by Whyte, Jack
Two days before we were due to leave, awaiting only Ambrose's return from his latest patrol, Lucanus came to visit me while I was in the midst of a meeting with my people, making a final inventory of our travelling needs. I was glad to see him; it had been some time since last we had talked. I apologized for being occupied and asked him if I might seek him out in turn within the hour. In far less time than that I found him in his Infirmary, in consultation with Ludmilla. He grinned at me and waved me to a high- backed chair by his table. "Sorry, my friend, my turn to be engaged, but we are almost done here. Sit, please."
I seated myself and spent the next few moments watching, and trying not to watch, Ludmilla as she leaned over the table beside Luke. She was a well-made woman, long and lithe beneath the voluminous white robe she wore. Black and white, I realized, were the colours I associated with her at all times. And blue, although she wore it too infrequently. Black hair, blue eyes, white clothing. And red, red lips, a sudden voice whispered within my ear. I felt my face flush and berated myself for such callow, boyish embarrassment, shifting around in my seat to look elsewhere. The woman flustered me and I could not understand why this should be so. I felt attracted to her, I knew that—the swell of her hips and breasts seldom eluded me for long, despite her loose-hanging clothes—but that was merely lust, and I knew I could cope with that and conquer it. The other confusion that I felt defied definition, but I was aware of it again—an anxiety amounting almost to panic.
The conference ended and Ludmilla moved to gather up the papers they had spread upon the table, and I watched her as she did so. Lucanus was frowning as he scanned a written sheet of papyrus before handing it to her to take with the others. Her load complete, Ludmilla turned and nodded kindly to me with a smile before leaving. Even after the door had safely closed behind her, the knowledge of her nearness kept my heart thudding audibly in my chest. Finally I forced myself to address Lucanus calmly. He was sitting watching me, a slight smile creasing his features.
"Well," I began. "Finally we can talk without distraction. I'm sorry I couldn't leave with you earlier."
His smile grew wider. "You are the Legate Commander. You have duties. When do you leave?"
"Day after tomorrow. Everything's in hand. What's up?"
"Nothing's 'up,' as you put it. A cup of wine?"
"Good idea. Thank you."
He poured for both of us and then resumed his seat, holding his cup at chin level and staring into it for a while before speaking. "I received a letter several days ago. Daffyd brought it."
He had a peculiar expression on his face and I wondered what was coming. Very few men now either read or wrote, since Rome had taken away her clerks along with her armies.
"A letter? That's a great event these days. From whom?"
"From an old acquaintance with whom I had lost touch for many years. It turns out he's close by and learned of my presence here by accident."
"Wonderful, Luke! You must be excited. When is he coming?"
"He is not. . . cannot. Like me, he's a physician and a surgeon, army trained, so he can't simply up and leave his charges. I, however, would like to go to him."
In the previous few weeks our wounded veterans had improved immeasurably and many had already been released to resume their duties. The others, those still confined to bed, now filled less than two of the temporary hospitals set up for them, and none of them now remained in any danger. Those who would die had died already. Lucanus was at liberty to do whatever pleased him. I could have no possible objection to his leaving, nor would I have entertained one, but I wondered why he was telling me this. There was more to come, I felt. Lucanus was not a man to seek another out—even myself, his only close friend—to make mere small talk.
"Then why don't you go immediately? I think that's an excellent idea. You've nothing to detain you here; the work's all done. Your staff can take care of any minor emergencies that might spring up. Are you worried about that? Or is there something else? I have the feeling, for no good reason, that you require something of me. Is that it? For God's sake, Luke, what could you possibly require from me you couldn't simply take as freely granted?"
He made a sound that was both a sniff and a sigh, pulling his shoulders high. "I don't want to go to see him empty-handed, Cay."
"Why should you? Take whatever you want."
"That's rather large. I want to take a wagonload of fresh supplies—food, clothing and medicines."
"A wagonload? Fine, then. See the quartermaster. I'll see him myself and advise him you're coming. But what ails your friend that he should need so much? Not that I begrudge you your gift, you understand—you could have that and ten times more as your due. I'm merely curious. Where is he located?"
"North of here. And thank you, Caius Merlyn."
"Nonsense, not another word. North, you say. By Aquae Sulis?"
"No, more to the west, by Glevum, close to the coast."
"Hmm. We're going that way, to Glevum, to take ship."
"I know you are. That's why I decided to speak. May I ride with you?"
"You have another option that you might prefer?"
He smiled again. "No, not at all."
"Then that's settled. The day after tomorrow. Does that give you enough time?" He nodded, and I went on, my curiosity fully aroused. "May I ask two questions?" He waited, his smile still in place. "What would you have done had I said no to either request?"
"Nothing. I would have stayed here. I could not make the journey on my own, especially with a loaded wagon. What's your second question?"
"Your friend the surgeon. How does it come about that he is in such dire need of basic supplies? Are there none to be had in Glevum?"
Lucanus shook his head slowly. "There may be, my friend, but not for him. His charges are all lepers." "What?"
"Lepers. I said his charges are all lepers. A large group of them."
"Lepers?" I repeated, still off balance. Lucanus took pity on me.
"Yes, my friend, that's what I said." He watched my face and then said, "Oh dear, there's that look. The look that encompasseth all misunderstandings."
I was listening now, understanding, Luke was going to a leper colony, walking into contagion. I had known there were lepers in Britain, of course, but they were creatures of whispered terrors and nightmares and I had never encountered any. My flesh crawled with horror at the mere thought of them, my mind filled with the grim stories I had heard about them and their disgusting scourge.
Lucanus's sympathetic tone cut through the unreasoning terror of my reaction. "Caius, I beg you, stop looking like that. These sorry people are no threat, and you have no need to fear the very mention of them. Speaking of them won't contaminate us. Their fear of people like us, whole human people, is far greater than our ill-founded terror of them, let me assure you. We see them as the living dead, terrifying in their implications, but they see us, and with far more reason, I fear, as the incarnation of walking death, since we would kill them all out of hand, and with no remorse, merely to rid ourselves of the sight of them." He paused to look at me more closely, and when his voice resumed it was more solemn. "It occurs to me, seeing you react, that I should have given more thought to this. You may find it in your heart, and it lies well within your power, to forbid my visit now, fearing contagion, but I would like your permission to visit them, Commander Merlyn." I stared at him, hearing his formality, until he continued, almost in a whisper, "Theirs is an awful life of suffering and dread, Caius. There might be something I can do to help them. May I go?"
I nodded, suddenly unaccountably unwilling to look him in the eye and unable to speak. I sensed him watching me closely, however, and forced myself to meet his gaze. He was smiling, a small, sad smile. "I promise you, Caius, there is nothing to fear. The foulness and contagion of leprosy are very real, but its reputed speed of contamination is grossly exaggerated. I worked among many lepers during my early years with the legions. My finest teacher, Philus of whom you've heard me speak, was a
student of leprosy who had worked for more than three decades among those afflicted with the scourge. He himself had remained uncontaminated and was convinced that the disease is almost incommunicable by ordinary, commonplace means—by casual touch, in other words—although he handled all of them with care for his own safety, and always washed himself thoroughly with astringents afterward. I came to agree with him, eventually, learning from personal experience that he was most probably correct. . ." His voice died away for a moment, then resumed, "I also learned that lepers are ordinary people, just like us, Caius, but afflicted with a dreadful, bleak, incurable disease that brings death in life and banishment from all human warmth, except among their own kind—but there I have found that human, loving warmth burns brighter than anywhere else in this world."
I watched him as he spoke, then I swallowed hard and nodded again. "The supplies you spoke of—what will you require? Is there anything in particular that you need to take with you?"
He smiled again. "No, almost anything would be welcome. They will have nothing."
"I see. And your friend the physician, what is his name?"
"Mordechai. Mordechai Emancipatus. 'Mordechai the Free,' and he is well named. He is a Roman Jew, educated with me in Alexandria, and then in the legions under Theodosius."
"A Jew. Not a Christian?"
"No, an Aesculapian."
At last I could smile with him. "A brave man, by anyone's accounting. Do you know exactly where to find him?"
"No, but I know where to inquire. Mordechai mentions in his letter that they are located ten miles to the westward of a public hostelry widely known as the Red Dragon, about twenty miles south of Glevum. I'll find him."
"I am sure you will, and I'll make sure you do."
Luke and his forthcoming journey remained in my mind for the rest of that day, prompting me to think about the gifts I should be bearing to Donuil's father, the King of Scots. Luke would go bearing valuable gifts to Mordechai, a friend and colleague. Could mine to King Athol be less substantial? And yet, I asked myself, what did we possess in Camulod that could constitute a kingly gift? The answer was not long in coming. Horses, of course, the like of which were never seen in Eire! I resolved to take a stallion and a brood mare, matched as closely as could be, and I immediately felt better. I set aside the question of equipment, saddles and stirrups for the time being, deciding in my capacity as Legate Commander, as opposed to ambassador, that generosity could be carried too far when it affected safety, strategy and tactics. The gift of breeding stock, I reasoned, was munificence enough; saddlery, including stirrups, provided our cavalry with a military edge it would be irresponsible to relinquish, even to a prospective ally. But then I thought of other weaponry, and resolved to take King Athol one more gift no one could match in magnificence: a matching pair of short-sword and dagger, made by Publius Varrus, with hand-tooled belt and sheaths.
Delighted with my decisions, I summoned Donuil to share my elation, forgetting that we had already arranged to meet earlier that day to select the horses we would take with us on our journey. He listened carefully as I outlined my thoughts on our gifts—I mentioned only the breeding pair of horses, seeing no point in bringing up the potentially sensitive matter of saddlery and stirrups—and when I had done, he nodded his head sagely.
"My father will be most impressed; these are indeed gifts for a king. But they compound a problem I've been thinking about already this afternoon."
"What kind of problem?"
"Transportation, Commander. How are we going to get all these animals across the sea? Now you have added another two. Horses need room. They can't curl up in a corner and go to sleep like a man. We'll never find a ship big enough to take them all."
"Then we'll find several. We'll take enough gold to buy as many as we need."
Donuil was unimpressed. "Buy them where, Merlyn? I know Glevum's a harbour, but it has lain abandoned, or nearly so, since the Romans left. Lot's army went there after Aquae Sulis, remember? They found it just as desolate as Aquae, with nothing left to loot. There may be ships still using it, but I doubt we'll find more than one at any time."
The same thoughts had been running through my mind, but I knew, with an inner certainty I could not explain even to myself, that this was the course we should take. Even if it meant taking a blind chance on having to leave some of our party behind when we took ship, I was convinced deep inside that I was right, and I was confident that all would be well. Donuil listened as I explained all that, and then shrugged, accepting my enthusiasm and optimism.
"So be it," he commented. "You're the Legate, and I'm prepared to trust your judgment in this as in everything else." He paused, looking around him thoughtfully. It was late afternoon by then, darkening rapidly indoors, and we were in my quarters, sitting by a burning brazier and surrounded by leaping shadows.
"What is it, Donuil?"
He shook his head, then decided to proceed with what was in his mind. "Commander, do you remember all the candles you used in Verulamium, lighting up your tent at night like the noonday sun?"
"Yes, I remember them very well." They had been a gift from my friend Germanus, the Bishop of Auxerre in Gaul. "The light of learning," he had called them as a private joke between the two of us. The prelates and clerics who had gathered that year in Verulamium for the Great Debate between the Orthodox Roman bishops under Germanus and the British bishops who had followed the teachings of Pelagius had been superbly well equipped with beeswax candles and tapers of the highest quality. I had acquired half a wagonload of them for my own use when I wrote at night. Now I smiled at the memory. "Why do you ask?"
"I was wondering what happened to them all?"
"They were burned up, Donuil. That tends to happen with candles."
"All of them? You had cases and cases of the things."
"I know I did, but that was years ago. What made you think of that?"
"My father, Commander, and gifts. He's an old man, although you'd never think it to look at him from a distance, and seeing you sitting there in the dark reminded me of how he used to sit the same way, with one of his big wolfhounds' heads resting on his knee. We have no fine, bright candles in Eire, only smoky lamps, dirty old smelly tallow dips and firelight. It came to me that a gift of such things, such bright, clean light, would bedevil and gratify the old man."
"It probably would, Donuil. I would never have thought of such a thing, but it is a marvellous idea. I wonder if we could find some?"
"Nah, you're probably right. They'll all be gone, long since."
Now that he had brought the matter to my mind, however, I began to wonder what had happened to those candles. I had not used them all, I now realized, for I had been wounded on the way home and spent the next two years as someone else, without a memory. The last I remembered of them was watching them being loaded onto one of our wagons before we left Verulamium. Lucanus would know.
Another visit to Lucanus elicited the information that he had never seen the things, and that the wagons had been returned, with all their remaining contents intact, to our quartermasters. The following morning, after an hour's questioning and another hour spent searching, we uncovered ten cases of fine candles almost buried in a dingy warehouse against the north wall. I repossessed all of them, since they were mine, and four cases went immediately into our baggage as a tribute to Athol, High King of the Scots of Eire.
VIII
The morning of the day we were to leave turned out to be a momentous one for several reasons, and as a result we were obliged to postpone our departure for ten days. It began innocuously enough, when I awoke at dawn filled with a sense of well-being after a dream I could recall with perfect clarity.
Some people, I have learned, never dream of flying, of soaring above the earth like a bird. I have always had the power to fly, in my dreams, and always as an eagle. My pinions had borne me high in this grand dream, and the pleasure of it woke me with a smile upon my face. Nothing foreboding or prophetic marred my e
njoyment. I had been gliding, I recalled, high above the training ground at the bottom of Camulod's hill, with the towering stone walls of the fortress on my left, and beneath me all the forces of the Colony had been marching and riding in parade, their ranks and formations bright with ceremonial colours and the metals of their harness burnished to inspection quality. A flash of light had attracted my eyes to a rostrum erected on the hill, and there stood Ludmilla, garlands of flowers in her long, black hair, her eyes and face aglow with happiness as she received and accepted the salutes and plaudits of the passing troops.
Folding my wings and curling my great pinions, I swooped down to where she stood, and as she heard the sounds of my swift passage she raised her smiling face to greet me. I threw wide my wings then, feeling the air arrest me so that I hung there, spilling the wind around me, almost stationary, and as I did she raised one hand to me, holding out my Aunt Luceiia's silver mirror. I saw myself reflected there, but as a man, not a bird, and yet as I reached to touch it, she laughed at the clatter of my talons against its surface. Startled, and panicking, I felt myself begin to fall, and the swift-beating feathers of my wing tips touched the ground before the air lifted me up again, allowing me to beat my way aloft to where I could become myself once more. And finally, feeling the thrill of freedom in my breast, I tilted myself and planed above the army, hearing their cheers as I passed overhead.
It was at that point I awoke, a smile upon my face, and for a while I lay there, breaking my lifelong custom of leaping from my bed the moment my eyes opened. I had spent much of my life avoiding my dreams, most of which were dark and frightening and, I had come to believe, prophetic. This one, I felt sure, had been very different, benevolent, and I believed I could interpret it.
