Ave, Imperator, morituri te salutant.
[Hail, Emperor, we who are about to die salute you.]
—SUETONIUS, “THE LIFE OF CLAUDIUS”
Myrddion was still awake when the final assault on Verulamium began. From the dim tent hospital, quiet now in the last moments of darkness before the dawn, the sound of the ram carried clearly from the city gates. The dull thuds were regular, and Myrddion could tell from the hollow echo that reverberated through the aftermath of each blow that the wood and iron resisting Ambrosius’s efforts for so long were finally starting to weaken. Like a faltering heartbeat, the main gates of the city were about to fail.
Myrddion could imagine the scene.
Boom! The ram had a cap of thick iron, bound at the end of a long wooden trunk that swung forward and back in a cradle, powered by the cracking muscles of the engineers and common soldiers who controlled the swing of its pendulum.
Boom! The iron cap was shaped and decorated with a ram’s head, horns lowered to strike the gate in the traditional Roman style. In that final darkness, trembling on the edge of success, the sweating, exhausted soldiers must have prayed each time that the next swing of that brooding, threatening head would shatter the crossbar that held the poised army at bay.
Boom! As flags of light rose over the darkness of the city, Myrddion left his quiet domain and climbed a low rise. From this vantage point, he would know when the gates submitted to iron and muscle, and then Praxiteles and Aude would take the empty wagons to the city walls. Then, as the inevitable casualties mounted, Myrddion would lose any visual perspective of the course of the battle as he fought his own fierce struggle against death. Now, as golden light spread in thin sheets over the forests, the Roman road and the humped shapes of the city, Myrddion experienced the tranquillity of a man who knows his purpose and is content. But such peace is fleeting in the affairs of men.
A grey and foggy dawn was followed by a clear and cloudless morning, as if the gods wished to observe the sport of mortals unimpeded by clouds or rain. The battering ram destroyed the gate at last, and the engineers drew the iron-shod machine back while the cavalry forced their way through the smashed obstruction with scant regard for life or limb. Uther led the charge, and even Thorketil hesitated to confront a warrior, taller than a Saxon, who wielded weapons with the ferocity of his namesake—the dragon.
With Ambrosius at their head, the foot soldiers attacked immediately after his archers turned the sky black with a protracted rain of arrows. While the Saxons on the parapets were forced to keep their heads down and their shields up, the centuries began to pour through the ruined gates and fan out into preplanned formations that Ambrosius had devised during the night after his face had been stitched and dressed by Myrddion. One group of warriors, experienced climbers, scaled ladders with their shields held above their heads, while a small contingent of archers continued to pepper the defending Saxons on the walls with arrows. Then, once the walls were swept clean of the enemy, the archers recovered what arrows they could and mounted the parapets to rain death down on Saxon heads in the long, straight streets below.
Ambrosius had pored over the old plans of this ancient Roman civil center. From his patient studies, he knew every thoroughfare in Verulamium, and Thorketil’s defensive positions soon became apparent. While Uther used his cavalrymen like a cudgel, and rode down citizens and enemies alike, the foot soldiers used the old strategies of the legions to clean out every nest of Saxons with calculated efficiency. The Tortoise, the Wedge, and the Fighting Square were all employed by Ambrosius as a net of iron tightened around the Vessel of Thor.
Once Uther secured the eastern gate, the battle was effectively over. Thorketil had no intention of surrendering, and nor had his warriors, who set fire to every building they relinquished to the advancing foot soldiers. Perhaps the thane intended the blaze to trap the Celts between stone and fiery death, for the wind initially favored the Saxons and blew filthy smoke to blind Ambrosius’s eyes, but then it changed and sent disaster leaping to the east, from building to building and then from thatch to rafters, as the fire drove the Saxons back towards Uther’s waiting cavalry.
From his vantage point on the small knoll Myrddion watched the carnage, distanced from the screams, the roaring of flame, and the howls of defiant Saxons. The city was burning fiercely, and the Saxons fled from this enemy that was far more potent than Ambrosius’s troops. When Uther eventually trapped them in the old forum, Thorketil screamed defiance from lungs that were hoarse with smoke.
“To me! To me! No surrender!” the thane howled recklessly, and swung his axe and sword like a berserker, careless of the safety of friend or foe.
“No mercy,” Ambrosius roared in response. “Kill them all.” And so, with ruthless efficiency, his soldiers killed every Saxon they could find.
MYRDDION LABORED FOR two days with Cadoc and Dyfri by his side, sleeping in snatches as they struggled to save whatever lives they could. Of that time of sorrow Myrddion remembered very little, not even the faces of the men who were carried in extremities of pain to his surgical table. If he thought at all while his deft hands worked in the old familiar patterns, he was focused on the treatments available to him and the alleviation of pain, for a field surgeon knows that shock kills more quickly than the grossest of wounds. And so the long day passed, in the rumble of wagons, the smell of cauterized flesh, and the sharp, metallic reek of blood.
After the warriors were treated, he turned his skills towards the civilians who had been used as human shields during Thorketil’s final stand. The children with their hair burned away and their throats so blistered they were unable to cry tore at Myrddion’s heart more than any adult could. As one by one they suffocated and died, he stood in blood and ministered to the dying until the poppy juice and the henbane were spent and Cadoc was sent to scour nearby villages for any replacement drugs that might still be available.
And even then, Myrddion wasn’t permitted the luxury of sleep.
On the first night, he received an unexpected visitor. The veteran who had shared Myrddion’s night of musing on the goat track opened the tent flap and limped into the surgery. The aging soldier had not come alone, for he carried the senseless body of a woman who had been crushed by falling masonry during the siege.
“I’ll wait till you’ve treated the lass’s injuries, healer. See to her first, because she has little ones who need her.” The Roman mercenary’s face was a sickly yellow in the dying light.
“How do you know, soldier-no-name?” Myrddion asked briskly as he assisted the smaller man to heft the woman onto his surgical table.
“Because they followed me the whole way. There’s a boy, who’s no more than five, and a girl who’s about eight, I would guess.”
Myrddion cursed under his breath, but his hands were very gentle as he cut the woman’s robe away from her back. A huge bruise covered her spine from the back of her neck down to the tailbone.
“I think her spine is broken, and if I’m correct she’ll die no matter what I try to do for her,” Myrddion whispered, as he checked the feeling in her legs. The limbs were unresponsive. “I think her skull is broken as well. But at least she’s not in any pain.” Turning to Brangaine, he nodded at his assistant. “Prepare a pallet for this woman, and let her children remain with her. There’s nothing we can do.”
The soldier peered into Myrddion’s face. “Tears, healer? Is death so sad when it comes in sweet oblivion?”
“No, damn your eyes! I’m not saddened, I’m furious! I wish I knew enough to treat her, but the broken spine is beyond the skills of any healer. Only the gods could save her now, and they never choose to help the innocent.”
As if to avert the tears that threatened to unman him, Myrddion roughly ordered the soldier to remove his sandals and greaves so that his burned leg could be treated.
“I’ll need to open the flesh or the blisters will split. It’s better to do the job with a clean scalpel than risk infection. The skin will be breached, even if I do nothing.”
“Cut away then, healer,” the soldier said. “What will happen to the lass’s children?”
“If no relatives can be found to take the little ones into their home, my women will take them back with us to Venta Belgarum. I’m beginning to collect a whole menagerie of children as we travel from one battle to another. I don’t seem able to leave innocents behind when we collect them on the road.”
“I would have felt obliged to take care of the children myself if you hadn’t outvolunteered me. I must be growing old and soft. In past times, I always understood that the Fates have mapped out our lives before we are born, which explains why children often die before they’re fully grown. I never worried myself over civilians in those days. The legions keep a man occupied, and the newest recruit soon learns that it doesn’t pay to dwell on situations that simple soldiers can’t change. Arggh, but I’m sick of marching, killing, and then marching away again. I want a fireside of my own before it’s too late, and a woman to warm my feet in the winter. I think I’ll head off north when I’ve served out the year. I’ve had a gutful of Venta Belgarum and places like Verulamium, because I’ve learned the hard way that a soldier whose heart isn’t in the fighting anymore is a dead man walking.”
This is an unusual man, Myrddion decided. Most patients watch their treatment studiously, as if close scrutiny will dispel the possibility of further injury or death. The soldier stared straight ahead, and his voice never wavered as Myrddion cut the blisters and cleansed the charred edges of skin.
“Verulamium is finished, healer, and it will become a place for wild dogs, madmen, and dead Saxons,” the veteran went on. “I doubt the town will be rebuilt, for the heart of the people has been ripped out.”
“There, and your treatment is also finished! The wound is clean, and you’ll heal well, my friend.” Myrddion tied down the end of a bandage that now covered the veteran’s leg from ankle to knee. “Cadoc will give you more salve, and I’d like to check the burns in two days’ time. You must keep the injuries clean.”
The soldier looked down at his bronzed leg with its incongruous white dressing and grinned crookedly. “You’re very good at what you do, Myrddion Merlinus, I’ll say that for you. I hope you find an answer to your puzzle over baggage trains.”
Myrddion raised his eyes to the older man’s face and saw wisdom and humor reflected in the brown eyes that studied him so closely. “I hope you find the fireside you seek, my friend. In many ways, I wish that I were in your shoes.”
“Those long feet of yours wouldn’t fit.” The veteran clambered to his feet without wincing, and offered Myrddion his hand. “I’m Targo,” he said. “We may not have fought together, and I seem to have done the bleeding for both of us—but we have served together, haven’t we? I’ll listen for word of you in the years to come. Perhaps we might meet again some day.”
“And I will listen for your name, friend Targo.”
THE DAYS PASSED slowly as Verulamium was cleansed and the civilian population began the long trudge into the west with everything that the fires had failed to destroy. Myrddion received no word of the innkeeper Gron and his cheerful wife, Fionnuala, while the Flower Maiden inn was a blackened shell when the healer sought out his erstwhile hosts. The young man recalled that the sojourn with them had been the last time the company of healers had been together before Finn and Bridie departed for Segontium. He felt a longing for those relatively carefree days before he had become embroiled in the games of kings once again, but, like the inn, the past was a slate that had been wiped clean, and he knew that no man or woman can totally recapture their past.
If Myrddion was harried and sad, Ambrosius was ebullient. When the healer arrived to check the deep furrow that now bisected his face, the High King insisted that he take a cup of wine with him while he gave a full report on the condition of Ambrosius’s wound. Myrddion did his best to employ layman’s terms, but the king was no ordinary patient. The healer was soon explaining the efficacy of radish paste, seaweed, poultices of berries, and mashed leaves, and the relative merits of henbane, mandrake, and other sundry poisons.
“In future, I’ll take care to remain on good terms with you, my friend,” the High King murmured. “You could poison us all, even if Ulfin tasted every dish, if what you say is true.”
“Of course. The very simplest poisons are pretty mushrooms, harmless-looking berries, and innocuous roots that resemble parsnips. They all kill over a period of time, and there’s no real cure to save those unfortunates who ingest them. But poison isn’t my way, lord. It’s a filthy death, and my hands were not fashioned to kill.”
Ambrosius laughed merrily, but Myrddion felt the shadows of doom hover over his head once again. Not Ambrosius, he thought desperately. Not poison! Heaven help us!
“Bring Pascent to my tent, Uther. I’d like Myrddion to meet him and form an opinion about his malady. A promising young man needs all the friends he can find.”
As Uther stalked out of the High King’s tent, leaving a strong waft of disapproval in his wake, Ambrosius continued to speak animatedly as his clever mind clutched at a new diversion.
“We found Pascent chained to a statue of Mars in the old forum. He’d obviously been caught in the city when the Saxons overran it, and Thorketil was keeping him for later amusement. He’d been cuffed around a little and was parched with thirst, but has suffered no lasting hurt. However, he claims to remember nothing of his captivity in Verulamium. Perhaps you can find a way to open the doors that are chained shut within his memory.”
“Perhaps, lord. I have noticed that sudden shocks, terrible brutality, or even guilt can wipe the brain clean of every detail, even the previous life of the sufferer. And although he retained his memory, an apprentice of mine was afflicted by dreadful dreams for years after he was forced to watch and report on Saxon justice. The mind is an amazing instrument, my king.”
Ambrosius’s eyes sharpened, and he insisted on a full recounting of the story. Myrddion entered into Ambrosius’s spirit of curiosity and embellished the saga of Finn Truthteller with such vividness that Ambrosius sat like a child, transfixed by the fascination of the tale.
“Of course I’ve heard of the Night of the Long Knives. Who hasn’t? And Catigern was acting for me when the brothers drove the Saxons out of the Cantii lands. I never liked Catigern overmuch because he allowed his hungers and ambitions to show in his eyes—I’m certain he’d have turned on me after he had assassinated his brother. Gods, but he was a true son of his twisted father! Still, no matter what vices Catigern possessed, it must have been a gruesome death to suffocate under the body of his victim.”
Just as the High King sobered at the thought of dying in the grave of a rotting corpse, Uther shouldered his way into the tent, followed by a handsome young man dressed simply and with distinction in fine wool. The man wore no jewelry, and Myrddion deduced that the Saxons must have stripped him of his wealth. His thumb and the third finger of his left hand bore white marks where rings had been, and a narrow band of untanned skin around his bronzed throat suggested that he had worn a torque for many years.
“Myrddion Merlinus, this is Pascent, a survivor of Saxon captivity. He has taken this name because it sounds familiar, but he has no idea of his true identity. Uther is sure, from his accent, that he is one of your fellow tribesmen, for his voice has the cadence of your northern accents. He speaks very pure Latin with an odd inflection, so I’m sure he has been well educated.”
Pascent was a tall young man of about twenty years. His skin was tanned to an attractive golden color that indicated health and vigor, except where purpling bruises marked his brow and jaw. His eyes were as blue as those of Ambrosius, and Myrddion wondered if some Roman ancestry created this extraordinary coloring. By contrast, Pascent’s hair was sun-kissed brown, and he wore it in a thick shock that fell disarmingly over one eye. With a rueful grin, he pushed his hand through his thick, blunt-cut fall of hair in an action that seemed to be habitual.
“Good morning, Pascent. May I ask you some questions and examine your head?” Myrddion asked courteously.
Pascent looked uncomfortable, but Ambrosius explained Myrddion’s calling and expressed the hope that his renowned healer could restore Pascent’s memory. The young man blushed and then agreed, although he kept his eyes lowered.
Carefully and thoroughly, Myrddion checked Pascent’s skull with his sensitive fingertips for any kind of knot or breach that could account for his memory loss. The young man was visibly nervous and upset, but he suffered Myrddion to peer into his eyes for signs of bleeding or cloudiness. As soon as the examination was over, Pascent lowered his head again.
Myrddion came to the conclusion that Pascent was as healthy a young man as he had ever examined. “You have been trained in the ways of the warrior, I see,” he added, casually picking up each of Pascent’s hands and pointing out the calluses of constant weapons practice on the forefinger, second finger, thumb, and palm. Suddenly interested, Uther peered over Myrddion’s shoulder and grunted in agreement.
“Aye, the boy has been trained to fight with either hand,” he murmured, and his feral eyes narrowed with suspicion. For once, Myrddion’s sympathies were with the prince.
Pascent answered Myrddion’s questions willingly enough, with frankness and an open expression that was almost endearing, but the healer suspected such easy charm, especially when the boy seemed so nervous. Some trick of the light reminded Myrddion of someone else, but for once he could not draw a name out of the past.
By the time Myrddion left the presence of the High King, tiny worms of suspicion were beginning to feed at the back of his mind. He could identify no tangible reasons for his unease, but his instincts screamed that something about Pascent rang false. The young man seemed genuine, but Myrddion had observed the manner and presence of his own father, Aspar, and he had trusted and loved his Flavia to the point of madness. These two powerful persons used charm as an offensive weapon that lulled suspicions and manipulated emotions. To his cost, Myrddion had learned to distrust the easy seduction of a smiling, sympathetic face.
Pascent’s hands were hard and muscular, and were far too strong to be the hands of the pampered prince the absent jewelry suggested. This young man was a seasoned warrior who had been trained from childhood to kill, for his calluses told the tale of his life and such signs couldn’t lie. Pascent was a great deal more than a Celt who had been fortunate enough to be captured rather than killed. But who was it he reminded Myrddion of?
“Those vertical scars on his right thumb are familiar. For my life, I wish I could remember,” Myrddion said aloud, causing a sentry to snap to attention behind him. But the healer was too occupied with his thoughts to notice. The morning was crisp and cleanly washed with spring showers, and Myrddion must begin the task of preparing his patients for the long trek to Venta Belgarum. Putting his suspicions behind him, he decided that Uther could be relied upon to watch the new claimant for his brother’s affections through those resentful, untrusting, and jealous eyes.
TWO MONTHS PASSED in the tedium of the void left after the brief and inconclusive battle. After a slow journey to Venta Belgarum, using the longer but smoother route via Durocobrivae to spare the wounded, Myrddion at last returned to the house of the healers.
Late one night, Gruffydd appeared at his door. He looked as disreputable as ever, but Myrddion was heartened by the clarity and reason in his brown eyes.
With his dirty boots on Myrddion’s table in the scriptorium and a wine cup cradled carelessly on his chest, Gruffydd examined Myrddion closely.
“Damn me, but you still look sixteen, Myrddion. I don’t know how you can sit so quietly, surrounded by gods know how many poisons and magical things. What’s in the glass jar?”
“It’s a two-headed fish—a freak of nature,” Myrddion said as he turned to follow Gruffydd’s pointing finger. “Such oddities interest me.”
“Ugh!” Gruffydd looked slightly queasy as he picked up the jar. “But if this sort of thing amuses you, who am I to criticize?”
“I imagine you have a purpose that brings you to my house under cover of darkness,” Myrddion said softly, “other than my choice of distractions to beguile my time.”
“Aye, I do. I’ve just ridden from Londinium, traveling off the main roads to avoid attention.” Gruffydd chuckled dourly. “Verulamium was retaken by the Saxons as soon as Ambrosius was out of sight, but I don’t suppose the High King will be surprised. The skirmish he fought for Verulamium was only to remind the Saxons that the he won’t easily be driven out.”
“Did the tactic succeed?” Myrddion sighed inwardly at the waste of life for such a transitory gesture. “Better to strike at the Saxon heartland and be done with it.”
“Yes . . . and no. Ambrosius used a simple strategy. The Saxons are very superstitious, so they won’t sleep within the ruins of Verulamium for fear of Thorketil’s wight, which some fools say still haunts the place. Wild beasts roam the ruins and will continue to rule there until the thanes forget Ambrosius’s lesson. But the Saxons have secured the roads, so Ambrosius will find no easy route into the north, not even along the goat track I heard you found. We mustn’t underestimate our enemies, Myrddion. The thanes aren’t fools, but they were surprised by the speed with which Ambrosius engaged their forces after traveling overland, so they intend to secure as many of the major roads as they can.”
“What’s your advice then, Gruffydd?”
Gruffydd drained his cup and lifted his muddy boots from the table. He leaned forward, his face suddenly animated.
“Ambrosius must fortify the towns that are the keys to the northern and western roads. He must use the existing fortresses, and strengthen those towns that control the passage of men and goods. It’s the only way to stop the Saxons from cutting us up piecemeal. Venonae, Ratae, Lactodorum, and Lindum are vital. I’ve not traveled into the north yet, although when I leave here I’m off to Petuaria to check on the sons of Hengist and Horsa. Melandra, Lavatrae, and Cataractonium are strong, but other former Roman fortresses are currently home to only wild dogs and wandering shepherds. Ambrosius must start to think of the lands beyond Calleva Atrebatum. At present, he is too distant from the tribal kings of the north and west, leaders who must be forced to play their part in the protection of the Celtic lands.”
Myrddion could imagine the fortresses, strung like stone pearls along the mountain spine that split their island into eastern and western halves. Those abandoned towers of yesteryear were the key to domination of the wide roads leading northward to Hadrian’s Wall. Gruffydd was right, and the spy had placed his blunt finger directly on the flaw that existed in Ambrosius’s strategic thinking. If the Celts didn’t take control of the fortresses, then the Saxons would.
“Leave it with me, Gruffydd. I agree with you, and I wish I had another thirty of you to prowl around the Saxon fringes for me. But for now you’re going to be stretched very thin, so I’ll apologize in advance.”
He pressed a purse into Gruffydd’s unwilling hands. The erstwhile Saxon captive hated to accept coin for what he perceived to be his duty to his people, but Myrddion insisted. “You must live, you must eat, you must ride a decent horse, and you must drink ale in all sorts of disreputable places. All of these activities require you to possess a supply of coin. Besides, you may be able to find me more Saxon speakers if you have gold to pay them—and then I will have ears in the east to help you. But please, Gruffydd, I must ask that you be careful of your life. The Mother will guard you—but she’ll need a little assistance in those fleapits that you frequent.”
After Gruffydd slipped away, nothing remained of his presence except for a faint odor of horse and sweat, some tracks of mud on Myrddion’s table, and the position of the double-headed fish, whose eyes were now turned towards the wall. It seemed as if the spy had never existed.
In that momentous year, Venta Belgarum was enjoying a warm summer that buoyed the spirits of citizens and warriors alike. The victory at Verulamium had heartened the west and galvanized a feeling of optimism. Whenever Ambrosius rode out to the hunt or to meet the southern tribal kings at Corinium, the people cheered him, threw their caps in the air, and tossed field flowers at the feet of his horse. The applause of the citizens was more tepid for his saturnine brother, but such enthusiasm lightened even Uther’s bleak spirits. Only Myrddion seemed to worry that the young man, Pascent, spent too much time in the High King’s company.
Myrddion also met the Celtic woman, or the Pict bitch as Uther most frequently described her.
At the earliest opportunity, Myrddion had requested an urgent and private audience with the High King. The intimacy of their previous nightly meetings had dissipated, for Ambrosius had become interested in new experiences and diversions, but Myrddion still held the king’s ear, and his service at Verulamium was not forgotten. Radiating disapproval, Ulfin led Myrddion to the royal apartments after the evening judgments in the Great Hall.
Ambrosius sat at ease, and Myrddion was surprised to see that he was already eating delicacies from a massy silver platter. Ulfin had not been required to taste the food.
“You’re welcome, my young friend. I see that you’ve brought your maps, so we shall have a cup of wine together before you tell me how I should run my kingdom.”
Ambrosius smiled to rob his words of any sting, but Myrddion flushed anyway, and wondered at the change in the king’s personality that had occurred while he was away.
A woman swayed forward out of the shadows and poured two cups of wine from the jug on the table. Myrddion registered the mane of curling red hair, the disarming freckles, and the graceful form of a woman who seemed completely at home in the king’s private rooms.
Ah, so Cadoc was right! This must be Uther’s Pict bitch, he thought. He accepted the proffered wine cup and, as surreptitiously as possible, used his sharp sense of smell to gauge the quality and safety of the wine as he lifted the goblet to his lips.
“Ignore my lady, Myrddion. You may speak freely in front of Andrewina Ruadh, for she’s unlikely to leave Venta Belgarum in the near future. I intend to keep her close to me.”
Madness! Where is Ambrosius’s reason hiding? She’s the enemy!
Myrddion bowed low to the Pict bitch and shook his head with a smile.
“No, my lord, we shall have our discussion at a later time. I would speak freely if I was risking my own skin alone, but my news affects the continued health of others, so I must request that we speak in private.”
Ambrosius’s brows drew together with unusual pique, but before he could order Myrddion to obey him Andrewina Ruadh bowed and begged permission to depart. “I am a mere woman, lord king, and have no understanding of politics,” she said, and smiled so deprecatingly and prettily that Myrddion should have been charmed. But all the healer’s hackles rose as he stared into her vivid green eyes. There was no lack of understanding there.
“Very well, Andrewina, you may leave. But you will return when my healer concludes his business.” Ambrosius’s eyes followed the woman’s sweet shape all the way to the door, and Myrddion’s heart sank as he observed the glaze in his master’s eyes.
The king is besotted with her, and she’s more Pict than any of us.
But Myrddion too understood the games of kings, so he cordially bid the lady good night. He offered her a deep, respectful bow and watched with relief as Ambrosius’s brow slowly cleared.
“I should be cross, healer, but I understand your sensitive nature. Tell me all, then, and don’t spare me in the telling. I’ve already had Uther nagging me like a fishwife over Andrewina, so I may as well hear all the bad news at the same time.”
Ignoring the trace of petulance that remained in Ambrosius’s voice, Myrddion gave a full report of Gruffydd’s findings. The High King grinned when he heard that the Saxon thanes believed the ruins of Verulamium were haunted, but his fair brows contracted with the news that the roads were impassable and the woods were thick with invaders.
“By Mithras, must I scour these barbarians out of my lands, year after year?”
“Yes, my lord, you must. They will not retreat, just as you will not permit them to take our lands. Where can any of us go? So this war is in a state of impasse and, if we are lucky, it will last as long as we live. What is the alternative? Do we move farther and farther west until the Oceanus Hibernicus is at our backs? Or should we run to the north as the Picts were forced to do? Those dour people would relish a chance to take vengeance on us for the hundreds of years of what they believe to be tyranny and invasion. You must act, lord, now that our fledgling spy system shows us a way to confine the Saxons within a narrow strip of the lands in the east.”
Ambrosius bit at his thumb, and Myrddion noticed that the nails on his master’s fingers were chewed to the quick. Sympathy softened his eyes for a moment, for no man could be envious of a High King whose decisions had such wide ramifications for the security of the realm. Then his expression hardened. In recent times, Ambrosius had been acting out of character with increasing frequency, as his passion for the Pict bitch indicated. He had welcomed Pascent into his household, and now, in the teeth of his brother’s disapproval, he was becoming careless of his long-held, justifiable fears of treason. He must be forced to see sense.
“My man suggests you fortify all the towns that dominate the roads leading into the north and the west. The result will add to our security and keep our lines of communication open. Now, at considerable risk to himself, he journeys to Petuaria where Hengist has taken a foothold. He urges you to resurrect the old Roman forts on the mountain spine, using the tribal kings to man them. The concept of fortifying Venta Belgarum in isolation is a strategy I can’t support, master, for you must see the land of the Britons as a whole and set the wheels in motion to secure it all, not just the part that you know and love. To succeed in your ambitions, you must convince the tribal kings of the north to support your cause.”
“What would you have me do, Myrddion? My troops will be stretched to breaking point if I spread my armies to fortify those places you suggest. I can see the logic in your strategy, but I have only so many warriors at my disposal. The tribal kings show no desire to come to my assistance.”
Myrddion had spent many hours devising a path through this particular conundrum. Ambrosius must be forced to think with vision, and the goal must be to unify the tribes into one cohesive nation.
“Tribal kings such as my great-grandfather have provided men and gold to supreme rulers when the common need became obvious, master, and most agree with the concept of united tribes when a serious outside threat stiffens their spines. The difference here is that they must agree to unite in peace in order to avoid future wars. You must call the kings to a meeting, explain the Saxon strategy, and offer your vassals a chance for glory and autonomy by making them responsible for certain fortifications. The cost for you will be minimal, you will bind the tribes to a common cause, and together you can pin the Saxons to those parts of the eastern coast where they currently prevail. Those tribes who have been displaced by the Saxons will welcome the opportunity to make our enemies pay for their stolen acres. How can such a plan hurt you, even if the tribes are recalcitrant? You will soon learn who your friends are.”
“And I’ll also know who my enemies are. Yes, you may be correct. I might learn much about my alliances from such a meeting.” Ambrosius’s face creased into a wide white smile, and the healer detected traces of Uther’s lupine expression in the High King’s obvious pleasure. Even Ambrosius was capable of gloating amusement as he considered the machinations involved in dragging the tribal kings to heel. “I’ll call the kings to Venta Belgarum, although not all will come.”
“But they must be forced to attend this meeting, my lord. I suggest you hold the meeting at a central city, one that will be acceptable to any tribal confederation. The kings must be brought to perceive themselves as allies, rather than as separate rulers responsible only for their own boundaries. So the site of the meeting must be chosen carefully so that none of them will feel offended.”
“Where would you hold it, Myrddion? I’m ashamed to admit that I’m not familiar with the towns of the north after spending so many years abroad.”
Myrddion had spent hours considering this very question, so he had an answer at his fingertips. “Deva, master. Call the kings to Deva. The city has a Roman history and is a trading port. Most important, it is neutral and no king can lay claim to its allegiance. It lies halfway between Venta Belgarum and the wall, and its choice would indicate your willingness to stir out of your safe haven in the south. You already have useful ties with the Brigante, but look farther, towards the Otadini and the Selgovae who protect the mountains between the Vallum Antonini and the Vallum Hadriani. No High King has sought favor with them before, but who better to guard your back while limiting Saxon and Jute advances into the north?”
Ambrosius poured another cup of wine and waved Myrddion towards the delicacies set out on the large silver platter. Gingerly, Myrddion chose the roasted leg of a small bird and nibbled at the crisp, sweet flesh while his master considered his suggestions. Once he saw his way clear, Ambrosius made his decision swiftly.
“Deva it is, then. I’ll send out couriers tomorrow to all the tribes, no matter how small, to call their kings to Deva. Have you been there, Myrddion? No? Well, you shall lead the way. Uther will accompany you on the journey, and he will organize the security measures, but you’ll be responsible for selecting a meeting place and determining the agenda for the meeting itself. Don’t fail me, Myrddion, because our success or otherwise at Deva will determine the future of our people for decades to come.”
Myrddion was aghast.
“How can I fulfill such a major undertaking, master? I’m a humble healer. Your seneschal would be a far more suitable choice.”
“Perhaps so, but he’s as old as the mountains and twice as stubborn. Nor will his old bones permit him to ride for days on end. On the other hand, you always fulfill any task I set for you. Like your namesake, you fly very high. No, if you truly desire the kings to be assembled in order to negotiate a new treaty between the tribes, then you must obey me and do the necessary work.”
There was a pause, and then Myrddion made up his mind.
“Very well, master, I will journey to Deva. No doubt I will have disagreements with your brother about deadlines and procedures, though, for Prince Uther distrusts me.”
“I’m prepared to speak to my brother and stress that you are acting in my name, if that will make your task easier. But you’re still frowning, healer.”
“I should remain silent, master, for you may not be pleased if I voice my opinions with candor.”
Ambrosius grimaced. “I absolve you from any blame, healer, but someone has to be honest with me. Do your reservations rest with me personally, or with the state of the west?”
“With you, master, but you’ll not thank me if I’m blunt.”
Ambrosius frowned thunderously, and Myrddion decided that he would be equally damned whether he spoke out or not. Finally, the king sat upright, poured out another cup of wine, took a deep breath, and nodded to his healer. “Speak the truth. I’ll not resent honesty.”
Myrddion took a deep shuddering breath and silently asked the Mother to guide his words, for he realized the dangers of meddling in the affairs of the complex man who sat so easily in his company.
“Of late, my lord, I have been concerned that you have cast caution to the four winds and risked harm both to your person and to the realm. Tonight, for instance, you ate and drank from the hands of a Pict hostage who is, I’ll admit, a beautiful and an engaging woman. As well, Pascent comes and goes from your presence at will, and we have yet to verify his identity. Your people depend upon your judgment entirely, master, so we are forced to wonder if the kingdom would survive unscathed if you were to die at treasonous hands. I don’t know Andrewina Ruadh, or Bridei, or whatever her name really is, and she might be a perfectly innocent victim of Pict enslavement. But she might not be an innocent, my lord. As for Pascent, we don’t even know his true name—and he is eerily familiar to me. Truly, Lord Ambrosius, you are taking unnecessary risks with your life.”
Two spots of high color appeared on Ambrosius’s cheeks, and Ulfin, in the corner of the room, made a snorting sound as he snickered under his breath at Myrddion’s effrontery. Ambrosius leapt to his feet, and, for a moment, Myrddion thought that the High King might reach out his slightly trembling fingers and throttle his healer, but the fit of fury passed quickly, although Ambrosius stood over the younger man in a pose that was both threatening and threatened.
“You dare too much, Myrddion, with your misplaced loyalty to my throne. Whom I take into my bed is my business, and whom I harbor as a friend is my decision.”
Then Ambrosius spun away and stalked over to Ulfin with an oath. Curtly, and with scorn, he ordered the smirking warrior out of the room. “You will gossip at your peril, Ulfin. No doubt you’ll report my healer’s lapse to my brother, but you leap above your station when you laugh at me in my presence. Now get out of my sight!”
The door closed on Ulfin’s fleeing form, and Ambrosius rounded on Myrddion. “Would you begrudge me the love of a woman or the companionship of a friend? I have lived for nearly forty years, alone and friendless, and I am weary of measuring every word and constantly doubting any person who offers their hand to me. Are all men and women false? Must I relinquish everything for the good of my people?”
The final question was asked in a voice that actually trembled with an excess of emotion. Myrddion understood. He, too, knew the texture and taste of loneliness, and he too hungered for the sweet anodyne of a woman’s arms. But Myrddion Merlinus was not a king.
“I don’t know, master. Truly I don’t. If Andrewina is the love of your heart, how can I deny her to you? But you cannot marry her or father children on her, for the tribal kings would see such a love as signs of weakness. I merely ask you to take more care. Please, lord, for I fear some deeper malignancy rises against you. The Saxons will not rejoice if you wring agreement from the kings, so it is entirely possible that they have already placed an assassin among the members of your court.”
“I am a man, Myrddion. I’m not a god, and I cannot live an emasculated life forever.” Tears were actually forming in the king’s eyes, and Myrddion was beginning to regret having initiated this conversation. “I’m becoming tired, for I have been beset with responsibilities for my entire life.”
“You were born to bear these burdens, my lord. When men desire a throne, they forget the crushing weight that a crown can place on the head that bears it. I can’t answer you, because I don’t walk in your shoes. I simply beg you to beware the motives of everyone around you, even me. Trust your brother only, for you can be certain that he alone would die for you. Oaths and protestations of love or loyalty are easily uttered and are gone in the whisper of a breath, but blood will remain true.”
Ambrosius’s shoulders slumped in defeat; he knew that Myrddion spoke the truth. “I will think on your words, Myrddion Merlinus, but you must leave me now, for Deva awaits your pleasure.”
“I’m sorry for the pain I have caused you, Lord Ambrosius.” Myrddion bowed and began to back out of the king’s presence. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have spoken.”
But Ambrosius had no answer for his loyal servant. He sat down and rested his arms against his knees, clenching his fingers together as if fearing his grip on something nameless would weaken unless he tightened his hands until his bones shone whitely in the lamplight. The mellow glow haloed his fair hair with a coronet of gold, and Myrddion’s last glimpse of the king’s face caught an expression of desperation and recklessness that made his heart sink.
Ambrosius wearies of the kingship and its heavy burdens, the healer thought as his footsteps echoed down the long corridors of the king’s hall. There will be no saving the kingdom if Uther is allowed to rule.
MYRDDION WIPED HIS sweating brow and examined the engineers’ work with a nervous, calculating eye. Although the sawn columns and wooden rafters were ugly when compared with the elegance of the original Roman amphitheater on the site, the newly built outer walls of stone gave the building an impression of permanence and imposing height. The roof was supported by heavy uprights of oak, and tiered stone seats mounted the raked floors inside the amphitheater, providing ample room for the dozens of kings who would arrive in the next few weeks.
Myrddion had achieved wonders out of nothing.
His idea was simple. Only Ambrosius and his seneschal would stand, or sit, in the area where plays and amusements had once been enacted. No questions of precedence or prestige would arise concerning other seating within the building, for the tribal kings would be accommodated in a circle whereby no one would be closer to the High King than any of his peers. Any tribal lordling who anticipated a fierce squabble over which tribes were being favored in the presence of the king would discover that every group would be equal, no matter how small.
“When will this . . . this very large room be finally finished?” Uther asked from behind the healer. His voice was curt, but Myrddion recognized a trace of respect in the question that Uther directed at him.
He turned and saw that Uther was staring up at the rafters with an incredulous expression on his face. Secretly grinning, Myrddion pointed towards a group of local carpenters who were busily reinforcing the roofing beams.
“See, lord prince? Once the roofing supports are in place, thatch will be laid to make the circular hall watertight. The servants will need to work by day and night to make this space comfortable, but I’m certain Ambrosius’s hall will be ready in time for the meeting of the tribal kings.”
“Humph! It’ll be damned uncomfortable, even in summer, which is almost gone. I’d rather not sit on those stone benches for too long. It’s a recipe for bone ache or constipation.”
“Women are already sewing cushions stuffed with lambs’ wool, my lord, and I’ve scoured the town for cloth in many different colors. The kings will be comfortable. Their banners can be hung on the upper walls once they decide where they will sit. As soon as the roof has been completed, a team of women will scour the area clean.”
“Humph!” Uther repeated dourly.
“The kings, of course, will be billeted in suitable lodgings,” Myrddion added. “I’ve almost completed the organization of comfortable beds, good cooks, and plentiful wine. The housing of their retinues is more difficult, for I’ve no idea who is coming, or how many guards will accompany them. Still, the city fathers and the magistrates are cooperating, for their position as a neutral city was reinforced when the decision was made to site Ambrosius’s hall here. Because of its trading advantages, Deva is a wealthy city and the magistrates know she is a tempting target for ambitious kings.”
“Humph!” Uther responded once more.
“Do the security measures go well?” Myrddion asked carefully. “Deva has very good walls, and the harbor is an effective bar to all but the most determined of enemies.”
“Between you and me, healer, Deva is a nightmare to secure.”
Uther’s voice was almost friendly as he explained the difficulties involved in keeping his brother safe. According to Uther, walls were effective only if the gates could be closed against potential attack, but Deva was such an open city that the gates were never locked. He growled about the citizenry’s inability to appreciate the most basic concepts of defense. Accustomed as they were to protection from the legions, and then cushioned by their position as the trading hub of the central lands, Deva’s citizens were unwilling to contemplate any action that would kill off business.
“Idiots!” Uther muttered. “I’ve tried to explain that the presence of so many kings will be a huge temptation to assassins, but the city leaders look at me as if I’ve grown an extra head.”
“Any external attack would have to come by sea, and the Saxons would be forced to sail their ceols around the southern coast of Britain to assail this town. Such an offensive is unlikely.”
Uther stared hard at Myrddion to satisfy himself that the healer was serious, and neither critical nor laughing at him. Satisfied that Myrddion regarded the problem of Ambrosius’s safety with the caution and respect it deserved, the prince checked the large structure, noting that two doors permitted entry and exit. He nodded with satisfaction.
“My lord, I am worried that any attack on our king will not come from an external source but will be planned by persons closer to home. I am particularly concerned about the status of Pascent and Andrewina Ruadh. I’m sure I remember Pascent’s face from somewhere in my past, but I’ve been away from Britain for so long that I can’t remember who he is or where my memories come from. And I know Andrewina Ruadh appears to be biddable and seems content with her lot, but women long for their children in ways that men will never understand. I can’t believe she stays with my lord willingly when her sons are far away and her husband is dishonored and lacks a mourner.”
“I just don’t like the bitch!” Uther snapped. “And I don’t like Pascent. Something about that young man smells bad. I wonder if they could be in collusion.”
Myrddion considered Uther’s suggestion, but decided that a pact between a quasi-Pict and a Celt seemed unlikely. “I doubt it, Prince Uther, but you’ve watched them, and you’d know more of their activities than I do.”
“No, possibly not . . . but it’s a neat answer, for I neither like them nor trust them. But then, I don’t like many people, you included. Still, you do have your uses. Your plan for the fortresses is good, and I’m aware that we must control the Roman roads.”
And so Myrddion and Prince Uther came to an uneasy truce. Both were profoundly suspicious of two people who were enjoying the favor of the High King. And both were passionate in their opposition to Saxon incursions into the tribal lands, although each had quite different reasons for his position. Uther had gradually come to acknowledge the healer’s considerable abilities, while Myrddion grudgingly accepted that the prince was very good at what he knew best—those skills pertaining to war and killing Saxons. The truce was fragile, but both men realized that they now had the basis of a working relationship.
Deva was a beautiful town, nestled at the very end of Seteia Aest where the waves lapped the stone wharves built by the Twentieth Legion centuries before. The city was gracious, with paved streets and a fair aspect, while the wind was sweet with salt, seaweed, and the perfumes of flowers and trees. Wherever Myrddion gazed, every vista pleased the eye.
But Deva possessed a greater treasure than a fair setting and healthy air. Myrddion had discovered the original legion hospital, a facility that was mostly deserted except for one aged healer who had worked in its echoing rooms since he was a young boy. Scoured by the sea breezes of the smells of old pain and death, it was a living memorial to what could be done to alleviate the effects of illness. Myrddion explored its rooms whenever he had a free moment, and he was particularly taken with the use of piped water within the structure. He was happy to see that the original builders had not used lead in their building materials but had settled for clay. While Roman surgeons weren’t always clean and hygienic, the presence of water pipes and channeling suggested that the healers of Deva had been advanced in their thinking.
Sunny, perfect days followed each beautiful morning as Ambrosius’s hall rose and the preparations for an historic and momentous meeting continued. Within the echoing, circular interior, the kings would decide whether Ambrosius would become a true High King, ruling the united tribes from the Vallum Antonini to Vectis island on the Litus Saxonicum. Then, as a true dux bellorum, Ambrosius would possess the authority to rule, and to drive the Saxons into the cold waters of the northern seas.
At long last, the Celts could become a nation, the Britons, who would grow to be a confederation of tribes fired by an ambition to preserve their world, even if they must die to achieve it.
“Ave, Ambrosius,” Myrddion whispered. “May you live long and rule well.”