by Jack Whyte
Ben shook his head. "Not in Londinium. It's gone, already. They might have stopped there, though, if what Arthur says is true. They might be waiting there for Horsa, although I wouldn't care to hazard my life on that. There's a thin ring of our own troops out there, between them and us, but they'll be of little use if those whoresons come through at us in strength. "
I stared now at Arthur, pausing lengthily before I dipped my head and spoke again. "Well, you have a decision to make, Commander, but if you have ever valued my advice, you'll let me say what's in my mind before you commit yourself or any of your troops to action. "
It was evident that he was not pleased, but he bit down hard, bringing the muscles of his jaws into prominence, clearly resisting the urge to tell me bluntly that the responsibility of command was his and his alone. He turned his head stiffly away to gaze back towards his motionless, waiting troops, and I could tell that he was holding his breath, willing himself to be calm. Finally he relaxed and his shoulders slumped slightly as he turned back to face me, nodding his head.
"Very well then, " he said calmly. 'Tell me what is in your mind. You have never failed me in the past, and I need counsel now more than I ever have. "
"My words may be for your ears alone, Arthur, " I warned, giving him the choice.
"No. Benedict, at least, should hear it, as my senior commander here in the east. Tertius Lucca, Rufio, Falvo and Philip should know what's afoot, too. " He turned to the others whom he had not named. "Could I ask you gentlemen, if you would, to find those four and direct them here to me immediately?" The men saluted smartly and spun about to leave, but he detained them. "One more thing, if you please. I know I need not ask it of any of you, but the information you possess is... dangerous. So I will ask you, please, not to speak of it, even among yourselves. Its effects, emerging unexpectedly, could be disastrous. " The men saluted him again and left quickly.
When they were gone, Arthur looked at me. "Well? What's in your mind, Cay?" He looked simultaneously very young and prematurely aged.
"You don't want to wait for the others?"
"No, that might take too long. We'll tell them what they need to know when they arrive. "
"Very well. " I drew a deep breath. "Your first instinct was to postpone today's ceremony. I can understand that, for it was mine, too, when I heard Ben's tidings. But then my common sense intervened. You heard Ben. Despite all our fears and worst imaginings, the most sensible answer is that the enemy won't come here before tonight, and that means before tomorrow, pragmatically, since no one in his right mind would fight a night battle.
"Think of this, Arthur: it would be madness to cancel these proceedings now they're all in place. This ceremony today is more than it appears to be. It cannot be postponed or simply put off until a better day. There may be no better day, ever again. This meeting in this place is the culmination of years of planning—"
"Aye, but there are more important urgencies! We—" "No, Arthur, there is nothing more important! I thought you were going to hear me out?"
He nodded, apologetic but implacable. "Forgive me. Please continue. "
"There is no greater urgency, Arthur, no greater cause than will be served right here, this day. All of the bishops in this land are here today to celebrate Easter, and the new Arising of the Saviour. You are a saviour, in their eyes, Arthur! The saviour of Britain and of the Christian faith. That's why we are all in Verulamium and not in Camulod! There's no place big enough in Camulod to hold a gathering of this significance. It had to take place here, in the ancient heart of Britain, where thousands of people could assemble in comfort, in this very theatre, the only building of its kind in all the land that is still usable, where you will be decreed and proclaimed High King of Britain by the representatives of the Christ Himself. The Church summoned you here today, and summoned all the lesser kings of all the land to see these bishops crown you, anoint you and bless you with their full support. You command, in Camulod's cavalry, the only realistic hope that Britain has of repulsing these invasions and protecting our own way of life throughout this land. " I stopped, waiting, then asked, in a quieter voice, "Arthur? Do you hear what I am telling you?" He licked his lips, his face now noticeably paler. "Yes. "
_ It was almost a whisper.
"Good. Now, the pragmatic view. If I go straight to Enos and explain what has occurred, he can curtail the service, beginning ahead of the planned time and proceeding directly with the consecration of the Eucharist. Once that is done, he can move straight into the ceremony, crowning you with the champion's crown as the Church's representative in Britain and requiring of you that you commit your forces, and the entirety of your resources, to the preservation of the faith in Britain and the conquest of the enemies of God. It can be over in two hours, Arthur, leaving you half the day to make your preparations to confront the enemy before night approaches.
"You'll lose but little in the interval, since we're forewarned of what is coming, but think what you will have gained: God's own blessing and the championship of His entire Church, all solemnly witnessed by an assembly of the kings and people of Britain and your own army. What greater encouragement to go to war with confidence could you imagine for your troops and troopers?"
Arthur's face was now set in deep graven lines that made him look far older than his years. He nodded, once. "So be it. I'm convinced. Let's do it, quickly. "
"We will, now. But while I talk to Enos, which may take some time, have your troops start filing into the theatre as planned. You did have them draw lots, I hope?"
"Aye, they're prepared. " He looked at Benedict. "Ben, pass the order, if you will. Tertius Lucca is expecting it. " Again his eyes returned to me. "Well, Caius Merlyn, I am in your hands for the next hour or so, and I shall try to be attentive to what happens. Do you still want me to strike my sword against the stone when it's all done?"
I flashed a grin at him. "Aye, Arthur. Do that for me. "
I watched the proceedings from high above, concealed beneath the curving arches of the colonnade that circled the huge building at its highest level. The space below was filled to capacity, and Arthur's troopers lined the outer walls three deep in places. The broad central aisle, sloping gently from the entranceway down to the steps directly before the altar, was the only clear space in the entire assembly ; all of the lesser aisles, radiating upwards from that central, focal point, were crowded with people. The consecration of the bread and wine had been completed, and the throngs should now have started forward to receive the Eucharist, but that was plainly impossible, with such a massive gathering in so confined a space. The bishops would distribute the Eucharist later, in the meadows outside the walls.
At the front of all, in the seats of honour reserved for the highest guests at each performance, now directly in front of the sanctuary, sat the civilian contingent from Camulod. Shelagh was there, sitting beside Ludmilla, and on her other side, her face now lined with age, sat Turga, Arthur's childhood nurse. On either side of these three sat Luceiia and Octavia, the eldest children of Ambrose and Ludmilla and the newest generation of Britannici, and beyond them several of the senior Councillors of Camulod.
Behind and about this group were ranked the gathered kings of Britain, representing every region of the land that had not fallen beneath foreign invasion and domination. There were some thirty of these, and I knew few of them. Derek of Ravenglass was there, as was Brander Mac Athol, with his brothers Connor and Donuil, but these three were set slightly apart from the others, in consideration of their status as visiting guests and allies from beyond Britain. Among the British kings I could see, even from my lofty vantage point, that there was much distrust and tension;
they managed, somehow, to remain stiffly apart, despite their propinquity, divided by tiny barriers of empty space which all were careful not to cross over.
Slowly, almost unnoticeably, the utter stillness of the crowd gave way to a swelling murmur as people leaned towards each other restlessly to comment on the strangenes
s of the proceedings. I looked to where Enos stood with his back towards the crowd, conferring with six of his senior bishops while the other clerics held their places in the semicircle that ringed the space at the back of the sanctuary, the sacred precinct of the consecrated Sacrament. The crowd had murmured earlier, when Arthur's soldiers had begun to file into the assembly, filling all the empty seats and taking up the space around the perimeter, but Enos had quickly quelled that, raising his hands high and explaining that the soldiers had but come to witness the Easter rituals and join in the Communion. This time, however, the muttering was going on too long, growing in volume with each passing moment. Enos turned about and stepped forward again, raising his hands to shoulder height, while the small .group of bishops with whom he had been conferring descended from the sanctuary with dignity and evident purpose and made their way, side by side in pairs, out of the theatre.
Before they had reached the external portals, silence had settled again within the assembly. A gust of errant wind swirled about me and I looked up at the skies above, restraining a shiver, whether of cold or nervousness I did not know, although if it rained now, I thought, the effects on what went on below in the open roofed theatre would be disastrous.
As I looked down at Enos I realized I had been foolish to perch myself so high upon the outer wall. I was unable to see his face with ease and peered down, indeed, almost upon the top of his head. Enos began to speak, in a voice much quieter than that which he had used so tellingly before, and I could barely make out his words.
I turned and went back to the stairwell and the steep, dangerous stairs I had climbed to reach this place. As I began to make my way back down, one step at a time, I discovered to my fury that I had to do so with great care, clinging to the iron handrail set into the wall like an old, bent man. It was a matter of balance—my shortened, stiff left leg dragged at every step, catching the lip of each stair and threatening to throw me sideways, so I had to proceed bad leg first, lowering my weaker foot deliberately at each Step before entrusting it with my full weight. The vertiginous depths of the well on my right had seemed like nothing at all as I climbed with my strong right leg, raising the other one effortlessly behind it. Now, on my weakened left, those self same depths seemed to beckon me.
I thought about what I would do when I arrived at the bottom. Where would I go, that I might not be seen and recognized? Then, forgetting completely that I wore a bishop's robe, I resolved to go boldly into the throng and make room for myself on the steps of one the lesser aisles.
At regular intervals on the way down, I passed narrow windows looking into the main body of the theatre, and I paused at each of them, listening to what Enos was saying. He had begun by talking of the God of the Israelites, and how He always protected and preserved His faithful servants. At the next window, I heard him speak of the Maccabees, the fierce and warlike rebels who had fought the Roman overlords of Israel so well and for so long, and of how they had faced death gladly for the preservation and protection of their religious beliefs. I wondered what the Israelite Maccabees had to do with Britain as I moved on to the next flight of stairs. By the time I arrived at the window below that one, he had brought the Romans into Britain and was talking of Queen Boudicca and how she had fought against invasion. Then an understanding of the tenor of his speech began to take shape in me, so that I was unsurprised to reach the last and lowest window and hear him talking about Camulod and the Saxon hordes who threatened Britain. I had missed the greater part of what he said but I could see the Camulodian troopers, standing around the walls, looking pleased and nudging each other with enjoyment.
I moved away again, to make the final stages of my descent, but I was less than half way down the next flight when I was stopped short by a most surprising and unexpected sound. A single, brazen horn began to blow, and I recognized the sound before the first three notes had ended. It was the ceremonial trumpet call of Camulod, played upon all our horns on special and great occasions but never before heard beyond Camulod. It began with the solo notes of the deepest cornua, the long, circular hems of the legions that were borne wrapped round the bodies of the trumpeters. I turned immediately and made my way back to the window as another, higher horn, the second of the four that would complete the call, joined in, and I stood there enthralled by the effect the sounds were having on the throng below. As the music swelled and the number of participating instruments increased, a ripple of pure wonder passed over the crowd.
Then, as the volume rose to a crescendo, Arthur Pendragon entered the assembly from the main portals at the head of the central aisle, escorted by the six bishops. He made his way slowly down through the throng to the altar steps. I could not see Enos from where I stood now; all I could see was his hand outstretched to receive Arthur. The young man walked bareheaded and erect, his eyes fixed on the white block of the altar ahead of him, his long scarlet cloak with its great, golden dragon making a brilliant contrast against the plain white robes of his escort." As he reached the top of the steps to the altar and stepped beyond, out of my line of sight, the notes of the trumpet call faded away, leaving a hushed, vibrating silence.
Cursing myself for my stupidity in being stuck out there, I turned away again and made my way as quickly as I could down to the lowest level, where I found myself out in the open fields beyond the outer walls and obliged to make my way completely around one quadrant of the massive building on my right.
I hurried to the best of my impaired abilities, hugging close to the wall and throwing my lame left leg in front of me to achieve the greatest reach with every step, knowing that on the other side of the high walls beside me, the greatest moments of my life might be unfolding. I ignored the serried ranks of troops that stood and sat out there, the foot soldiers double spaced and every mounted trooper holding the reins of a riderless horse, all of them no doubt wondering who and what I was. My mind was filled with conflicting and chaotic images, among them visions of my Uncle Varrus and the large, parchment filled books in which he had written his recollections of Grandfather Caius and his dream of unity and freedom and greatness in this land; a dream in which the people of Britain would survive the chaotic fall of Rome's corrupt Empire to emerge victorious and strong at the end of all. And then abruptly, unexpectedly, I reached the entryway into the theatre and stopped there, abashed and suddenly afraid to enter.
As I stood hesitating, a raindrop hit my face and I looked up fearfully at the sky. But there were no storm clouds that I could see, and off in the distance, a solitary patch of blue held out the promise of a weather change. I walked into the covered entranceway and stopped again, listening, unable to believe the stillness of the thousands within. Then, faint and indistinct in the distance, I heard Enos's voice. I moved forward slowly until the voice was clearer, and soon I was standing at the top of the long, central aisle. In the distance, within the sanctuary itself, the bishops began to chant the Creed again, their united voices sonorous and majestic as they intoned the magnificent words: Credo in unum Deum...
Some ten paces ahead of me, blocking my view, a solitary acolyte stood alone in the middle of the aisle, holding a long pole surmounted by a cloth wrapped cross, symbolically proclaiming the presence of the Christ to any who might seek to enter at his back. As I saw him, I remembered who I was supposed to be this day, a Christian bishop, and with an unexpected resolve, I knew what I must do. I pulled my cowl well forward over my head and approached the acolyte, tapping him on the shoulder and gently taking the long pole with its cross out of his hands. He saw only a bishop and relinquished it without demur, stepping aside to let me take his place. Then, holding the staff before me as I had seen him do in our procession, I walked slowly down the long, wide aisle towards the altar, the majestic voices growing clearer as I progressed. I came to a halt only when I had approached within thirty paces of the sanctuary. In all that progress, no one had paid me the slightest attention. They simply took me for what I appeared to be.
Behind the altar, facing the as
sembled throng, Arthur was seated in a curia, a backless chair with curved sides and legs; his arms were stretched along its arms, his hands gripping the ends loosely. His voluminous cloak was spread behind him so that he sat completely within it, its front lower edges gathered and draped over his knees to hang down to his booted feet. Within the opening of his cloak, the enamelled metal of his cuirass gleamed dully. He appeared at ease. I could see that his forehead was discoloured where he had been anointed with chrism and the ashes of burnt palms, so the ceremony had been largely completed, hence the singing of the Creed. As the massed voices of the bishops faded into silence, Enos turned once more to face the crowd and stepped forward, glancing at me as he did so.
"In the earliest days of Rome," he began, using his command voice, "in the time of the great Republic and long before the excesses of the Empire, it was the custom for the exploits of the very bravest of the brave to be rewarded by the granting of a military crown, a corona. There were five such crowns, each one awarded for a different, specific deed of valour, but each and all of them acknowledging and marking championship and heroism. The men who won and wore those crowns were champions and heroes, and none who saw them doubted them. All people knew them, publicly."
He paused and looked around the enormous gathering, his eyes singling out faces in the throng, then moving on again. No one moved, and he continued, lowering his voice.
"None of those crowns was awarded for horsemanship or cavalry exploits, for Romans had no cavalry in ancient times. And none, we know, were awarded in those ancient times before mankind's Redemption, for the guarding of God's Holy Faith." He paused again. 'Today, we have no Romanness in us; we are Britons. Yet it seems appropriate to us, your bishops, that a champion and defender of our faith should bear some signal mark of honour. And so we have adopted this one gift from ancient Rome, we have reinstituted the corona. "
As he spoke these words, Silvanus, the Bishop of Lindum, accompanied by Bishop Junius of Arboricum and Declan, the Bishop of Isca, stepped forward. Silvanus bore Tressa's embroidered cushion with the gold crown lying on top of it, and each of the flanking bishops swung thuribles that billowed clouds of heavy, aromatic incense from the glowing coals they contained. They stopped behind Arthur's chair, and Enos walked back to join them, taking the crown and standing directly behind Arthur, holding it poised high above the young man's head so that everyone could see it.