by Chris Tookey
“Why do you spare me?” asked the Oracle, swivelling her eyes towards his.
“Because I believe you are trying to warn me,” replied Theodosius, fixing her with his own gaze. “And that you despise the idea of this British emperor as much as I do.”
“What you say is true,” said the Oracle, shifting on her podium. “But my duty is not to emperors or kings, but to the ancient races.”
“At least we have one thing in common,” replied the Emperor. “Both of us hope the events you prophesy will never come to pass. Am I right?”
The Oracle tossed around on her tripod for a while, then nodded.
“I spare your miserable apology for a life on one condition,” replied the Emperor. “That you tell me more about this descendant of mine, so that I may have him put to death.”
“I have told you already,” said the Oracle. “His name will be Arthur.”
“What kind of a name is Arthur?” inquired Bishop Ambrose sarcastically.
“Arthur?” said Theodosius incredulously. “It isn’t even a Roman name.”
“You Romans will call him Artorus,” replied Gaia, “but his name will echo through the centuries as Arthur, Lord of Albion, King of Britannia. And of lands beyond Britannia, too.”
“Do we know of anyone called Artorus?” inquired Theodosius of his bishop.
“You don’t mean you are taking this woman’s ravings seriously?” snorted Ambrose.
“Of course not,” said the Emperor, “but to be on the safe side we could slaughter every child called Artorus.”
“Was not massacring six thousand people in Thessalonica enough for you?” murmured Bishop Ambrose. “Is that how you would wish to be remembered, as a mass murderer?”
“Okay,” muttered Theodosius. “I over-reacted. I admit it. God knows I have done my penance.”
“If you are to kill anybody,” muttered Ambrose, “let it be this madwoman.”
“You promised you would spare me,” said the Oracle, overhearing the last part of this exchange. “And it is in your interest to do so.”
“Why is that?”
“You Romans will never succeed in killing Arthur. Only those of my bloodline or his can do that.”
“Why? What is this Arthur to you?”
“Have you not been listening? Did I not say that his rule would mark the end of the ancient races?”
“You did.”
“I am their protector,” said the Oracle. “Kill me, and you destroy your only hope of stopping the prophecy from coming true.”
“Let me think about this,” said Theodosius. “Ambrose, accompany me outside. I’m feeling dizzy.”
The two men stood on the steps of the temple and then sat down. Both men were feeling groggy.
“They come at you out of the fog,” said Theodosius.
“I’m sorry?” asked Ambrose.
“It’s an expression I sometimes use. It means the greatest dangers come from where you least expect them.”
“I do not see that young woman as a danger,” said Ambrose. “To me, it looks as if she is drugged and hallucinating. The air in there doesn’t smell right.”
“What do you think we should do?” asked the Emperor.
“I think we should do what we always do,” replied Ambrose. “Cut out the cancer of paganism before she can spread it further.”
“But what if she really can stop this Arthur from succeeding?”
“If you believe in him, and I don’t for a moment,” said Ambrose, “do you seriously think that a single madwoman can destroy him and yet the entire might of the Roman Empire fail?”
The Emperor considered. Eventually, he shook his head.
“You’re right,” said Theodosius. “Let’s kill her.”
They strode back to the inner temple. Theodosius unsheathed his sword, ready to strike the young woman’s head from her body, but when he looked at the tripod she was gone.
“Where did she go?” asked the Emperor.
“She vanished,” replied one of the soldiers, “in a cloud of smoke.”
“One minute she was there,” said another. “The next she was gone.”
“Fools!” said Ambrose. “She must have slipped away through that crack in the ground. Follow her!”
“I don’t see how we can,” replied the first soldier. “We’re grown men, and she’s a slip of a girl. We’ll never squeeze through that crack. We’ll get stuck.”
“There must be a tunnel under there,” snarled Ambrose. “Find out where it leads!”
“How are we going to do that?” asked the soldier. “We’ve killed all the priests.”
“Are you complete imbeciles?” barked Theodosius.
“What’s an imbecile?” asked the soldier.
“Start looking!”
But they never did find the Oracle, mused the dying Emperor. And now he never would.
He could feel his powers waning with every minute. As he looked around the room, he seemed to see cracks appearing in the walls and floor. Surely they weren’t there the last time he had looked? He glanced towards the shadows over to his right and seemed to see a hooded man with a long beard, beckoning to someone.
“Who are you?” called Theodosius. “Some foul druid? What are you doing in here?”
The Emperor looked on, panic-stricken, with sweat pouring from him, as a much younger man, seemingly some kind of northern barbarian, stepped smiling out of the shadows and drew a gleaming sword from a crack in one of the pillars. Suddenly, it was as though the whole room was cracking and collapsing. Theodosius raised one arm to defend himself as the ceiling started to fall.
He opened his eyes to find himself screaming, with his arm outstretched, and everyone looking down at him as if he was insane. Perhaps his mind was starting to go. His breaths came in panic-stricken gasps as he drank from a golden cup, trying to repair his shattered nerves. The barbarians in his room had seemed so real. Was the young man some premonition of the coming Arthur, and the earthquake in his room some portent of the collapse of Roman civilisation? No. He shook his head. The whole thing was unthinkable. Impossible. Unbearable.
The warehouse of the Emperor’s mind was starting to feel derelict of all but the old, the dusty and the useless. Yet this one persistent worry remained in the back of it, scratching feebly like the death throes of a broken-backed dormouse resigned to becoming a Roman hors d’oeuvre. With a weary hand gesture, he summoned Honorius to his bedside.
“Honorius, you will be Emperor of the West when I am gone, but I tell you this. You must never abandon Britannia, however tempting it may be to do so.”
“Why, Father?” asked Honorius. “It’s a cold, wet and cheerless land, full of ugly barbarians who fight among themselves.”
“True, but it doesn’t matter why,” replied his father, with a trace of asperity. In the good old days, he’d have killed anyone who talked back to him like that. “Just promise me, Honorius, that you will never recall our British legions for any reason whatsoever.”
“Of course I promise, Father,” said Honorius, with a sincere expression.
Honorius turned away to look at his elder brother and gave him a puzzled shrug.
“Good boy,” said Theodosius. “And now I need to say something to all three of you children.”
“What, even me?” asked his seven-year-old daughter.
“Yes, Aelia Placida, even you,” said Theodosius.
“Children,” he said, “promise me this: that you will never call any child of yours Artorus, or Arthur.”
The three children murmured their assent.
“Yes, Father,” replied Arcadius.
“As you command, sir,” said Honorius.
“Of course, Papa,” said his little daughter. “It’s a stupid name.”
“Nor must any of your descendants do so.
I have your word?”
Again, the three children gave him their assurances.
“And now it is time for everyone to leave me,” said Theodosius. “All except Arcadius and Honorius. And I want these damn leeches taken off me. They’re sapping what remains of my strength.”
When all but the two boys had left, the Emperor motioned to Honorius.
“You see my sword over there?” he asked.
“Yes, Father.”
“I want you to fetch it. Now, sit on the floor beside me with the blade pointing up.”
“Why?”
“It doesn’t matter why, you dimwitted child!” he snapped. “It’s a ritual.”
“Oh, all right,” said Honorius, shrugging.
“Now,” said the Emperor, “I want you, Arcadius, to come round the other side of the bed. You must roll me towards Honorius.”
“But…”
Arcadius’s voice trailed away, and he hesitated.
“Do as I say!” roared Theodosius.
Arcadius began to push his father’s frail torso towards Honorius, then stopped.
“Surely you don’t…”
“Keep rolling, damn you!” ordered the Emperor.
Finally, Theodosius was on the extreme edge of the bed and able to look down on Honorius holding the tip of the sword only a few inches away from his stomach.
“One last push, Arcadius,” he said. “It is every emperor’s right, when his time is past, to fall upon his sword. I said ‘Push!’”
As the great man slid gently off the bed, the blade penetrated his stomach and passed right through to his backbone.
The last thing Theodosius saw as his eyes misted over were grinning demons sprinting towards him, with pitchforks at the ready. So it’s true, he thought. They really do come at you out of the fog.
24
The Prophecy
In which several characters consider what the future may hold
Wyrd was reading the final words of the book when Osprey entered the room and made him jump.
“You should be writing, not reading,” said Osprey, with his usual gracelessness towards Wyrd. “How many words have you written today?”
“I think I may have found something,” said Wyrd. “Something important.”
“Where? In that book?” asked Osprey. “I don’t think so. I’ve read it myself, and there’s precious little of relevance to the Empress Honoria.”
“It’s the prophecy,” said Wyrd.
“What prophecy?”
“The Oracle’s prophecy. About who will rule over Albion.”
“There’s no mystery about that,” said Osprey. “It’s well known. The Oracle told Theodosius that his sons would lose Britain to the empire, but that one of his offspring would rule over all Albion, the ancient races would perish under this high king’s rule, and his name would be Artorus. Which is why Queen Elinor insisted that her first-born be called Artorus. And I believe all three male offspring of King Vitalinus have Artorus as their second name.”
“Hmm,” said Wyrd. “Well, it seems that there’s more to this prophecy than just the name Artorus.”
“What do you mean?”
“On these pages Merlin has written down the prophecy in full, as he heard it from the Oracle herself.”
“So?”
“They were stuck together, but I’ve managed to cut them apart. Let me read it to you.”
“Oh, very well,” said Osprey. “If you really think it’s important.”
“It says here that Theodosius asked the Oracle to tell him the prophecy, whereupon she threw back her head and began to sing:
When the purple blood of Atlantis
Meets the crimson blood of the Hun,
A Theodosian will rule over Albion
Though the Empire of Rome will be done.
When the purple blood of Atlantis
Meets the crimson blood of the Hun,
The races that ruled over Albion
Will find that their course has been run.
When the purple blood of Atlantis
Meets the crimson blood of the Hun,
Arthur shall reign over Albion
And all kings shall bow unto one.”
***
There was a long pause after Wyrd read out the prophecy.
“So, Your Highness, what do you think it means?” asked Osprey.
Queen Elinor paced around her bedchamber. She did not look at Osprey, nor at Wyrd. When she turned to face them, her eyes were bright with excitement.
“It is as I long suspected,” she said. “My Artorus is the one who is fated to rule all Albion.”
“Are you sure?” asked Osprey.
“Of course,” breathed Elinor. “My Artorus is a Theodosian. He is Theodosius’s great-grandson, for my father was his bastard son.”
“Can you be certain of that?” inquired Osprey, mildly.
“My father told us as much on his deathbed. It was one of the reasons why my brother Aurelius added the name Artorus to his own after our father’s death. Aurelius thought the name might help bring him power over all Albion, though it has not worked out like that.”
“It still may,” said Osprey.
The Queen waved away his comment.
“I doubt it. My brother is forty years old. He has had his chance. Yet still he remains beset on all sides. King Vitalinus pays him no respect and openly plots his downfall. There are Saxons and other races invading from the south. Aurelius cannot even rely on the kings who do swear loyalty to him. Otto tells me that half of them swear loyalty just as vehemently to Vitalinus. Even Otto refuses to side with Vitalinus or Aurelius. Albion is in anarchy, and my brother is not the man to save it.”
“But you believe your son is?” Osprey inquired mildly.
“Have you not trained him to be a ruler?” asked the Queen. “Is he not a fine physical specimen? Does he not have the ruthlessness required in any king?”
“Ye-e-es,” replied Osprey.
Wyrd noticed that the Queen did not care to acknowledge the doubt in the wizard’s voice.
“Well, then,” she said commandingly. “All that remains is to fulfil the other requirement of the prophecy.”
“What other requirement?” asked Osprey.
“The one that is repeated in all three verses. Yet it has not come to pass,” replied Queen Elinor. “Uther, read the opening two lines again.”
Wyrd cleared his throat and began to read:
“When the purple blood of Atlantis
Meets the crimson blood of the Hun…”
“Stop there,” commanded the Queen. “Clearly the prophecy demands that Artorus must marry the daughter of some Hun. But where would we find a Hunnish princess in these parts?”
“Morgana?” Wyrd blurted out, without thinking.
Osprey shot him an accusing look.
“I hardly think that Morgana would be a fit queen for all Albion,” said Osprey, reproachfully. “She dabbles in black magic and, as you doubtless recall, drugs. Moreover, her sexual tastes tend, I suspect, towards the exotic. I hardly think that Morgana would be an appropriate bride for Prince Artorus.”
“But is this Morgana not the daughter of the Empress Honoria and a high-born Roman?” demanded the Queen. “What has she to do with Huns?”
“Her mother assures us,” replied Osprey, with an embarrassed cough, “that Morgana is, in fact, the illegitimate daughter of Attila the Hun.”
“But that is wonderful!” said the Queen, her eyes shining. “Not just the daughter of a Hun, but the daughter of the Hun! The greatest Hun of them all! This is just as the prophecy foretold. We must marry Artorus to this Hunnish princess!”
“Should you not consult the prince over this?” objected Osprey. “And the King?”
“Otto
is not… himself. It is the night before the full moon. Besides, he is content to leave this kind of thing to me. And Artorus will do whatever I tell him to,” replied the Queen. “So is this Morgana not good looking? What do you think, Uther?”
“She is beautiful,” said Wyrd, hesitantly. “Not perhaps as elegant as her mother, but…”
“Elegance can come later,” said Elinor. “I will train her to be elegant. As for black magic, drugs and exotic sex, I expect they are just a phase she’s going through. How old is she?”
“About the same age as me, I think,” said Wyrd. “Seventeen.”
“There you are. She is still young enough to change her ways and knuckle down to royal responsibilities.”
“Perhaps she won’t want to,” suggested Wyrd.
Queen Elinor stared at him as if he must be mad.
“No young woman would be so foolish as to turn down a proposal of marriage from Artorus,” she said, in a tone of voice that allowed no objection. “He is powerful, rich and handsome. What more could any girl want?”
Someone with a brain, thought Wyrd, who’s kind and of good character. Someone who isn’t a bully and thinks only of himself. Naturally, he remained tactfully silent.
“Osprey,” the Queen continued, “since you and Wyrd know the way to the Villa Honoria and are acquainted with the Empress, you must return there with Prince Artorus to see this Morgana and bring her back here to be married.”
“It is a perilous journey,” said Osprey. “I would not wish any harm to befall Artorus.”
“Nor I,” said the Queen, decisively. “You shall take a hand-picked brigade with you to protect Artorus. It will be under his command, of course, not yours.”
25
Artorus Rides Out
In which Artorus is environmentally unfriendly
Late the next day, Artorus led a hastily assembled expedition due east down a green lane with bushes on either side. Wyrd noticed that, on the advice of Osprey, the prince sent mounted goblins off on either side of the hedgerows, to warn of any possible ambush from Puca or bears. As a result, when the bushes rustled as they went past, Wyrd was no longer afraid that something terrible would burst through.
