Merlin

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  The innkeeper reappeared with three jars of dark foaming liquid, and Gwendolau raised his and drank deep. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he smacked his lips and said, “Ahh! A drink to make Gofannon himself choke with envy. It is settled; we stay here tonight if you will have us.”

  The publican beamed. “Who else would have you? And as there is no one else beneath this roof tonight, my house is yours. The beds are not big, but they are dry. My name is Caracatus.”

  Baram brought his empty jar to the table. “Good beer,” he said, and returned to his place by the fire.

  “Dry!” Gwendolau exclaimed. “You hear, Myrddin Wylt? We will be dry tonight.”

  “If a man is long on the road, he might forget the comforts of a bed,” observed the proprietor. “Or so I am told.”

  “Na, on the contrary,” replied Gwendolau, “we have been seven days and nights on the trail, and I have thought about nothing else but a hot meal in my belly and a warm place by the fire.”

  Caracatus winked and confided, “I keep no women here, but perhaps, if you were so inclined…” He made an equivocal gesture and crossed his palm.

  “Thank you,” replied Gwendolau, “but tonight I am bone-weary and no fit company for women, charming though they must be. We have been in the saddle since first light this morning.”

  The innkeeper sympathized. “It is late in the year for traveling. I myself would not go out unless need were very great.”

  Need would have to be very great indeed, to budge him from his beer cask, I thought. Even then I doubted he would go out at all. “It is not by choice,” I answered. “No doubt the legionaries felt the same way about their leaving.”

  This received a sly, knowing wink. “Aye, that is the truth of it long and short. The tears! Were there tears when the soldiers left? I tell you the streets were aflood with tears for the women crying husbands and lovers away.”

  “A sad thing to leave kith and kin behind,” observed Gwendolau. “But I imagine they will return soon enough. They always come back.”

  “Not this time.” The innkeeper wagged his head sadly. “Not this time. It is the emperor’s doing—”

  “Gratian has much on his plate, what with—” began Gwendolau.

  “Did I say Gratian? Did I say Valentinian?” scoffed Caracatus. “The only emperor I salute is Magnus Maximus!”

  “Maximus!” Gwendolau sat up in surprise.

  “Himself,” smiled our host, pleased with his superior knowledge. “Proclaimed emperor last year at this time, he was. Now we will see our interests looked to, by Caesar! And about time, too.”

  So that was what my Voices had been telling me, had I but known. With the loyal support of his legionaries, Maximus had declared himself Emperor of the West and had withdrawn the troops from the north. There was only one reason for this: he must march to Gaul and defeat Gratian in order to consolidate his claim. That was the only way he could be emperor unopposed.

  Deep dread crept over me. The legions gone…

  “They will come back, you will see,” Gwendolau repeated.

  The innkeeper sniffed and shrugged. “I do not care if they return or not—as long as the Picti leave us alone. Know you, we keep these walls up for a reason.”

  Baram’s burring snore from the corner of the hearth brought the conversation to a close. “I will feed you, sirs, so you can go to your beds,” said Caracatus, hurrying off to prepare the meal.

  “Food and sleep,” Gwendolau yawned happily. “Nothing better on a rainy night. Though it looks like Baram has begun without us.”

  We ate from a joint of beef, and it was good. I had not tasted beef for three years and had almost forgotten the savory warmth of a well-roasted haunch. There were buttered turnips as well, cheese and bread, and more of Caracatus’ heavy dark beer. The meal went down well, and sleep descended almost at once; we were led to our sleeping places where we curled up in our cloaks on clean pallets of straw to sleep without stirring until morning.

  We were awake with the birds and found our horses already saddled. Our genial host gave us little loaves of black bread and sent us away after receiving our promises to stay with him if ever we returned to Caer Ligal. “Remember Caracatus!” he called after us. “Best mansio in all Britannia. Remember me!”

  For once it was not raining as we started out. Baram took the lead as we rode through the gates, and I let my horse fall in behind. There were other travelers leaving Caer Ligualid that morning—a merchant and his servants—so Gwendolau rode along beside to exchange news. Gnawing my bread, I had time to think as we rode out from the city.

  Well, I thought, Maximus has declared himself emperor, or has been so declared by the legions, and now has taken his army across to Gaul—taken our army away to Gaul. A popular move apparently, judging by Caracatus’ reaction, certain to please many who felt our taxes ill-used and our interests subverted to some greater good we never shared. Popular, to be sure. But disastrous.

  Maximus—I remembered the man, yes. And I remembered the first time I saw him and knew I would not see him again. He was a brave man,’ and a solid and fearless general. Long years of discipline and campaigning had schooled him well. Nothing rattled him on the field; he remained cool, kept his temper and his wits. His men worshiped him. There was no doubt they would follow him all the way to Rome and beyond.

  There was the hope, of course, that Imperator Maximus could do more for us in Gaul than Dux Maximus could do for us in Britanniarum, that a peace among the barbarians across the sea would provide a measure of peace for the Island of the Mighty. It was a small hope, but a hope nonetheless, and not to be despised. If anyone could do it, Maximus was the man to try.

  * * *

  The weather stayed dry for the while although, as the land rose to meet the mountains, the high places wore their winter mantles of white. We made good use of our time and proceeded south with all speed.

  We shared a camp for several nights with our fellow travelers, the merchant and his servants. He had spent the year trading along the Wall, east to west, and now that winter threatened, was making his late way back to his home in Londinium. As it turned out he had, as merchants will, traveled widely and traded with whoever had gold or silver in their hands, asking neither whence it came, nor how obtained. Consequently, he had dealings with Pict, Scot, Saecsen, and Briton alike.

  He was a placid, talkative man named Obricus, edging into his middle years with the grace that wealth can bring. He knew his business, and his tales bore the ring of truth more often than not; he was no braggart and did not speak to hear himself talk. What is more, having spent the trading year on both sides of the Wall, he was well informed about the movements of the legions.

  “I saw it coming,” said Obricus, poking the night’s fire with a stick. He did not appear at all happy to have seen it. “Gaul is in trouble deep and dire. It will not last. Gratian is not strong, and the only thing the Angles and Saecsens respect is strength…strength and the sharp point of a sword, and that none too much.”

  Gwendolau chewed this over for a long moment, then asked, “How many troops went with him?”

  He shook his head. “Enough…too many. All of Caer Seiont—the whole garrison—and troops from other garrisons as well—Eboracum and Caer Legionis in the south. Seven thousand or more. As I said, too many.”

  “You said you could see it coming?” I asked. “How so?”

  “I have eyes, to be sure, and ears.” He shrugged, then smiled. “And I sleep lightly. But it was no secret in any case. Most of the men I dealt with wanted to go. Could not wait, in fact—their heads full of the spoils to be won: rank for the officers, gold for the troops. So it was presents for their women, trinkets to take with them. I have seen enough of them go, and it’s always the same.

  “Make no mistake, the Picti knew of it too. I do not know how they knew—I did not tell them; I tell them nothing—but they knew.”

  “What will they do?” asked Gwendolau.

  “Who ca
n say?”

  “Will it make them bolder?”

  “They need little enough encouragement.” Obricus stabbed at the fire. “But I tell you the truth when I say I will not come this far north again—which is why I stayed so long. No, I will not come this way again.”

  Maximus had gone to Gaul, gutting the garrisons to do it—and the enemy knew. It was only the presence of the legions that kept them in check in the best of times, and this was not the best of times. Gwendolau knew it too, and he shrank into himself as the realization struck home.

  “How can you trade with them?” he asked angrily, snapping a stick with his hands and throwing it into the fire. “You know what they are like.”

  Obricus had heard it before. He replied mildly, “They are men. They have needs. I sell to whoever will buy. It is not the merchant’s place to decide which man is enemy and which is friend. Half the tribes of this fly-blown island are the enemy of the other half most of the time anyway. Alliances change with the seasons; loyalties ebb and flow with the tide.”

  “It will be your head on a stake and your skin nailed to the gate. Then you will know who your friends are.”

  “If they kill me, they kill their only source for salt and copper and cloth. I am more valuable alive.” He hefted the leather purse at his side. “Silver is silver and gold is gold. I sell to whoever will buy.”

  Gwendolau remained unconvinced, but said no more about it.

  “I have been in the north for a while,” I said, “and would be grateful for any news of the south.”

  Obricus pursed his lips and stabbed at the fire. “Well, the south is as ever. Healthy. Strong. There have been raids, of course, as everywhere else; there are always raids.” He paused, remembering, then said, “Last year there was a council in Londinium—a few kings, lords, and magistrates came together to talk about their problems. The governor met with them, and also the vicarius, although he is senile and from what I hear sleeps most of the time.”

  “Was anything decided?”

  Obricus barked a laugh and shook his head. “Oh, impressive decisions’.”

  “Such as?”

  “It was decided that Rome should send more gold to pay the troops; that the emperor should come himself to see how terrible and dangerous the situation is here; that more men and arms should be made available for our defense; that signal stations along the southeast coast should be increased; that the garrisons on the wall should be repaired and remanned; that warships should be built and crewed…

  “In short, that the sky should cloud up and rain denarii over us for a year and a day.” The merchant sighed. “The days of Rome are over. Look not to the east, lad; our Imperial Mother loves her children no more.”

  The next day we reached Mamucium, now little more than a wide place where the road divides, one part turning west to Deva, the other bending away south and east, ending eventually in Londinium. There we parted company with the merchant Obricus and continued on into Gwynedd.

  The journey should have taken six days. It took many times longer. What with the rain and icy sleet in the high bleak hills, it is a wonder we made it at all. But my companions were stalwart men and did not complain of the hardship. For that, I was grateful. Although it had been Ganieda’s idea, I still felt responsible for them, for their comfort and safety.

  At Deva, the old Caer Legionis of the north, we asked after my people. No one knew anything about a missing boy or anyone looking for one. We bought provisions and continued on into the mountains, striking south, rather than north through Diganhwy and Caer Seiont. It was further to Yr Widdfa, but the road was better and we could search the many-fingered glens and valleys along the way.

  Nine days out from Deva the snow caught us. We stayed in a glen near a stream and waited until the sky cleared again. But by the time the sun shone once more, the snow was up to the horse’s hocks, and Gwendolau reckoned that any more searching was useless.

  “We cannot find them now, Myrddin, nor anyone else until spring comes. Besides, they will have gone back by now, so there is no point.”

  I had to agree with him. “You must have known it would turn out like this. Why did you come?”

  I can still see his quick smile. “The truth?”

  “Always.”

  “Ganieda wanted it.”

  “You did this for Ganieda?”

  “And for you.”

  “But why? I am nothing to you—a stranger who slept one night in your father’s house.”

  His eyes were merry. “You must be something more than that to Ganieda. All else aside, I would have done it anyway if my father asked. But now that I know you better, I can say that I would have it no other way.”

  “Be that as it may, I free you from your errand. I will continue south alone. You may still return home before—”

  Gwendolau shook his head and slapped me on the back. “It is too late, Myrddin, my brother. We have no choice but to continue. I have heard that it does not snow so much in the south, and I am determined to prove this for myself.”

  Very well, as I did not greatly relish the prospect of wending my cold way alone, I let them come with me. Later that very day we turned our horses south and did not look back. Suffice to say that the journey to Maridunum was nothing like that of three years before—half a lifetime before, it seemed to me then.

  It was mean and miserable going. There were no roads, Roman or otherwise, through wild Cymry and we lost count of time on the trail—sometimes taking a whole day to traverse a single snow-bound valley or surmount a lonely, frost-bitten ridge. The days grew shorter, and we rode more often than not in darkness—and in icy, flesh-numbing rain. Gwendolau’s good humor carried us on long after Baram and I were too cold and exhausted to care whether we took another step. And though the high mountain passes were choked with snow, we somehow managed to find an alternate route when one was needed and so came at long last into Dyfed, the land of the Demetae.

  I will never forget riding into Maridunum. The town glistened under a pall of new-fallen snow, and the stark trees stretched like black, skeleton hands against a pewter sky. It was late in the afternoon, and we could feel the night air settling blue and hard around us. But within me a fire burned bright, for I had returned: three years late, it is true; nevertheless, I had returned.

  I hoped that Maelwys was home. I knew we would be welcome anyway, but I desperately wanted to see him to ask after my mother and the rest of my people, to learn what had happened in my long absence.

  We rode through the empty streets of the town and followed the trail up to the villa. We were not surprised to find horses standing in the yard, for we had followed their tracks up the hill. As we came into the yard, two servants with torches came from the hall to tend to the horses there. We hailed them as we dismounted.

  “We have journeyed far to see Lord Maelwys,” I told them. “Is he within?”

  They came to meet us, holding the torches high and peering into our faces. “Who is it that asks?”

  “Tell him that Myrddin is here.”

  The two looked at one another. “Do we know you?”

  “Perhaps you do not know me, but Maelwys does. Tell him the son of Taliesin waits without and would see him.”

  “Myrddin ap Taliesin!” The foremost servant’s eyes grew round. He shoved his companion away. “Go! Hurry!”

  There followed an awkward interval while we waited for the servant to come back. He never did. For while we waited beneath the torch, the door of the hall was heaved open and people came streaming out of the hall into the foreyard, Maelwys leading them all.

  He stood for a moment, gazing at me. “Myrddin, we have been waiting for you…”

  Maelwys held me at arm’s length, and I saw the tears. I had expected a warm reception, but…the King of Dyfed crying for my return? That exceeded any expectations I might have had, and I knew no way to account for it. I had met the man only once.

  “Merlin…” The press of curious onlookers parted and Maelwys s
tepped away. The voice belonged to Charis, who stood in a halo of light from the doorway; tall, regal, a slim torc of gold around her throat, and her hair in a hanging braid after the fashion of highborn Demetae women. Her white silk gown was long and her blue cloak richly embroidered. I had never seen her looking more a queen. She stepped toward me, then opened her arms wide and I flew into her embrace.

  “Merlin…oh, my little Hawk, my son…so long…I have waited so long…” Her tears were warm on my neck.

  “Mother—” There were tears in my throat and eyes as well; I had not dared hope to find her here. “Mother…I wanted to come sooner, I would have come sooner…”

  “Shh, not now. You are here and safe…safe…I knew you would come back. I knew you would find a way…You are here…here, my Merlin.” She put a hand to my face and kissed me tenderly, then took my hand. We might have been the only people in the yard. “Come inside. Warm yourself. Are you hungry, son?”

  “We have not eaten well for two days.”

  Maelwys stepped close. “There is venison inside, and bread and mead. Come in, everyone come inside! We will drink to the wanderer’s return! Tomorrow we will celebrate with a feast!”

  We were swept into the hall, aglow with torches and a roaring fire on the hearth, where the table was laid and the meal already begun. Another table was hastily prepared and platters of food produced. My mother kept my hand clasped tightly in hers, and I felt the anxiety I had lived with for the last many months begin to melt in the light and joy of reunion even as the warmth of the hall seeped into my bones.

  Gwendolau and Baram were not overlooked. I had no worry for them; they fell in naturally with Maelwys’ men. Indeed, in my joy at being home once more I soon forgot all about them.

  Old Pendaran, Maelwys’ father, rose from his throne-like chair to greet me, saying, “I cannot see where your wandering has hurt you at all. You look a healthy young man—lean and strong, keen-eyed as your namesake bird, lad. Come to me later and we will discuss certain matters.”