by Whyte, Jack
"What d'you mean by that?"
He snorted, and it was almost a laugh. "You're half Roman. Do it by half the Roman way, but make your half measures full steps."
I blinked at him. "I have no idea what you are talking about."
"Yes you do, if you'll but think about it. How did the Romans build their holdings, first the Republic, then the Empire?"
I gazed back at him, conscious of a tiny flicker of excitement in my chest. "By converting those they conquered into allies, making them auxiliaries and teaching them the Roman way of fighting."
"That's right. Camulod has no need to conquer these folk you're considering, so there's no bloodshed involved at that stage. All you have to do is convince them they need help and that you're willing to provide it. That shouldn't be difficult. You need to give 'em back the hope they've lost. Nothing's easier than that.
"Send out patrols, routinely, each one consisting of one cohort of our troops. Order each cohort to spend two days in each place they visit. They'll construct a fortified camp while they are there, then leave it intact for the use of the locals. No shortage of trees, anywhere, for palisades. Log walls and earthen breastworks. That offers safety in a very real sense. Once the camps are built, the local people can build their own buildings inside the walls and be their own garrisons, and Camulod can supply the basic military training they'll require. That won't require a permanent base of a thousand men, but it will ease congestion in our own home jurisdiction, keeping a thousand men gainfully occupied and out of Camulod full time, if you dedicate four separate cohorts to the job and keep them busy, alternating two and two on continuous patrols. And the beauty of it is, they'll all be within easy recall, should any trouble threaten us at home. Twenty men to each camp, at first, one squad each of infantry and cavalry, should achieve the effect you want. Enlist the support of the local leaders, chiefs and elders, and their enthusiasm will stir the flames in others. Once the people see they can defend themselves, our job will be almost done. All it will require on top of that will be the regular patrols, passing by on schedule and offering the hope of assistance if invasion or attack happens. Nothing to it. Then, if war comes into this region, we'll have a home grown force to fight it with." He paused, giving me time to digest what he had said before he added, "It'll work, Merlyn. Your idea was right, merely askew in its conception. Don't thank me for my insight. It is damn tedious to have to listen to outpourings of gratitude all the time..."
I sat stunned, seeing the possibilities of what he had described. And Dedalus, once he had seen that he had given me enough to think about, yawned and stretched and then stood up and muttered something about taking a nap, since he had been on duty all night long. I barely noticed him leave.
And so, thus simply and apparently by chance began the process that would transform the land of Britain and alter Arthur's destiny from that of Legate Commander of the Forces of Camulod to Riothamus, the High King of Western Britain. That the process occurred at all was astounding; that it occurred as quickly as it did was akin to miraculous; but the time and the conditions were appropriate to the needs, and the leaven that inspired the change was hope.
Our "attack" on Nero's holdings was a complete success. Despite the terror it produced in the inhabitants, the relief it occasioned afterwards, once the realization dawned that it was but a ruse arranged by their leader, was sufficient to overcome any resentment that might have been harboured by some of Nero's elders. No one was injured in the foray, and that in itself was an indication of the success of the attack and of the level of unpreparedness we found on our arrival. In the aftermath, once Nero had explained to a general assembly of his people all that we intended to achieve— an alliance between them and Camulod that would be heavily weighted in their favour in the early stages—the decision was quickly made to begin the work of refortification immediately. That led to the recognition of the real, underlying reason why nothing had been done before this time: there was no lack of willing hands to undertake the labour, but no one among Nero's folk had any knowledge of the architectural skills required to build the needed walls. Even their senior soldier, an ancient veteran of the legions, had never been required to take part in the building of a fortified camp. Plainly he had never served with Caius Britannicus and Publius Varrus.
As we stood listening to the rising consternation among Nero's people, I glanced at Dedalus, who looked at Benedict and Philip and then huddled with them, speaking quietly. Mere moments later, he turned and nodded to me.
"Two days," he said. "In that time we can lay out the design, show them which trees to cut and how to stake them, and help them to make a start on the digging." He stopped, looking me straight in the eye. "You wouldn't want our men to do the digging for them, would you?"
I smiled at him. "How could you even ask such a question?"
We resumed our homeward journey on the third day after that, leaving Nero's people in a sweat of industrious cooperation. I had promised to send another expedition to check on their progress as soon as we had arrived home and explained our newly formed alliance to the Council of Camulod. Should the Council approve, I promised that the returning expedition would bring with them additional supplies and support in the form of weapons and armour, and training personnel whose task would be to work with the Appius garrison, instructing new, local levies in weaponry techniques and simple tactics. These troops would work simultaneously with Nero and his senior people to develop strategies to govern the defensive structure of their community from that time on. Our taciturn Benedict had already volunteered to lead the returning expedition, and that in itself augured well for the campaign's success.
During much of the five year period that was to follow, Camulod itself went to war without committing any of its new allies, and it did so on two widely separated fronts, which is considered by military strategists to be suicidal. And yet the process of radical change described above continued without impediment, fostered to a very large extent by Camulod's constant efforts and encouragement.
At any other time and in any other place, what our armies achieved in those five years would have been deemed impossible. That one community—for that is all we were, a community, not a state or even a city—should commit itself and all its resources to two different, simultaneous wars would defy credence in the eyes of sane and civilized men. Yet that is precisely what we did, and the reason we were able to do it seems purely arrogant when stated baldly: it was our time.
Camulod, the young, lusty Colony that embodied the dream of its two founders, was coming to its prime. More than sixty years had passed since its formation, and those years had been dedicated diligently and incessantly to preparation for the confrontation of catastrophe, and survival in its aftermath. We had a tightly disciplined army of nine thousand, more than half of them intensively trained, heavy cavalry, and all of them commanded by an officer corps that was superb, its codes and ethics modelled upon the ancient ideals of Republican Rome. We had formed three small but hard hitting armies from our complement, each of them half the size of a traditional Roman legion, comprising fifteen hundred infantry and the same amount of cavalry, and although but half the size of a legion, each was more than twice as powerful as any legion had ever been. That power, and the crushing force of it, was the result of the mobility and versatility offered by our cavalry: a full thousand heavy troopers plus five hundred of our lighter, faster force—an innovation developed and launched on my brother's initiative, during the five years I had spent in Ravenglass—in each of our three armies. The combination of superior weaponry, entrenched discipline and inspired leadership brought Camulod to preeminence in Britain, and each of those three elements depended absolutely upon each of the others.
FIVE
Although I was born and raised in Camulod, and had served as its Legate Commander since before the death of my father, I found myself taken aback and almost moved to tears by what I found on my return. I had left a thriving Colony that was, in spite of its military str
ength, in essence an overgrown farming community dominated by a hilltop fortress. What I found on my return was so different that I could scarcely grasp the change.
It began with our arrival at the point where the side road to Camulod joined the main route south to Isca. This side road had always been well enough used, but it was a mere track nonetheless, two broad, parallel wheel ruts divided by a humped mound of grassy earth the width of a wagon axle. Now the track was a road, twice as broad as it had been before and uniformly flat, with no sign of grass or wheel ruts on its crushed flint surface. Instead of running straight to form a ‘T’ with the road, however, this new road curved right at the junction, to blend into the great Roman road, heading south—towards Ilchester and the new garrison, I realized belatedly.
Some fifty paces in from the main road, a new stone guardhouse had been built, roofed in thick tiles and big enough, I guessed, to house some twenty men, with stables for ten horses. The guards came spilling out to form up almost as soon as Dedalus, Philip and I, riding ahead of our group, arrived at the junction. Everything was militarily crisp, the discipline of the guard detail exemplary. The Commander of the Guard, a decurion unknown to me, stepped forward to welcome Philip and Dedalus formally home to Camulod, then allowed us to pass on our way immediately. He had looked at me and through me without recognition, and the shock of being unrecognized in my own home reminded me that I had made extensive changes to my appearance since my departure six years earlier, altering everything as radically as possible, from the colour of my hair to the style of my dress and bearing. I had set out to be, and had become, plain Master Cay, a farmer as different from the former Merlyn of Camulod as I could make him. The Commander of the Guard had looked at me and seen only a mounted farmer, plainly dressed, riding alongside the leaders of a returning military expedition.
My shock gave way quickly, however, and turned to ironic self mockery. I remained behind, waiting by the guardhouse while my military companions rode on, allowing the formations I had previously led to pass by until the wagons reached me. Shelagh and Donuil and their entire household filled up the first of them, and then Tressa came, sitting high on the driver's bench of our own wagon beside Derek, who was driving. His horse, one of ours and a gift from me, walked placidly behind, tethered to the back. I nodded to them as they passed, then swung my leg over and stepped directly from my stirrup into the back of the wagon, tying my own mount's reins beside Derek's before making my way carefully along the wagon bed to the front, sidling around and sometimes clambering over the crates and cases. I positioned myself behind the two of them, kneeling on a sack and thrusting my head between them after kissing Tress on the cheek.
Derek turned his head to look at me over his shoulder. "Why are we thus honoured? We're naught but visitors. This is your homecoming—you should be out there at the head of your men."
I laughed, wryly enough to make him twist around further to look at me, and then I told them what I had just discovered about my own appearance. After a while Tress asked, "Were you really that different, back then?"
Of course, Tress had never seen me as my true self, the man Connor called Yellow Head. I had been Cay of the brown hair and plain clothing since before she ever met me. No sooner had I begun to laugh again than the reality sobered me, so that my laugh died on my lips.
"Well," Derek growled, "Merlyn of Camulod does not exist outside his armour. Is that important at this moment? I don't think so, since the armour can't do anything without the man inside it. This lack of recognition means no more than that no one will see you've come home until you choose to show them, and that means you're free, for now, to sit up here with us and explain all the sights we'll see along the road."
I slipped my right arm about Tress's soft and supple waist and laid my left hand on Derek's shoulder. "I may not even be able to do that, my friend, for I'm already perplexed. That guardhouse wasn't there when I left, and this road we're travelling on was an old, grassy track. Those are the only two things I've seen so far that should be familiar, and they're both changed beyond recognition. But I'll explain what I can, so move over, both of you. Tress, you move towards the middle and I'll perch beside you, on the outside."
From that point onward, all along the road to Camulod itself, I saw differences everywhere and did my best, for a time at least, to point all of them out. Many of the great trees on both sides of the road, once so thick they had almost formed a wall, had been cut down and uprooted, their wood, I later learned, used to build houses and furniture, and new barracks blocks and stables down in Ilchester. As a result of the tree clearing, there were more fields in evidence now, too, on either side of the road. And everywhere I looked, there were houses, all of them wooden, some more strongly built than others. Multitudes of people were going about the business of their daily lives where once there had been nothing but rabbits, squirrels, deer and bears moving silently through dense thickets. All around me, as I rode, I saw the differences, and eventually my mind grew numb with the scope of them. I rode in silence then, trying not to see. so many changes, and my companions left me to my thoughts.
As we neared the end of the road, concealed from the sight of Camulod's hill fort by no more than a few hundred paces of fringing trees, the sound of children's voices, growing steadily louder, forced itself into my awareness. We came to a place where no more than a few giant trees remained on the right of the road. Arthur, Bedwyr, Gwin and Ghilly sat on their horses by the roadside, staring silently down into the open meadow beyond them. Now as we slowly approached, Arthur turned to look at me, his eyebrows raised high in a wordless question. The children's voices, raised in noisy, boisterous play, were loud enough here to cover the creaking of the wagons' axles and the crunching of the flint roadbed beneath our metal tyred wheels.
There appeared to be hundreds of children in the meadow, close to the road, ranging in age from five or six to some as old as ten or even twelve. They were surging everywhere, in front of and around a long, low building built of logs and roofed with thatch, the upper parts of its walls open to the weather, although I could see where shutters would be hung on less pleasant days. I wanted to stop and look, but I could not have reasonably done so without interrupting the entire train that followed us, and so I contented myself with craning my neck to see all that I could see in passing. Arthur pulled his horse around and brought it to the side of the wagon, where he could look up at me, but it was Derek who spoke first.
"What's going on there, then? I've never seen so many brats assembled in one place. Is it a camp? A camp for children?"
I shook my head, glancing at Arthur, who, I knew, was listening closely. "No, I don't think so. Not a camp. But a school, I think."
Derek's face was blank. "A what? What's one of them?"
"It's a place where children go to learn their lessons— how to read and write. The way Arthur and the boys did in Mediobogdum. We had a school there, too, though there were only a few children involved. This one looks far more organized." I looked down at Arthur. "What are you looking so glum about?"
He kneed his horse slightly away from the wagon, to where he would not have to peer up at me so sharply. "Will I have to go to school there?" He did not appear to relish the prospect.
I grinned at him. "I doubt it. Your next classroom will be the campaign trail, if I'm any judge. Besides, the oldest child I saw back there might have been twelve. You are beyond that, aren't you?"
He frowned slightly, until he saw that I was tweaking him, and then he smiled and pulled back on his reins, allowing us to pass by him as he swung about to rejoin his friends. The first brazen peal of a trumpet soon sounded ahead of us, to be echoed and answered by others in the distance as the word was passed from point to point that newcomers were arriving.
Moments later we rounded the last bend, and there sat Camulod, upon its hilltop. Tress caught her breath audibly, and Derek whistled softly through his teeth.
"So that's Camulod," he murmured, more to himself than to anyone.
"Aye, that is Camulod. We're home. Tress? What think you?'
"It's... it's very grand," she whispered, and I laughed again, feeling the pride swell in me.
"No more than you are, lass, and it's yours—all of it."
She turned sideways to look at me, thinking I was teasing her. "Why would you say that, Cay?"
"Say what, that it's yours? It is! At least, as much of it , as is mine is yours—in other words, all of it, and none of it. My family, Britannicus and Varrus mixed, created and built this place, Tress, and we have guarded it and governed it ever since. It stands on Britannicus land, but we have never sought to own it. The Britannici are the custodians of this place, holding it in trust but holding it nonetheless. And as my wife, you will be the castellan."
"And what about Ludmilla?"
The unexpected chill in her tone disconcerted me. "What about her? You and she—"
"Ludmilla is the mistress here in Camulod, Cay—the castellan, as you call it—and she has been since you left, perhaps since even before you left. She is your brother's wife and he has been in sole command here for the past six , almost seven, years, which means that she has, too, within her own domain. Do you expect to walk in there today and oust her, replacing her with me?"
"No, but—"
"No, but what? Think you Ludmilla will be grateful to simply back away and give up whatever systems she has put in place to run this ..." She fumbled, searching for a word to complete her thought. "... this town? Do you believe she will be thankful to me, a simple servant girl from Ravenglass, for stepping into her world and dispossessing her?"
