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by A. A. Attanasio

  "There is that possibility, daughter. It has been twenty-five years since last I visited this city. It was splendid then." His jowly face nods at the loveliness of that memory. "Now—now the glory that was Rome has lost even the illusion of life. Now there are no more illusions of glory. Only survival, if we are bold and lucky. And so, we go to beat the war drum with the latest great hero of our dead and rotted empire."

  "You knew his father." Morgeu pulls her leather riding coat tighter about her to ward off the evening chill.

  "He was a senator."

  "Aurelianus?" he asks, his gaze still lost in the golden haze of the past. "Yes. He was in line for imperial magistrate of all Britain. I met him once, in Londinium at the privy council. He was a noble and sincere man, as I recall. He showed me his grand plans for invading Gaul and taking the fight to the homeland of the Jutes and the

  Angles themselves—see how they liked having their fields torched and villages plundered. Then he died."

  "Assassination, they say."

  "Does it matter?" He pats his steed's neck tenderly, musingly. "Dead is dead. There was no invasion, just capitulation. And now the ambitious senator's son seeks his revenge. More infighting. More weakness before the onslaught of our enemies."

  "Is it revenge?" Morgeu asks, just to keep her father talking. He is so often reticent, it is rare and curious to hear him this voluble. "The proclamations he issues speak of uniting the kings to defend Britain."

  Gorlois barks a laugh. "This Ambrosius is cunning.

  He speaks of uniting the kings—yet have not all the kings and warlords already pledged support to Balbus Gaius

  Cocceius, who so proudly bears the Saxon title High King Vortigern? No, Morgeu. I have brought you along not to meet the future unifier of Britain. That will never happen.

  There are too many greedy men on this island. No, this is not a noble campaign to which we are summoned. You are here with me to see how war is waged on its grandest

  scale, not for conquest but for fury."

  Good, Morgeu thinks. She has accompanied her father because he has promised that there would be many battles. She has witnessed numerous raids and defensive skirmishes during her years with him on his endless patrols of the coast. She has never yet beheld a battle. Too often, she has heard her father speak glowingly, as poets do, of war. Now, at last, she will see what the poets have seen.

  *

  Flanked by personal guards in plumed helmets, the

  duke of the Saxon Coast arrives on horseback at the head of a small train of traveling vans and baggage wagons. His bulldog jowls have become ruddier and hackled with white whiskers since Merlinus last saw him, but the duke's

  haughtiness and insolence have diminished none.

  The Aurelianus brothers and Merlinus meet Gorlois

  at the portico of their mansion, and the duke neither salutes nor hails them. Instead, his goat eyes appraise the men before him coldly as he awaits a greeting.

  "Welcome, brother Gorlois," Ambrosius calls heartily, attempting archaic Latin, yet not stepping down the portico stairs to accord the duke the deference the older man clearly expects. "Come into my house and take your rest from so long a journey. You have traveled far to see me."

  Ambrosius' address, no matter how gallant in tone

  and gesture, clearly rankles the duke, and he mutters to his guards loud enough for all to hear: "Parvenu."

  An excited murmur ripples through the parade of city

  elders, cavalry, and their entourage of wealthy families who greeted the duke at the main gate and escorted him to the Aurelianus mansion. Among the dazzling crowd are many who believe, as Gorlois does, that the brothers are lowly and rude stable masters elevated by mere chance.

  Merlinus, in his capacity as court counselor, thumps

  his staff loudly, curtailing a potentially dangerous outburst from Ambrosius. "The Aurelianus family are as entitled by lineage to wear the purple as any nobility in the land."

  Ambrosius stops Merlinus' officious pronouncement

  with an extended arm and smiles graciously at the duke.

  "Gorlois," he speaks with the familiarity of a peer, "you haven't come this far to insult me—"

  "It is you that insults me!" Gorlois snaps. "My great-grandfather was appointed duke of the Saxon Coast by the Imperial Magistrate himself."

  Ambrosius' smile does not waver. "And is your

  great-granddaddy going to be leading us, then, against the Picts, Jutes, and Scoti?"

  A wave of laughter rises from the crowd, and even

  the duke's guards smirk. Gorlois burns a darker red under his jowly whiskers and stretches a forced smile across his orange teeth. "Well said, brother Ambrosius," he allows, and dismounts. "Would that the heroes of our noble past could fight for us. It has devolved to our humble shoulders to defend our kingdoms."

  "Our kingdom," Ambrosius corrects, and opens his arms to receive the duke. "Before the scattered attacks of the barbarian tribes, we must unite."

  Merlinus edges closer to Ambrosius, expecting

  violence from the duke, who climbs the stairs with a rictus grin and a sharp light in his goat eyes. Gorlois does not reach for his sword. He embraces Ambrosius and then

  Theo and mumbles stiff pleasantries to both. For Merlinus, he has a quizzical look. "We've met before?"

  "Don't you remember, Father?" pipes a young woman who descends from the lead traveling van. Her

  crinkled red hair shines with glinting carats of sunlight about a round and pale moonface—and a touch of cruelty in her crooked smile. "Myrddin—mother's wizard from some few years ago."

  Recognition ignites in Gorlois' tight stare, and he

  grumbles, "You again?" His tight eyes bulge with threat.

  "Any sorcery from you, old coot, and I'll serve you same as the crone."

  The brothers look at Merlinus with perplexed

  surprise before the rush of social events sweep them away, to the wizard's wide relief.

  Gorlois introduces Morgeu, and they enter the

  mansion. As they have done a dozen times before in

  greeting the kingdom's dignitaries, they lead their guests to their quarters, introduce them to the servants, and show them the balneum—the baths.

  It is there that the issue of Merlinus' identity next arises. Sitting naked together on the sumptuous mosaics, muscles relaxed by steam and the adept skills of Persian masseurs, visitors behave more compliantly with the

  brothers than they would in the war room surrounded by armor and maps of the territory at stake.

  The brothers secure most of the pledges here in the

  balneum, Gorlois' included—though when the masseur emerges and nods to Merlinus, signaling the duke's

  acceptance of Ambrosius' leadership, the wizard most

  certainly suspects treachery. The duke has agreed with a greater alacrity than any of the others.

  "They want to see you," the masseur says, reaching for the old man's robe and staff.

  Merlinus usually waits in the anteroom, where he

  can use his magic to drowse the servants of the guest and then search their garments. Twice before, he has found poison caches in sleeve pouches and replaced the toxins with harmless substances. The growing consternation on the faces of the poisoners at the banquets later, after they administered their ineffectual venoms, always amuses him.

  A whispered spell at the most vulnerable moment

  for the would-be assassins—during a toast or after the bishop's benediction—and the poison phials pop out from their sleeves as if by blunder. Of course, traitors invariably have their evasions, and the brothers behave civilly, accepting the blatant lies coolly. But warning has been served, and the killers are ever after marked.

  This time, though, Merlinus finds no poison or

  hidden daggers in Gorlois' garments, and when he enters the humid bath, he feels as naked in soul as in flesh.

  "The duke tells us you are a wizard who served his wi
fe at Segontium and at Maridunum," Ambrosius

  announces after Merlinus eases himself into the hot water opposite the brothers and their rugged guest. "He says his daughter saw you working magic one night in the woods."

  "Ygrane flatters me with that title— wizard." Merlinus lowers his uncanny eyes. "I once saved her daughter from a fall. The child remembers it as magic." He laughs good-naturedly. Glimpsing the apprehensive expression on

  Theo's face, he turns to the duke. "And how is the queen, Ygrane—she is well?"

  "Ask Morgeu," Gorlois growls. "I haven't seen the witch since I decapitated the creature poisoning her ear."

  Ambrosius interrupts the conversation. "I called you in here, Merlinus, because the duke assures me the Celts are not a tribe worthy of Roman alliance. I want you to hear that for yourself."

  "Why else would you think I'm so eager for this

  alliance?" Gorlois asks loudly. "For God's sake, I want no more of that pagan mysticism and witchcraft. I would never have allied with the Celts if a true warlord among the Britons had come forward all those years ago. But there was no one. No one came to my defense when the

  barbarians stormed off the sea and took my towns and

  farms. I had to rely on whatever warriors I could find."

  "Tell our counselor what you told us," Ambrosius says, "about the Celts' conditions for alliance."

  "Didn't Ygrane inform you?" Gorlois regards Merlinus with an incredulous scowl.

  "In truth, I met the queen only twice, and briefly."

  "They demand I keep our priests out of their

  territory," the duke confesses with a grunt of mocking laughter. "For fourteen years now, the Church has been dunning me for leaving those lands to the heathens."

  "I thought most of the Celtic tribes are Christian now," Theo states. "Brought into the fold by Saint Non. Her son David is preaching the gospel among them right now."

  "There are many Christian tribes among the Celts,"

  Gorlois says, "but the real warriors, the blood-frenzied ones that even the barbarians fear, they are the fiana. They obey no priest and worship strange gods. Ygrane will have no priest on their lands."

  "And you don't pay these fiana gold to fight for you?"

  Theo asks.

  "Gold?" Gorlois shows the whites at the tops of his eyes. "I pay tribute to no one. The Celts required I marry their queen. I did. That's all. When I need military help, I alert my wife, and the fiana come."

  "And how will you restrain the Church, lord?"

  Merlinus dares ask, already knowing the answer. "The bishops will not long stand for a Christian duke thwarting their missions."

  "I would not pledge myself to this young upstart Ambrosius if I didn't need him," Gorlois admits. "Forgive my tongue, but it's the truth. Bishop Germanicus has already demanded I open the frontier to his soldiers of Christ. If I refuse, I will lose the support of my own subjects, who already believe the bishop is a saint. And when I let this saint send his missionaries in, I will certainly provoke the formidable ire of the fiana. I have no doubt at all that I will

  have to fight them then as well as the sea rovers. That's when we'll see what your leadership is worth, Ambrosius."

  "You'll see my worth much sooner than that,

  Gorlois," Ambrosius promises. "With your pledge, I've got all the troops I need to begin my campaign. This winter, I will crush the barbarians in the midlands and the south, and I will secure our coastline. By spring, I will sit in Londinium, high king of all Britain."

  Gorlois whistles, soft and low. "You are a heady upstart, Aurelianus. A high king already sits in Londinium.

  He will demand your pledge if you prove yourself in the midlands."

  Ambrosius practically rises out of the bath, the flesh of his powerful chest muscles twitching like a horse's hide.

  "Balbus Gaius Cocceius is a murderer. By spring, his soul will burn in hell!"

  Theo moves to calm his brother, and Ambrosius

  shakes him off with an expression both sinister and unholy.

  "I don't care how many barbarian mercenaries Balbus hires," he says. "With the bloom of spring—he dies."

  Gorlois, whose gruff, belligerent features have

  seemed incapable of displaying admiration, beams a proud smile at Ambrosius. Veneration looks gruesome on his

  brutal face. "By spring," the duke blesses darkly, like some saint of bloodshed.

  *

  In a floral garden, a sun-shot atrium of sweet

  fragrances, Gorlois meets with his counselors. They sit on tassel-pillowed benches in the stained light of a potted acacia tree. Beside them, a fountain splashes, veiling their conversation from eavesdroppers.

  Gorlois addresses the marble faun dancing in the

  fountain bowl, "Can Ambrosius be undone?"

  Marcus, the duke's nephew and military chief,

  shakes his head. Tall, blond, and big-framed, he looks more Saxon than Roman. "Ambrosius is large inside. He is blood-lusty, and he has a vision. His men sense that. They respect him, because the gods tested his nobility in the stables, found him sound, and paid him with ancestral gold.

  Even more vital than his luck, he has a leader's skills, ferocious in the field and comradely in the barracks. He knows each one of the garrison men from when he stabled their horses, knows their individual strengths and flaws.

  He's meticulously chosen his officers, paying with glory and honor those he cannot buy with gold. I can find no one to compromise. Clearly, he has lethal vision. And he has imparted that to his men by forging them into an elite force,

  some kind of new tactical unit that relies on cavalry. He trains them daily and hard—and they love him for it. They are convinced he is the next high king of Britain, and they are his personal guard. I do not recommend attempting a coup."

  The tone of the military chief's voice, deepening into fatalistic shadows, chills Gorlois' hope of aborting

  Ambrosius' upstart ambitions. The Syrax family of

  Londinium, the most wealthy clan in the islands and High King Vortigern's staunchest ally, would have paid

  handsomely for the demise of such an obvious threat.

  Gorlois' gaze slides from the marble faun to his

  political adviser, a bald, stork-like and toothless elder of so ancient a Roman lineage that he has kinship ties in all the major families of Briton. "Well, Aulus? Who among the city's families are against him?"

  The old man rubs his veined nose, embarrassed to

  make this report to his duke. "There are no families in the City of the Legion who oppose him, my lord. He is a

  senator's son, a man of impeccable ancestry, who cannot honestly be challenged as a usurper. Moreover, my lord, he has lucratively involved each of the families in his campaign, promising them generous profits from renewed trade once the highways among the coloniae are cleared.

  He levies no taxes, and he purchases with gold all the supplies for his army from the families' businesses." His mottled hands shrug. "Ambrosius has thought all of this through very carefully—and the families respect such

  care."

  "Yes—the families do." Gorlois nods, focusing on this understanding: He now sees that Ambrosius has

  become something almost supernatural, someone bigger

  than blood rivalries. Incisive lines appear in his thick face, and he looks to his daughter with a sharpened set of jaw.

  "It's your mother again. Ambrosius' counselor—that old man was Raglaw's wizard! Ygrane surely sent him here.

  It's her magic that found the fortune to make this warlord.

  Hm? Do you see what a witch she is, Morgeu?"

  "You should fear her more, Father," Morgeu says.

  She lies on her back atop her bench, one draped knee up, fingers locked across her breasts. Staring up at the imprint of the sun in the acacia branches, she sees her mother's scheme appearing clearly before her. The queen's magic looks like a river pattern, a branching of consequences that flows f
rom the mountain kingdom of Cymru into the Roman coloniae. The largest tributary pours into this citadel in the foothills, filling up within its black stone walls a dammed force of magical power ready to spill across Britain to the sea.

  "I should fear her more," the duke admits, but in a steely voice. "I have seen enough of her magic over the years. Yet, I am a Christian. My salvation is assured by the Most High God. I do not fear Ygrane—or any witch."

  "If Merlinus is unholy," the statesman Aulus suggests, "a good soldier of Christ would remove him."

  "I would not try," Morgeu warns quickly. "Merlinus is more unholy than you think."

  "You fortify my argument, young lady." Aulus addresses the duke sternly, "Dispatch him to hell immediately, my lord. You will do honor to God and a

  service to all the families."

  Morgeu sits up, her small eyes a dark mime of her

  father's. "Father, Merlinus is not like Raglaw. He is not like anyone we have ever known."

  "How do you counsel me then, daughter?" Long ago, when Morgeu yet had a child's angelic face, Gorlois learned to trust her insights, her sageful predictions of people's behavior and unexpected situations that later came to pass. Now that her bones are edged sharper, he can see himself in many of her facial traits, and he receives her counsel as though from a prophetic version of himself.

  "Merlinus cannot be killed—not by us, anyway. He serves larger powers."

  "Unholy powers?" the duke asks.

  "Only God is holy, Father."

  "Then it is settled," Gorlois states abruptly, square-knuckled hands gripping his knees, pugnacious face

  leaning forward to meet each of their attentive stares.

  "Ambrosius cannot be undone by arms, politics, or magic.

  As he cannot be withstood, we will stand with him. What choice do we have?"

  *

  The weapons master for the Rovers of the Wild

  Hunt is a dwarf. Like all dwarfs, he stands half the size of a man yet carries twice the strength in his thick-boned, muscle-packed frame. Shaped by the Aesir gods from

  maggots in the corpse-flesh of the Old Ones slain during the overthrow, they are hairless and busy-workers. No female dwarfs exist and so, no children, no ancestors to honor. Work is all that dwarfs live for—by day in their subterranean foundries and by night in their dreams, where they devise clever contraptions, fearsome weapons, and astonishing jewelry, for which they are famous.