetheless invited, to attend us here for purposes of mutual examination. You still wear your weapons, no? Prisoners and abductees are seldom permitted that."

The black eyes were flat and unreadable. "Who are you, and what do you want of me?"

"We'll come to that, but first I have to ask you why you were spying on my men."

"What?" He spat the word in disbelief, then struggled with his anger before he could school his face once more to show nothing. When he resumed, his tone was flat again. "Your men were on my land, among my crops, trespassing close to my home."

"I see. You live alone, farming so many fields?"

I saw him frown, but my eyes had returned to the worn shortsword by his side. I knew that I was being foolish, allowing it to distract me, no matter what I thought I saw in it.

"Does it surprise you that I should farm my own fields?"

A clever answer to an unexpected question, but I pressed on. "Dressed as you are, yes, it does. You are no farmer. Your armour makes a liar out of you."

He looked down at himself, then back at me. "I wear this seldom, nowadays. I am a farmer, first and foremost, as were the soldiers of Rome in ancient times. I take up the sword only when I need to. The presence of your people gave me cause. And as a soldier, I have given you all the information you will receive from me. "

"Very well. " I could feel the others all looking hard at me. "I shall respect your wish to remain silent. But would you mind showing me your sword? I'm sure you realize, " I added, seeing the sudden suspicion in his eyes, "that had we wished to harm you, you would now be dead. May I?"

I held out my hand, and he hesitated for only a moment before unhooking the shortsword and passing it over to me. I held it up close and examined the scabbard, then eased the sword itself partly from its sheath. Sure enough, as I had expected, there was a tiny "V" stamped into the top of the blade, just below the hilt.

"How did you come by this?"

He frowned again, clearly wondering how such a thing could have any importance, and then he blinked and shrugged his shoulders.

"It was my father's. And before that, it was his father's. "

"So it belonged to your grandfather. Where did he obtain it, do you know?"

He had decided to humour me, it seemed, yet when he spoke his voice betrayed contempt. "How could I know that? He was an old man when I was born. Grandfathers are, you know. "

"Yes, I know. " I ignored his truculence completely. "But I had good reason for asking the question. My great uncle made this sword. His name was Varrus. He was a sword maker, but some of his weapons, a very few—his special, finest works—he stamped with his personal mark, V for Varrus. He gave those only to his friends. This is one of them, so your grandfather and my great-uncle must have known each other. Look for yourself. "

I tossed the sword back to him and he caught it deftly, pulling the blade partway out and peering at the mark, twisting it to catch the fire's light. He stood gazing at it for a space of heartbeats, then straightened up, sheathed the blade completely and clipped the scabbard back onto his belt before looking back at me.

"I don't know what you are about, " he said. "But I don't believe you. I don't believe in coincidences—not like that. You looked first, and then made up the rest. "

I was ready for him, however, and had already undipped my own sheathed dagger. "There's no coincidence. I simply recognized my uncle's handiwork. Look at the scrollwork on that sheath, then look at the V. " I tossed the dagger to him as I spoke.

He looked at it as I had told him to, then handed it back. He cleared his throat, his expression, for the first time, suggesting uncertainty.

"My name is Caius Britannicus, and I have some excellent mead in the headquarters tent. May I offer you some? I think we two have much to talk about. Thank you, gentlemen, " I added, looking around at my men. "You may leave us now. "

I turned on my heel and walked directly to the single large tent in the middle of our encampment, knowing without looking that our visitor was walking behind me, and trying to imagine what he must be thinking.

The tent was brightly lit and empty for the moment, although I did not expect that to last for long. Philip, as Officer of the Watch, would be returning shortly and would have need of the table and the lights. I poured a cup of the amber liquid for myself and my "guest" from the flask of mead kept in a chest by the Officer of the Watch for special occasions. He took the cup I offered him and sat in the chair I indicated, moving slowly, his eyes on mine. Then he sighed quietly and sipped at the drink. Only after he had savoured it, rolling it around on his tongue, did he allow himself to relax slightly and lean back. I sat opposite him and waited.

"So," he said, eventually. "You are Caius Britannicus. I am Appius Niger." He raised his cup in a small, ironic salute. "My thanks for the welcome. What do we do now?"

I smiled. "We talk."

'To what end?"

'To an end of hostility, I should think. We have much in common."

He pursed his lips and his eyes flicked from me to the appointments of the tent in which we sat. It was high and roomy and four cornered, six paces long on each side with a twin peaked roof supported by poles and guy ropes, and it was made from score upon score of uniform panels of soft leather, assiduously stitched together with strong, waxed twine so as to be both waterproof and windproof. It could hold a score of people in comfort and was military in every respect, clearly a command point for a mobile expedition. To his credit, my guest made no comment on any of that, unwilling, I assumed, to volunteer any information even by comparing what we had to what he might not have. Instead, he confined himself to responding to what I had already said.

"Our names are both Roman, but the Romans are long departed. Beyond that, I can find little in common between us."

"Well then," I offered, "let me make a suggestion. We are both of Roman descent, as you say, and we live here in Britain. That means we both have learned to live in amity with the Celts here. And that sets us both squarely against the newcomers who have been swarming over Britain since the armies left."

He sat without moving for several moments more, then sniffed. "The newcomers. You mean the Picti, the Painted People from beyond the Wall in the north?"

"Aye, in part, although I doubt they come this far south in any organized manner. But I also mean the Danes and the Saxons."

"We have had no trouble from either of those. We have heard of them, of course, the Saxons at least, but they are only names, nightmare names with which to frighten children."

I shrugged. "Nightmare names, perhaps, but you have been singularly fortunate if you have lived this long without ever meeting any of them. Only a few years ago, not far south of here, in Glevum, we encountered Berbers from the Central Sea. Corsairs, raiding here in a massive Roman bireme. They were stripping the marble from the public buildings in the town there, presumably to sell it beyond the seas, and they'll be back. When they've stripped everything of value from the towns close by the coast, they'll venture further inland. The Saxons and the Danes, for the time being, are content to remain in the eastern parts of the country, but they won't stay there forever, not when there is rich land to be had here in the west. You gull yourself if you believe you'll never meet them."

Appius Niger sipped again at his mead, giving every indication of appreciating its excellence, then looked me in the eye and nodded slightly. "I've no doubt you're right. But our main difficulty until now has lain in dealing with wanderers, people from other parts of the country who range abroad looking to relieve people like me of crops and livestock." He paused, then added, "People like you."

"No." My denial was instantaneous but not defensive. "You've had, and you will have, no difficulty with us." I kept right on, ignoring his attempt to interrupt with some caustic comment about having been abducted. I did not raise my voice but merely kept speaking over his objections. "We have no interest in your lands or in your crops, other than to take note of their existence, since we had not expected to find their like near here. Our scouting party was withdrawing when it encountered you, and having seen you and the style of your armour, the commander decided to bring you back with him, to me."

"And you are Caius Britannicus. Should I be impressed?"

His effrontery amused me. I found myself liking him, despite his attitude. "No," I replied. "But I'm also known as Merlyn, of Camulod."

The change that came into his face was immediate, but I could not define it. He sat up straighter, however, and I sensed a sharp, sudden tension in him. My immediate thought was that he had reacted like a woodland stag, alert by nature and suddenly attuned to danger. Yet when he spoke, there was nothing of this in his words.

"Now there's a name I've heard," he drawled, his voice and face devoid of all expression.

"Well, now you have a face to put with it. What have you heard of me?"

"That you serve excellent mead." He emptied his cup and held it out to me. "More, if I may."

When I had finished pouring and replaced the flask a second time, I stood by the table that held the chest and looked down at him. "What else?"

He tilted his head, appearing more at ease by the moment. "That you have a fabulous kingdom, far to the south, with an invincible army, supplied by the Empire." That made me laugh. "Don't tell me you're denying it!" he continued. "You and your men are wearing the evidence that proves it."

That sobered me, and I placed my cup quickly on the table before stepping closer to him.

"I can't believe you might be stupid enough to believe such twaddle, Niger. The Romans have been gone for generations now, and they will not be coming back."

He blinked at me, keeping his face expressionless, but made no effort to reply. For long moments I hovered there, standing over him, before I stepped away, took up my drink again and lowered myself into a chair. Then I told him about Camulod. I told him we wore the Roman armour because of its superiority and because the legacy of our founding craftsmen, Publius Varrus first among them, enabled us to make it still. I went on to tell him of my grandfather, Caius Britannicus, and his dream of founding a defensible community that could survive the departure of the legions, and finally I outlined the role played by my father, Picus, in building our near invincible cavalry.

"You've seen my men, and their horses," I concluded. "We are no more than a small patrol, an exploratory force. I promise you the world has seen nothing like the cavalry of Camulod since the days of Alexander of Macedon, the man they called Alexander the Great because he used cavalry to conquer the world."

Appius was listening intently, his face rapt, and I drove onward.

"Now I command the army of Camulod jointly with my brother, Ambrose. The cavalry is mine, by and large. The infantry is his, equally so. The Colony, however, is governed by a Council of Elders. It is a fine place to live. We have no slaves, no poverty and no deprivation. We are self sufficient in food and in other resources, and we are strong enough to withstand danger from outside—at least, we have been until now." I paused, for a space of three heartbeats, then continued. "Now, what have you to tell me of yourself?"

Once again, my question was met with blank faced silence, but my patience was at an end.

"Appius Nigra, think of what I have said. If my people and I were hungry for conquest, we should already be making plans to conquer you and lay your possessions waste. You were the one who spoke of our 'Roman' army. Believe me when I say it is substantial. Nothing would be easier for us than to return to Camulod—which, incidentally, is a mere four day journey from here—and then ride back at the head of a force that would obliterate whatever you might rally to meet us. We would find you—you cannot hide a settlement any more than you can hide fields. So be sensible. Believe me when I tell you that we have no plans to conquer or enslave you or to steal from you. Then be even more sensible and ask me what I have in mind for you."

He started to drink again, but his hand stopped before it reached his mouth, and then he slowly reached down and placed the cup on the floor by his feet, looking carefully to see that he did not spill it. Finally he looked back at me, and again, knowing how his thoughts must have been racing throughout all this, I had to admire his self possession.

"Very well, then, what do you have in mind for me?"

"I know you have a community, simply because of the number and richness of your fields, and I know, by the same logic, that it must be a strong one... reasonably so, at any rate. I think I might be able to advise you on how to strengthen it further. I'm no magician, but logic, applied judiciously, can perform seemingly magical things, and I pride myself on being logical."

"Hmm." He sat staring at the wall opposite him for a count of ten, then pursed his lips and sucked air through them sharply. His decision was made.

"My family calls me Nero," he said. "Don't ask me why , because the reason is long lost, but that's my name." He leaned down to recover his cup of mead and sipped at it reflectively, clearly ordering his thoughts. Then, when he had satisfied himself that what he had to say was right, he began to speak, and I listened for the next quarter of an hour.

The story he told was much akin to ours in Camulod, but with several large and significant differences.

He came of a wealthy Roman-British family, the Appius clan, collectively called Niger for the blackness of their hair and eyes and the swarthiness of their skin. He was the firstborn of the fifth generation bred in Britain. Despite his youth, he was currently the paterfamilias, the senior surviving Appius following his father's recent death. His grandfather, he told me, had been dead these twenty years.

The Appius clan had settled enormous holdings more than a century earlier, in this fertile region to the north and east of Corinium. Their family lands, which had no name of their own, had lain close enough to Corinium for the town to be both the source of their supplies and the destination for their saleable crops, but they were, at the same time, far enough removed from the town that this business required a well regulated schedule of excursions. They were also far enough removed from the town, he added with some pride, to allow the Nigers to maintain a community that was uninfluenced by the urbanites of Corinium.

Then, with the departure of the legions four decades and more earlier, enormous changes had taken place. Their markets had disappeared within three years, because the fleets of seagoing vessels that had shipped their corn and oats no longer plied the dangerous waters off Britain, afraid of the pirates that had begun swarming everywhere even before the Navy had departed. The port towns themselves had quickly been deserted by the suddenly defenceless people who had lived in them for so long, secure in the Roman presence. Commerce vanished overnight. Money became worthless. Hunger soon became commonplace among those people who had neither the skills nor the wherewithal to produce their own food, and plunder and pillage became widespread in a region that had known only peaceful trade and amicable living for centuries.