by Jack Whyte
"No, damnation! Listen to me, for this is as new to me as to you and L don't know, either, what it means, but it seems reasonable to me. Ask yourself what I have to gain from this. Your mother means nothing and less than nothing to me. Why should I try to improve your memories of her?"
"Aye, there's the truth!" His voice was grating. "The woman you are trying to describe would have been capable of great love, is that not so? Great enough to abandon a baby? The fruit of her perfidy and infidelity!"
"Or the reminder of her failure!" His face froze. "Can't you see it?" I asked. "Can't you see what it would have meant to her? Think, man! The woman seeks to impregnate herself, using an available source that offers no threat. And she does it from a deep and selfless love...otherwise she would not be able to do as she did and retain any claim to humanity. She knows that her pregnancy will exalt her husband, who knows how much she loves him, and trusts her implicitly. And then something goes wrong. Her husband finds out what she is about, but not the reason for it...not the truth. He suspects the worst—conspiracy and seduction within his own household. In his agony, and sense of betrayal, he seeks to destroy the wrongdoer...but in his eyes, Ambrose, the wrongdoer is not his wife! He could have killed her with impunity for adultery, had he so wished, under Roman law. He chose not to. Unstable as he evidently was to attempt a murder in his own home, he did not try to kill his wife. He chose the innocent party, instead, not realizing that there was no guilt other than that born of his wife's love for him. And in the attempt, he died, leaving his pregnant' grieving wife to bear both her guilt and the child who had brought about his death. You. Remember, she fled the household directly upon his death. My father never saw her, did not know her..." I allowed that thought to hang there, between us, and then I closed my argument.
"So she abandoned you, but not completely...not completely, Ambrose. She did not drop you to die by the roadside somewhere, as she might have. She left you with her sister. With her own family, knowing they would accept you as part of their family. And she allowed them to believe her husband had fathered you. Only then did she disappear, probably in despair and with no wish to continue living. And has never been seen since... Now can you tell me why she might have done such a thing as to abandon you like that, rather than simply leaving you to die elsewhere?"
He shook his head, silent now, his face almost in repose, and I finished what I had to say, knowing in my heart that what I had said—this explanation that had come to me from the depths of my mind—was correct.
"Simply because she could not bear to live with you, even though you were innocent of any wrong. This was a wondrous woman, Ambrose, if my reasoning is sound, and I believe it is. Think of her with pity, if you can, and with' affection. Out of love for an aged man, and driven by well- intentioned desperation, she might have undertaken a course fraught with great risk, one that could have given her little pleasure. And out of all these benevolent efforts came tragedy. Her husband, for love of whom she had done all this, was ignominiously killed, believing her treacherous and breaking his own sacrosanct Roman law of hospitality. And she was left with you, the daily reminder of her culpability. Marcus Aurelius Ambrosianus was your mother's husband, Ambrose, but he was not your father. And every time she looked at you she would have seen that, along with the fact that your true father—no more than an instrument to her—meant less than nothing to her and did not even know she, or you, existed. You and he were merely the progenitors of her guilt, the tools she had foolishly used to procure the unlooked-for death of her husband. Thank God she let you live. Many another would have killed you in the womb."
In silence, bereft of words, he turned away from me again, back to his perusal of the darkness beyond the rocks, but not before I had seen the glint of moonlight on the tears that spilled down his cheeks. I waited, but I knew he had no more to say, and after a time I stepped forward and laid my hand gently on his shoulder, feeling the tension in him.
"Listen," I told him. "It is late, and you have no need of company, so I will leave you now. Think of what I have said. You are my brother, my father's son, and you have a home in my home in Camulod should you choose to accept it. We will speak more tomorrow, but I'll make no move to impose upon you. Seek me out when you are ready. Good night."
I left him there alone, standing among the boulders, and made my way to my own tent where I lay awake for a long time.
XXXVI
By mid-morning I had heard nothing from Ambrose, although I had stayed close to my tent since rising, delegating my normal duties to Cyrus Appius. I had said nothing to Donuil or to anyone else about my encounter with my brother the previous night, and I could feel Donuil watching me solicitously whenever he felt I was unaware of him. In the meantime, I was content to wait. Ambrose might come looking for me at any time. I felt sure he would have passed a sleepless night with so much on his mind and had probably remained abed this morning.
It was a fine, early autumn morning, the air snapping for the first time with a hint of the winter lying in wait not far away, and the camp was almost deserted, one-third of our number on patrol duty within the town and most of the remainder at the debate itself. As I sat idly by the fire listening to the sharp, abrasive sound of the whetstone Donuil was using on the edge of my sword, a shadow fell across me and I turned to see Lucanus looking down at me, his back against the sun.
"Good day to you," he greeted me. "What's wrong?"
"Wrong? Nothing in the world that I know of." I beckoned him to join me. He approached, but remained standing. "Where have you been all morning?"
He shrugged. "Walking, and working. One of our troopers fell and broke a leg last night, badly. I set and splinted it last night, but had to set it again this morning."
"What happened? Was he drunk?"
"No, he fell down some stairs, but he was sober." He dismissed that with a wave of his hand and went on, "I'm more concerned with you. What's wrong with you? You have done nothing today but hang around here. That's not like you".
"Isn't it?" I smiled. "I'm thinking, that's all, and waiting."
"Waiting for what? Caius Merlyn Britannicus waits for nothing and no man...at least, the one I know does not. So what's afoot?"
I laughed. "Nothing's afoot, at least nothing to concern anyone. I looked for you last night. I had some news to tell you about Uther, after I had been speaking to Bishop Patricius."
"You mean about the priest, Remus?" He nodded. "I heard. I spoke to Patricius, too, after you. He told me what you had discussed." He paused, his eyes searching mine. "It must have been a great relief to know that your suspicions were unfounded." His tone made a question of the statement.
"It was. I slept well, last night. I have more news for you, too, on another matter, but it will have to wait for a while. Where are you going now?"
"To the debate. I hoped you might come with me. The formal commencement was this morning and I missed it, as did you. We did, after all, travel a long way to be here and to witness the proceedings."
I nodded. "Yes, we..." My voice died away as I saw him look beyond me and I knew, from the way his eyes widened and his jaw fell agape, what he had seen. I turned in my seat to see Ambrose standing by the side of my tent and could sympathize with Luke's shock. In darkness, Ambrose had resembled me amazingly. In broad daylight the effect was emphasized. He could have been my twin.
"Ah, Ambrose!" I rose quickly to my feet. "Welcome. Let me introduce you to a friend of mine, Lucanus, our superb physician, who thinks of himself as a surgeon." Luke's eyes were still glazed as I continued, "Lucanus, this is Ambrose.. .of Lindum." I could say no more until I knew the route that Ambrose would elect to follow.
Ambrose stepped forward and bowed slightly to Lucanus, a formal, yet courteous and friendly gesture. "Master Lucanus. Caius Merlyn misleads you, but out of courtesy, and I can see you see that for yourself. My name is Britannicus... Ambrose Britannicus."
I heaved a great sigh of relief. "Donuil," I called into the tent, "come out
and meet my brother."
A period of confusion and wonderment ensued, as Donuil and Lucanus attempted to come to grips with the reality of this confrontation, but I cut it short, promising to explain fully later. I had seen from Ambrose's expression that he was not yet fully comfortable in his new role. I asked the others to permit us some time alone, and they left immediately. I led Ambrose into my tent and waved him to a seat. We sat in silence for a spell, simply looking at each other, savouring the likeness between us.
"Would you like something to drink?" I felt a sudden need to put him at his ease, but he shook his head and then seemed to relax, clearing his throat.
"Last night.. .Last night you said I should thank God my mother permitted me to live..." He made an attempt to smile and, shaky though the result was, I felt far better than I had in many hours. "I came this morning to tell you I agree with you.. .and I thank God, indeed." I could see tears welling in his eyes, and when he spoke again his voice shook, although only very slightly. "Merlyn, I spent the night thinking of all you said, and I believe now that what you told me—knowing and considering your own uncertainty—must be the truth. It seems against all reason on the one hand, but on the other it reeks of truth. We will never know for certain, as you said. I know that, and I regret it, but it feels like the truth, in here!" He pounded his chest with his clenched fist. "My thanks to you," he went on, fighting to control his emotions. "You have given me back my mother."
I swallowed hard. "I've given you more than that, my friend, and it benefits me as much as you, for I now have a brother almost like a twin, while you inherit another life: a noble father you never knew you had, plus a whole clan of kinsmen and a Colony like no other in this land...Not to mention Uther Pendragon, unknown to you at present, who will howl with mirth and outrage when he sets eyes on you. But we'll have plenty of opportunity to talk, now that you've begun to adjust. For the moment, I was about to leave for the debate with Lucanus. Will you join us?"
He shook his head with regret, rising to his feet. "I cannot, much as I would like to. I have things to do, and I have been lazy this morning, although I have told my uncle everything you told me, and he agrees with your reconstruction of events. Will you dine with me tonight?"
I felt my eyebrow go up at the mention of Jacob of Lindum's concurrence with my theory, but felt it best to say nothing about it then. Instead, I smiled at him. "With whom else should I even think of dining? Of course I will. Shall you come here?"
He nodded. "When the debate is over for the day."
We embraced for the first time as brothers, and went our separate ways, he to his affairs, and I towards the amphitheatre and the Great Debate.
After a long search of the large and strangely festive crowd who filled the amphitheatre, I found Lucanus seated among a group of single men, some of whom I recognized. They seemed to be the only people within the great place who actually appeared to be listening to the debate going on in the arena. Lucanus saw me and made room for me between himself and his neighbour who was, I noted with surprise, none other than King Vortigern, though there was nothing particularly regal about him today as he sat swathed in a huge, grey cloak, attentive to the events going on before him.
Vortigern glanced at me and nodded as I sat down. "Merlyn." He spoke softly. "Cold, out of the sun."
His eyes and ears returned to the debate and I nudged Lucanus. "What's happening?"
"You'll know as much as I, before you're much older." He did not look at me but spoke out of the corner of his mouth. "This fellow has just begun to speak, and already he has lost me. I've no idea who he is...one of Germanus's new bunch who were here where we arrived. The old fellow who spoke before him was going on about the findings of the Council at Nicaea convened by Constantine a hundred years ago...Something about Arianism and the Divinity of the Christus...I think he was defending himself against some earlier allegation, before I arrived, of Arianism, but I cannot be sure. It's quite difficult to hear clearly. These men are clerics, not trained actors."
He was correct in that. The present speaker had a thin, querulous voice that would have been indistinct from the other side of a dining-room table. From where we sat, some twenty paces from him and hemmed in by people, he was almost impossible to hear, even with total concentration. For some time I listened hard to the whine of his voice, trying in vain to decipher his words, but eventually my mind drifted to Ambrose and the changes to my life his life would bring.
When I snapped out of my reverie and returned my attention to the proceedings, another man was speaking. I had not even been aware of the change, and I found no great difference. My buttocks were sore. I shifted in my seat, searching for comfort, and the movement attracted the attention of King Vortigern, who looked at me sidelong, the hint of a smile on his handsome face.
"Are you enlightened, Master Merlyn?"
"No, Sir King." I grinned at him ruefully. "I am bored, and lost, and beginning to regret the long journey that I faced with such high hopes. I cannot hear the half of what they say, and more than die half of what I can hear flies over my head."
"You'll hear better tomorrow." Lucanus spoke from my other side and Vortigern and I both turned to him.
"How so?" Vortigern asked, and drew another grin, this time from Luke.
"Because tomorrow there will be no one here except the bishops. Look, this is the first day of the proceedings and already more than half the people have gone off to other things. The noise is dying down even as we speak. I don't know what they all expected, but it is lacking here, whatever it was. No spectacle, no pomp, no entertainment...merely a gathering of clerics, discussing abstractions." He glanced at me. "That is what we came to hear, is it not? Clerics discussing abstractions?"
I had to smile, serious as the matter underlying his question was. "It was, Lucanus," I responded, "but we did not foresee, I think, quite such abstract surroundings for the abstractions."
"Hmm! You would prefer distraction, I perceive."
"No," I demurred with a laugh, "not so. But I would prefer more concrete in the mix."
"Ooh!" He wrinkled his nose in disgust at my bad pun, but Vortigern laughed aloud.
Other people were turning around to look at us now, wondering what the cause of our hilarity might be, and Vortigern stood up, bringing all of his people to their feet with him. "Enough of this," he said, "I, too, am bored. I shall ask Germanus tonight to tell us what went on. For now, I feel like a pleasant ride in the countryside." He nodded a courteous farewell and left with his courtiers. A few moments later, Lucanus and I followed him, leaving the bishops to their polemics.
To no one's surprise, Lucanus's prediction was accurate. After the first day's dreary, arcane argument, few if any of the common people went again to the scene of the debate. I attended every day, for at least an hour or two, during the first week, but thereafter, as my disappointment with my own inability to comprehend the gist of the debated matters grew, my daily attendance dwindled accordingly. And not for two weeks, until the eve of the final day, did I have an opportunity to speak again with Germanus.
"The weather had grown gradually colder, day by day, so that men spoke of snow, notwithstanding that the trees were all still green, their leaves only beginning to show faint signs of russet. Drawn in search of warmth from the unseasonable chill of the evenings, by the start of the second week people had begun to gather in the temporary taverns that had been set up in several of the larger abandoned houses. The streets and alleys were all well patrolled by my men and by Vortigern's, so none of these places were in any way troublesome. On the contrary, they were warm, bright and cheerful for all their recent birth and temporary nature, all selling simple—and sometimes not so simple—nourishing food as well as ale and mead, and causing more than one visitor to shake his head in admiration at men's ability to turn any circumstance into profit.
Vortigern, Jacob, Lucanus and Ambrose and I, along with several others including Pellus, Cyrus Appius and some of Vortigern's circle, had form
ed a loose-knit caucus, gathering on most evenings, those of us who had no other duties, in one such place, which we had named the Carpe Diem, in recognition of the brevity of its existence—past and future—and of its owner's opportunism. As frequently happens in such instances, our presence attracted other soldiers but repelled most civilians, so that in a matter of days the Carpe Diem had become acknowledged as a soldiers' haunt.
On this particular evening, however, I had fallen victim to my conscience and remained in camp to show my face among our troopers and to bring my daily journal up to date, a task I loathed but one that had a long tradition in Camulod. The custom had begun with my grandfather, whose insistence upon keeping such a record had been the only thing that had saved the lives of all his men, as well as himself and my great-uncle Publius from charges of desertion and sedition. From that day forward, every expedition led by my grandfather or any of his family or descendants had been carefully chronicled from day to day. In my case, I was literate enough, and facile enough, to have perfected the art of keeping concise notations on each day's events. From time to time, however, normally once every third day, I would review these notes and amplify them into the form of a journal.
Such was my task this evening. Feeling the cold in my fingertips, I had asked Donuil to light a brazier in my tent, and had swung around my father's old campaign desk so that my back and my right side could enjoy the heat from the glowing fire. It was late, long since dark, but the proximity of so many clerics had produced a beneficial glut of splendid wax candles, fifteen of which burned steadily and luxuriously in three tripod-mounted holders around the back and sides of the desk, allowing me to write in unaccustomed brightness and comfort.
I was enjoying my task for once, writing down fully and completely my recollections and impressions of the events that had taken place and of the wealth of new friends we had encountered. I had already dealt with Ambrose and the unexpected resolution of the mystery of my father's convalescence and the attempt on his life. I was outlining my thoughts pro and contra Vortigern's employment of Saxon mercenaries in Northumbria and the entire matter of self- protection in the face of invasion, when I heard the sound of voices outside my tent, where Donuil was still moving around, attending to his own duties. Moments later, I heard the flaps of my tent being pulled apart and I swung around to see Bishop Germanus leaning in.