The Eagles' Brood cc-3

by Jack Whyte

  I have heard men otherwise considered wise say that it is impossible few: a man to lie to himself. Of all human statements, I think that must rank among the most foolish. We lie to ourselves constantly, trying to live up to our own expectations of ourselves. Self-delusion is probably the most common of all human characteristics.

  If I have gained any wisdom in my life, it is the wisdom to thank God for having kept me too busy during those days for time to dwell deeply on this quest for self-knowledge. I must have been insufferable to those around me, because I soon began to discern the amount of work and dedication that would be called for, if this task I had set myself were to be faced properly, and I felt a driving need to discuss it with anyone and everyone who would listen. I saw almost immediately that the temptation towards self-delusion is enormous. I saw also how easy it would have been simply to decide that I had been correct in my own interpretation of myself, because I knew myself better and more profoundly than any other could.

  Fortunately Meric, my old Druid teacher and mentor, came to visit us at Camulod around that time. Meric was a lover of argument, polemic and philosophical debate. He and I spent days together, deep in conversation, and everyone around us must have been sad to see him depart after only a few weeks, leaving them vulnerable to me and my agony again. When I saw the glazed look I came to recognize and hate invade the eyes of yet another unwilling listener, I would sometimes sneak away to find my love in her hidden vale, knowing that I could talk to her for hours and hours, should I so wish, and that, no matter what my topic, she would sit in her wordless, soundless world, content simply to have me there beside her.

  I did decide that Uther's assessment of me had been correct, and I set out to change myself in a number of ways, including curing myself of my tendency to be judgmental. I thought long and hard, for hours on end, on what my father had had to say just a few months earlier on judgments, and his views on evidence, circumstance, and the value of reasonable doubt. And I decided that I had a duty to come to know everyone around me as well and as thoroughly and genuinely as I possibly could, so that any judgment I might be tempted to make concerning them would at least be based on knowledge and understanding. Again, a massive and intimidating undertaking, and yet one I began to enjoy more and more as I worked at it. For I soon found that the rewards of this new policy far exceeded the hardship involved.

  I found that the people I spent such time with became more friendly, more personable and more willing to trust me, once they came to accept that I really was interested in knowing them for who and what they were. And I found that most people were far more admirable than I had suspected they might be, so that I soon came to recognize respect for what I now know it to be—something to which all people are entitled, until they forfeit it personally and wilfully.

  I learned much about the people of Camulod, and came more and more to think of them as "my" people, but it was to be many, many months before I had either the opportunity or the courage to face Uther and admit that he had been right, and to ask his forgiveness. When I finally did, he frowned in complete puzzlement, then realized what I was talking about and grinned and squeezed the back of my neck in one great hand, saying he had heard I was changing quickly—and for the better—and that he had high hopes for me.

  With Uther gone to his mountain kingdom, I felt free to spend more time, in longer and longer stretches, with my beloved Cassandra. Our chain of command in Camulod by that time was such that, had I so wished, I could easily have stayed away for months on end, secure in the knowledge that everything would progress peacefully and lawfully in the Colony during my absence, and that any emergencies would be dealt with swiftly and competently, without any need of guidance from me. That I chose not to do so was the result of several circumstances, one of them being the new resolve I have just described. Another was the genuine pleasure I found in the training of young Donuil for the duties he was determined to assume in the future, a pleasure leavened by the keen, intuitive insight the young man demonstrated, and reinforced by the genuine need I perceived to advance his education as quickly as possible, with a view to grooming him as an eventual replacement for Titus. Titus had been badly affected by my father's death, and almost overnight I watched him change into an elderly man—he who, like my father himself, had previously seemed impervious to time and its dictates.

  In my passion to make changes within myself, I took pains to spend a great deal of time with him, mainly in the evenings, when the daily tasks were completed. I spent long, wonderful evenings talking with him, but primarily listening to him talk about my father and the years they had spent together. On many of these occasions, we were joined by Flavius, the third member of my father's triumvirate, and listening to the two of them reminiscing I learned more about the man who had been my father than I had ever known.

  On one such evening, soon after Uther's departure, all three of us mellowed by wine, I told them in detail of young Donuil's idea, and of my own conviction of the strength and soundness of it. When I had finished talking, they both sat silent for a time, digesting what I had told them. Neither was quick to comment. Titus was the first to speak, clearing some phlegm from his throat and turning to Flavius. "What do you think, Flavius?"

  Flavius scratched at the tight-curled, wiry, iron-grey hair that covered his scalp and remained silent, thinking his way deliberately through the pros and cons of this unexpected proposal. "I'm surprised," he admitted, eventually, "but I'm not opposed." He continued to scratch, gazing at me, his thoughts and attention turned inward. "He's an impressive young man, so I think you should go with your instincts, Cay. Give the boy his head and see how he performs. He might let you down, and you won't know that until the time comes. But anyone else you choose—and you'll have to choose someone—might let you down, too, even harder. You want to try the lad. Then try him, I say, and good luck to both of you. You're going to need someone. There's no one else qualified to do the job right now, and sooner or later you're going to have to turn us two old war-horses out to pasture."

  Titus sat up, as though he were about to dispute that, and then he sighed and slumped in his chair again. "Flavius is right, Cay," he said. "The timing is good. And I believe you are doing the right thing, although the boy has much to learn. Fortunately, he learns quickly and well. That is already obvious from the way he has picked up our language. You should prepare a formal, disciplined schedule of duties for him: so much time with Rufio, learning basic military skills, so much time with you, learning the needs you will have for him, and the remainder with me, learning to understand and control the things that make this Colony function." He moved to a more comfortable position and grinned at me. "I'll be happy to teach him what little I know. I'll even show him how to break and manipulate the rules he himself will have to live by. Have him come to me tomorrow, before noon. I'll try to get to know him better during the coming weeks. That way, I'll be able to gauge the speed and the extent of his future tuition."

  Deeply moved by their support and empathy, I thanked them both, and our conversation moved on to other things. But the die was cast for my future adjutant.

  XXVIII

  Avalon became my sanctuary in the days after the loss of my father. The rude hut we had been so glad of in the beginning was no longer quite so rude. Every time I had visited Cassandra, from the earliest days of her sojourn there, I had done some kind of work on the small building, and I usually .brought something with me to improve the place, to make it more weatherproof or more comfortable. It was now warm and snug, verging on the luxurious in some respects, although still tiny. Each time I arrived there, I left the world behind me, losing all thought of temporal problems as I descended the steep, twisting pathway to where she waited for me.

  I had long since given up making any attempt to entice her to leave the valley and return with me to Camulod. Several times I had tried it, and she had come to recognize the attempts, so that now she would not even venture with me to the pathway leading up the hill. I made
no serious effort to convince her that her return was important to me. I was really quite content to keep her there, all to myself, sharing her with no one, knowing that she was there, waiting to comfort me whenever the realities of life at Camulod became overpowering.

  For a very long time after the events surrounding the death of my father, however, life around Camulod remained quiet, pleasant and peaceful. The upheavals caused by Lot's invasion, or by Caspar and Memnon's invasion, soon died down and passed into memory, and life regained its normal tenor. Donuil's education in our ways continued with a swiftness that surprised and gratified all of us. He was quickly accepted by the entire garrison—thanks to Centurion Rufio, who also flourished under his new responsibilities—and by the colonists themselves, and the friendship between us grew steadily as we discovered more of each other's character and disposition. Summer faded into autumn, with a fine harvest, which advanced slowly into another mild winter and a brilliant spring. All awareness of threats from outside seemed to have vanished, except that patrols still came and went regularly and there was no lessening of vigilance among the military guardians of the peace.

  In the spring, however, Aunt Luceiia's ubiquitous bishops brought news of another kind: tidings from Rome.

  I heard the news on my return from one of my frequent three-day visits to Cassandra in the springtime of the new year, when I was summoned to visit Luceiia. I found her in unusually high spirits, even for her. She informed me that, now that spring had arrived, she intended to return with me to Avalon—she herself used the name—to meet my Cassandra and convince her to come back with us and live a civilized life in Camulod, where she and I would be married.

  I was nonplussed, and immediately at war within myself. Part of me saw the sense of what she was proposing, but another, possibly stronger part, was unwilling even to consider forsaking the private happiness I had known with Cassandra in our tiny valley. Aunt Luceiia, however, would brook no argument, and when I finally managed to insert a few words into her animated monologue I agreed that it would be wonderful, at least, for her to meet my love. I also asked her, although without much real interest, to be more specific about her "news from Rome," news of which I knew nothing.

  Her eyebrows rose slightly in shock. "What do you mean, you know nothing about it? Everyone knows about it!"

  I shook my head. "Forgive me, Auntie, but I have no idea what 'it' is."

  She blinked at me, still looking slightly astonished. "Why, Germanus of course."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Germanus. Germanus is 'it.'"

  "I see. Which Germanus are you talking about?"

  Her eyebrows quirked into a fleeting frown of impatience. "General Germanus, your father's friend, the former Legate who served with him in Asia Minor under Stilicho. He is now the Bishop of Auxerre."

  I was thoroughly confused and held up my hand, in an appeal for patience. "Please, Auntie, forgive me. I've been away for a time, and all of this has happened in my absence, so be patient with me if I seem confused. General Germanus is the Bishop of Auxerre, in Gaul?"

  "That is correct."

  I shook my head again, thoroughly confused. "But how can that be? How can a Legate be a bishop?"

  My aunt sniffed eloquently. "Easily, it seems. Germanus retired from the Legions, as all men must at some time, and entered the priesthood, which few Legates, or other soldiers, for that matter, ever do. He was always a deep-thinking man, apparently, and he is now the Bishop of Auxerre, and a very highly respected theologian, according to the reports I have received."

  "From your own bishops, of course."

  "Yes." My aunt was unconscious of any irony.

  "I see. So what else have your bishops told you?"

  She bridled like a proud pony and answered me with an indignant expression and a condescending tone to her voice as though explaining the obvious to one who was already well informed. "That, in spite of the teachings of Pelagius being condemned as wickedly controversial, we the people here in Britain still cling to them."

  "But we always have, Auntie, and we have always known it. What is so new about that?"

  Luceiia drew herself upright. "The novelty, Nephew, lies in the fact that there is almost open, holy war among our British bishops. Not all of them are followers of Pelagius. There are many, it seems, who adhere to the teachings of Augustine of Hippo and the hierarchical powers of the churchmen in Rome. Those bishops, the Orthodox Bishops of Britain, as they call themselves, have written to Pope Celestine, begging him to intercede for them here in this country."

  She paused for a moment, then went on. "Pelagius is dead. He died last year in Palestine. He died excommunicate."

  "How so? Pope Innocent exonerated him!"

  "No," she corrected me, "Innocent excommunicated him. It was Pope Zosinus, Innocent's successor, who absolved Pelagius, eleven years ago. That was short-lived, however. Zosinus changed his mind, and his decree, the following year, under pressure from the combined bishops at the Council of Carthage. Pelagius lived his last ten years apostate."

  "Thereby proving the validity of his own beliefs. How can such total condemnation be Christian? I understood no sin was too big to be forgiven." Another thought occurred to me. "What of his followers?"

  Aunt Luceiia sniffed. "We have all been declared heretics, although we have not yet been actively declared excommunicate. We are being told now that the Church Fathers in Rome consider us to have been misled for many years, seduced from the proper path of the Church's teaching through no fault of our own. They now wish us to submit voluntarily to the will and the teachings of Rome. The Holy Father in Rome, Pope Celestine, is sending Germanus of Auxerre, the warrior bishop, here to Britain to debate the question of Pelagianism—that is the name they are giving to our beliefs versus their 'orthodoxy'—with our own British bishops, in the great theatre at Verulamium."

  She had my full attention. This was what my father had called for in his confrontation with the zealot priests. "A debate, you say? A public debate? When, Auntie? When is this to take place?"

  She looked me in the eyes shrewdly, assessing the sudden interest in my voice. "In September, six months from now, but why do you ask? You wouldn't be thinking of going to listen, would you?"

  Her tone made me smile. "Why not? Would it surprise you very much if I showed that much interest?"

  "In matters of the Church? You?" she scoffed. "My dear boy, whatever hopes I might once have had for your salvation are long dead. You are my nephew, and I love you, but you are a scandalous libertine." She laughed aloud. "I can no more imagine you travelling from here to Verulamium for a debate between bishops than I could imagine my Publius, God rest him, earning his living as a fisherman."

  I grinned with her. "Why not, Auntie? Publius Varrus, having decided he must be a fisherman, would have had boats sink beneath him from the weight of his catch." I paused, sobered. "Seriously, Auntie, I think it would be irresponsible of me to miss this debate, if I could possibly arrange to be there."

  "Irresponsible, Cay?" She had caught my mood change, and leaned back in her chair to scrutinize me more closely, squinting her eyes slightly as she sought to read my expression. "Why irresponsible? That is a weighty word."

  "This is a weighty matter, Auntie."

  "Is it indeed? Well, I confess it is. Weighty and profound. I know that, but it surprises me that you should recognize it, too."

  I made a wry face. "Am I that predictable? So easy to dismiss as shallow?"

  "No, God forgive me if I make you feel that way, Caius. I am merely... surprised, that is all. You will admit, will you not, that you have never shown any interest in such things before?"

  "Freely. But people change, Auntie, and I suppose I am changing..." I fell silent, and she allowed me time to collect my thoughts. "I've been thinking a great deal about my father, and the things he stood for, and I don't think I have ever in my life seen anything finer, anything more fitting, or more dignified and decorous, than the way he defied and denied
those odious priests in Council that day, before he expelled them from the Colony.

  "And yet, thinking of that, despite my admiration for my father's stance, and his judicious reasoning, not to mention his restraint—I don't think I could have put up with the abuse he swallowed that day—I've also had to think about the long-term effects of his actions that day. We have not heard the last of that affair, and my father is no longer here to deal with the repercussions. But someone will have to, and I think that someone will be me. Honestly, Auntie, I don't know if I can cope with that task. I haven't got the moral certitude, the scope of experience, the authority or the tempered judgment that my father had." I paused again, breaking new ground here, seeking new words to describe my thinking, and as I did so, I became aware of the expression on my aunt's face.

  "What are you thinking? Do I sound arrogant?"

  She smiled, shaking her head gently. "No, anything but. I'm entranced, but I don't want to interrupt your train of thought. Go on, Caius, please. Tell me your thoughts, and don't worry about mine."

  I was sheepish, admitting my own bafflement. "Please understand, Auntie, that I'm as surprised as you by what I'm saying. I've never voiced these thoughts before today. They have been in my mind, obviously, but I haven't really been aware of them, other than in passing. There has been no urgency to them, if you know what I mean..." My mind was spinning, thoughts tumbling over each other faster than I could grasp them, and Luceiia remained silent, aware that what I needed was a sympathetic ear to hear my thoughts, rather than words to interrupt them. I floundered on.