by Jack Whyte
At several points I had turned away from Retorix, taking great pains to do it casually and feigning interest in the conduct of my motionless troopers, in order to school my features more rigidly. The news that Ironhair was aware of our involvement with Vortigern, and of the threat from the Saxon Shore, came as a revelation, despite the fact that I already knew how wide a net Ironhair was capable of casting. The information about Uderic—that he was no friend of mine—was less surprising, since Uderic made no secret that he was suspicious of my motives in being here. It was his specious championship of Carthac that was hardest for me to bear without protest, however much I tried to tell myself that I was listening to mere words, designed to keep me off balance and distracted from taking another course. That angered me, because the course itself remained unclear to me. The suggestion, even by omission, that Ironhair could see it more clearly than I could, and that he could move against me to block it even before I saw it, was infuriating.
There was also the matter of Arthur. Ironhair knew about Arthur—his blood lines, his paternity, and therefore the primacy of his claim to the Cambrian kingship. Our move to Mediobogdum had been the result of one assassination attempt on the boy, fomented by Ironhair himself. Now ' that I was back from my long disappearance, it was presumable that I would keep the boy close by me. Retorix and his companions had clearly been warned to keep a lookout for the boy who would accompany me, and their reaction to Bedwyr told me they knew Arthur's age but had no idea what he might look like.
Why then, I wondered, would Ironhair feed me this mess of pottage about Carthac's claim? He must know that I would scorn it, so what did he seek to gain? In what way would I damage my own cause and advance Ironhair's by rejecting his proposal on the grounds of Arthur's claim? That perplexed me greatly, for I knew that Ironhair must know the answer. And then it came to me, in a burst of sudden understanding that almost took my breath away, so quickly did it supplant Ironhair's apparent advantage over me.
To cover my reaction to the awareness that had flared in me, I stepped forward slowly, my eyes downcast, and made a lengthy display of settling myself into the only chair at the table between Retorix and me. I leaned back and crossed my left arm over my chest, resting my right elbow on my fist and plucking at my lower lip with the thumb and forefinger of my right hand. Retorix watched me, narrow eyed, assuming that I was considering his words. What I was considering, in fact, was what I should do with the knowledge that now throbbed in me, and what I wanted to do most was to stride off into my tent to be alone with my thoughts. I needed to analyse this new awareness immediately and to probe it for weaknesses. But I knew that Bedwyr waited for me in my tent and would distract me from thinking clearly, whereas, if I simply remained where I was, no one would dare to break in on my thoughts.
Ironhair, I was now convinced, was wagering heavily that I would be able to tolerate neither his insolence in making this approach nor the spurious cloak of respectability he was holding up for Carthac. Fully aware of the legitimacy of Arthur's claim as Uther's heir, he was gambling that I would react in outraged fury to his proposal and would—must—
expel his hirelings from my presence. His reasoning, and his hopes for success, were now clear in my mind, and he himself had given me the key to resolving the entire matter. By mentioning Uderic, and the dislike he held for me, Ironhair had overplayed his advantage. When I refused his invitation to withdraw based upon his terms, which depended heavily on his definition of my presence in Cambria as an invading force, I would define myself as a third force in this conflict, inimical, by that definition, to both sides. Bolstered by the false legitimacy of his support of Carthac, who was a Pendragon, Ironhair could then approach Uderic and make common cause with him—albeit temporarily—to drive the invading forces of Camulod out of Cambria.
I had no illusions about Uderic. His ambition was as great as Ironhair's, and his eyes were set on the same prize: the gold circlet that sat upon the brows of whoever ruled as king of the Pendragon. The fact that many, perhaps a majority, of his Pendragon people would refuse to accept that Camulod might have designs on Cambria would have little sway over Uderic's designs. He would form an alliance with Ironhair to drive us out of the Pendragon territories. Then, once we were gone, crushed between the armies of both enemies, he would think he could turn his attention to Ironhair and Carthac, dealing with them at leisure. Uderic was a strong war chief and a natural successor to Dergyll, but he lacked Dergyll's brains and the popular support the former king had attracted without effort. I would pick Ironhair, ten times out of ten, to win any contest with Uderic. But none of that had any direct bearing on my immediate concerns, which had to do with Ironhair's beliefs.
When I was a child of ten, perhaps eleven years old, Publius Varrus had said something to me that I had never forgotten. He had caught me lying to him over some minor boyhood scrape, when, seeking to protect Uther from some unspecified punishment, I had claimed ignorance of my cousin's whereabouts. Uncle Varrus had taken me severely to task over the lie, emphasizing and reiterating that lying consistently contains its own punishments, feeding upon itself to the point at which the liar loses all respect and credibility. He had kept coming back to the point for weeks, until I grew heartily sick of it, but then he had concluded the lesson by asking me if I knew what the liar's tragedy was. He insisted that I think about his question and find an answer to it, so I thought, and I thought. Finally, I thought I knew the answer.
"Well?" Uncle Varrus asked me.
"I think... once a man has become a really bad liar... a habitual liar... then his tragedy must be that, no matter what he says, no one will ever be able to believe him. "
My uncle nodded. "That is really awful, isn't it? Would. you like to be in that situation?"
"No. "
"No, nor would I. To go through life knowing that no one will believe you about anything must be truly terrible.But you know, Cay, that is not the liar's tragedy. The liar's tragedy is far, far worse. "
I gazed at him, wide-eyed. "How, Uncle? What could be worse than that?"
'This, Cay: the real tragedy of the liar is that he can never believe anyone else. "
That befuddled me, for I was yet too young to grasp its full implication, but I never forgot it, and I never stopped thinking about it, and as I grew older I began to see the extent of the tragedy: for if a man knows, deep in his heart, that he is a liar and a fraud and a hypocrite, how can he ever ascribe any honesty, sincerity or integrity to any other?
Ironhair was judging me according to his own criteria, and he was wrong. He was ascribing his own venal ambitions to me, believing that I truly did seek to rule in Cambria and that I lusted to be king in the same way he did, for I had not the slightest belief that Carthac would survive Ironhair's friendship long enough to claim the crown. He would never believe the truth: that my motivation was revenge for the treachery he had brought into Camulod. I sought his death, and Cardiac's, simply because I believed the world would be a better place were they both dead, and I could withdraw to Camulod and live there happily until the time arrived when Arthur would step forth to claim his own.
Now I believed I had the measure of him. He was unaware that I had sent Huw Strongarm to meet with Uderic. When Uderic and I met face to face, I would tell him what Ironhair sought to do, and we would thwart him together, with an alliance between our armies. Uderic had many faults, and until I discovered otherwise, I was prepared to accept that he might not be trustworthy, but he was sane, unlike Carthac.
I sucked air with a hiss through my front teeth, then rose to my feet. Retorix and his people stood facing me stalwartly, flanked by my troopers, and I hesitated for a heartbeat, wondering for a strange, brief moment, if I was about to make a serious error. Connor would be active in the waters below Tintagel, even now. He would have scant cause to thank me were I to send these people slinking home to arrive at his back unexpectedly.
I spoke directly to Retorix again, watching his eyes closely. "How long will it take
you to bear my message back to Ironhair? I presume he is sitting safely in Tintagel, awaiting your return?"
The eyes widened very slightly, but he answered immediately, his voice calm. "He awaits our coming, but not in Tintagel."
"No, of course not You came from the west" Then, knowing I was right, I hardened my tone and rattled off what I had to say, speaking harshly and giving him no chance to interject or quibble. "But whichever way you came, from south or west, you came here uninvited, and I have listened to you with patience, despite my own inclinations. Now, having listened, here is my decision... " I walked around the table to face them from less than two paces, with nothing between us. "Let me begin from the beginning. I am Legate Commander of Camulod, and you addressed me correctly. Your 'Supreme Commander, ' as you call him, is, on the other hand, an upstart and an exile from that Camulod. He is a liar and a murderer of women, and though he may seek to assume it by himself, he is completely unworthy of being accorded any kind of nobility. His friend Carthac, whom he refers to as my distant kinsman, is no kin of mine. He is a demented degenerate and utterly unworthy to be called human. As for his so-called claim to the kingship of Cambria, it is ludicrous to suggest that the Pendragon people would ever willingly place themselves beneath his heel.
"The reason for my presence here in Cambria, uninvited and accompanied by my army, is quickly explained. I have but one purpose: to bring about the death and destruction of Ironhair and everything he represents. Get you then aboard your ship and take that word back to your upstart kingling. And if you should ever be unwise enough to come this way again, you will find yourself treated appropriately, the way we should have treated you today. " I turned to the guard commander. "Escort these people back to the water's edge and get them out of my sight. " I then spun on my heel and marched back inside my tent.
Bedwyr stood waiting for me there, his eyes serene, his expression resigned, his square-shouldered demeanour reflecting his decision to accept whatever punishment I might assign. I nodded to him.
"Do you understand what happened there, and why I had to turn on you?"
Whatever he had expected to hear, it was not that, and his eyes clouded with perplexity as he wrestled with my meaning. Finally he shook his head. "No, I didn't."
"They thought you were Arthur. That's why they were all staring at you. They had been talking about Carthac's claim to the Pendragon kingship, but they all knew Arthur's is stronger, and they all knew Arthur is my responsibility. Therefore, they assumed that you were Arthur. I wanted them to continue thinking that, and so when you began to speak, I silenced you. I was never angry with you, not for a moment, but I did not want you to say anything that might betray that you are not Arthur. Now, be a good lad and go and find Donuil, down on the beach. Ask him to come to me as soon as he is free."
. "He's here now, sir." The boy nodded towards the open flaps of my tent and I turned to see Donuil approaching, accompanied by Benedict, Derek and Rufio.
"Good. In that case, I have another task for you now. Go you and see if you can find something to eat, for I have not seen your jaw move in hours, and I find that most unusual and perhaps alarming." He flushed, grinning, because his amazing appetite had made him the butt of jests for months. He made to salute me, but I stopped him. "After that, when you have regained your strength, I want you to select an escort of six good men from among the Scouts, draw rations from the commissary and make your way back to the Legate Philip. You need not kill your horse with speed on the way, but don't waste time, either. Inform the Legate that I have dispatched Huw Strongarm to treat with Uderic, and inform him also of what has passed here today. Tell him I have need of him as quickly as he can bring his forces back. And the same thing applies, there, in the matter of returning. There is no crisis, so please make that clear to Philip. He may come back at route march speed, there is no need to wear out his men and horses. That's all. But eat first, before you go. That is an order. Go now, and I'll see you in two days or so. "
Bedwyr saluted me and spun smartly away, flushed again, but this time with the consciousness of his responsibility. He passed the others in the entranceway and I told them to find someplace to sit as they came in. Donuil dropped into my chair and pulled off his heavy helmet while Benedict settled himself on my wooden map chest. Rufio dragged in the chair I had used earlier from the table outside. Derek remained standing by the entrance of the tent, his hands clasped together over his belt buckle, his newly acquired Roman patterned leather cuirass making him seem even larger than he was.
"Well?" I asked when they were all settled. "Did I choose rightly?"
"I'm prepared to accept that you did. " Donuil wiped the brim of his helmet with the hem of his cloak, and then scrubbed at the sweat on his temples before tilting his head back to squint up at me. "But none of us has any idea what your choices were. One thing is certain, you left them in no doubt of your opinions about their masters. "
"Good, that's what I intended. Which way did they go, when they left?"
"West, the way they came, and they were moving quickly by the time they had made a score of oar strokes from the beach. By now they should be fairly flying over the wave tops. What do we do now?"
I glanced from him to Benedict and then to Rufio. "We hope Huw Strongarm gets back here quickly, and in the meantime we plan what we intend to do after that. Young Bedwyr is leaving now, at my orders, to recall Philip and his people from their patrol, since there's no one up there to patrol against. " I paused. "I realized something out there, while I was listening to that diatribe from Retorix. Ironhair's not as clever as he thinks he is, and he's suffering from a disadvantage he doesn't know about. "
Rufio cocked his head. "What disadvantage?"
I told them, briefly, what I had remembered about the liar's tragedy. Then, as I had expected, Donuil and Benedict sat silent and motionless, absorbing what I had said while Rufio shook his head.
"What's wrong, Rufe? You don't like my story?"
"The story's fine, Cay, and I've no fault with it for what it is, but it treats all liars as equal, and Ironhair's not equal to any common liar. Your story tempts you to think he'll be weakened by not being able to believe the truth, that you've no interest in becoming king of Cambria. So what? You might be right, but I'd hate to have to risk my life on that 'might. '"
"You think there's a more likely outcome?"
"Aye, I do. Whether Ironhair believes you or not will make no difference. to what he'll do. Ironhair is Ironhair, Cay. He sees things differently from us. Where we see white, he sees black, and a thousand oaths from men who see our way will never convince him that he's seeing wrongly. He believes his own lies because in his twisted mind they are the truth— the only truth he has ever known or will know. He doesn't give a damn about what's true or false to others. His own truth is all that counts. He'll play you false at every turn— you and every other being who steps into his way—and never lose a wink of sleep over any of it, because he believes, deep in the bottom of his own soul, that he sits at the centre of the universe and everything in the world has been created for his use and benefit. He is the Lord of Creadon in his own mind, and no one—not you, or me or anyone else— can influence that. "
This was perhaps the longest speech I had ever heard from Rufio, and his lack of profanity impressed me and disturbed me even more than his unusual eloquence. It betrayed a far greater respect for Ironhair, backhanded though it might be, than I had ever felt Rufio could possess. I made no effort to debate him.
"As you say, none can influence his mind, but he is less than perfect in his mind, for all that. He does not know, for example, that we've already sent out word to Uderic, asking him to meet with us. Now, when we do meet, which will be sooner than Ironhair could guess, I'll undo all his planning. We will form the alliance with Uderic, and between us we'll drive Ironhair and Carthac into the sea. "
"Aye, if Uderic can be trusted. "
"Why would you even say that? What we're proposing will be in his own bes
t interests. Of course he will be trustworthy, when he knows he's having his own way to his own ends. "
"If he believes and trusts you. From all accounts I've heard, he doesn't. "
I looked at the others, hoping for some support, but they sat silent. Seeing that I had nothing to add for the moment, Rufio spoke up again.
"Look, Caius, I'm not trying to dissuade you from anything here, but it seems to me your logic isn't thorough enough in this case. You're basing everything, it seems to me, on an underestimation of Ironhair's deviousness. "
That caught my attention. "What do you mean?"
"I mean that Ironhair is far from being a stupid man, and be has shown us damn few weaknesses in the past. Suppose, just suppose for a moment, that he has already thought this through. Suppose that, having seen the route he ought to take, he had the brains to guess that you might see it, too. Alliance with Uderic. Think of that. So, having thought of it, and being aware that you, too, might have thought of it, what would he do then, think you? Would he approach you with an offer, as he has, knowing that you, seeing the offer for the insult that it was, would refuse it? And would he then run to Uderic, seeking alliance the moment that you do refuse it?" Rufio paused, looking me straight in the eye, giving me time to think before he continued.
"Or do you think he might send men to Uderic first, to talk, just as he did with you today, making a proposal to an enemy—a proposal that would sound reasonable and temperate—that they bury their differences for as long as it might take to destroy a common enemy—us, but primarily you, Merlyn of Camulod. Uderic might consider it, don't you think? He already sees you as a threat. " He stepped again, still gazing at me steadily.
"Now, if Ironhair's proposal were carefully structured, and included telling Uderic about this visit we were to receive today, Uderic might perceive Ironhair's proposal as holding two advantages for him: it would contain an offer to eliminate the threat you pose, by convincing you to retire peacefully, with no risk to Uderic. Failing that, it offers a way to be rid of you completely, citing your ambition and your arrogant refusal to withdraw from a struggle that is no concern of yours. If you withdraw now, the threat to Uderic is gone and he's lost nothing. If you remain, you'll be declared an enemy and he'll unite with Cornwall to smash you, thinking to go back and deal with Ironhair later. "