Malconi glanced sidelong at his young nephew, Felix Rufio, who was present both as a patrician and as a tribune in the army. Rufio was handsome and dark-eyed, his short hair so black it was almost blue. Unlike many of his age, he was clean-shaven. As he was fond of saying when in his cups: “Why hide looks like mine beneath a baggage of unsightly, perfumed bristles?”
The Emperor was still addressing the business at hand. “Of course, things are never straightforward. Those provincial rulers who had lapsed into pagan traditions have been advised to… reconsider their ways. Religious missions have been sent, and churches and monasteries restored.”
Proclates, the Bishop of Palermo, spoke up. “Time is an issue here, Caesar. Dangerous beliefs have taken root. Might I enquire at what stage we can expect to see more persuasive methods used? In those corners of Empire which have strayed far from the light?”
Bishop Proclates was an athletic, blond-haired hawk of a man. He might affect the trappings of religion on state occasions, but he was young and virile, and known to be as fond of the feast and the hunt as he was the cloister or the chapel. He was also known for his vaunting ambition. Malconi smirked. There had been much talk recently that valuable archbishoprics would be up for grabs in the re-acquired provinces — if only the local leaders the Emperor spoke of could be persuaded to tolerate them.
“I’ve discussed the matter with His Holiness,” Lucius replied, “and we’ve decided that at this early stage there is no need to be too provocative. Particularly in those cases where renewed loyalty has been bought rather than enforced. To use a plebeian phrase, we see no need to upset the applecart just yet.”
Proclates looked disgruntled, but said no more.
“Religious issues aside,” the Emperor continued, “not everything is rosy in New Rome’s garden. You’ll notice that the one glaring omission from this list of recaptured territories is Britain.”
Rufio clutched Bishop Malconi’s arm. The young tribune stared excitedly at the map, and at the boot-shaped island in the corner. Malconi sighed. The follies of youth knew no bounds.
“It is my intention,” the Emperor said, “to send a new embassy to Britain. And I would like you twelve to go as my official representatives.”
Rufio released his uncle’s arm and clenched his fist in triumph.
“A number of you were present on the last embassy I sent to King Arthur’s court, so you know what to expect. I’ve written to Arthur several times since, pressing my claim, but always I get the same intransigent response.”
Quintus Maximion, another tribune in the army, stood. He was a much older man than Rufio, but tall and muscular, with solemn features and iron-grey hair.
“Lord Caesar,” he began, “Arthur’s kingdom is stable and prosperous. I can think of no reason why he would see benefit in becoming a client-king of the Roman Empire.”
Lucius laughed. “That’s the reason why I’ve assembled twelve of the brightest minds in Rome. Together, I’m sure you can enlighten him.”
“Forgive me, Caesar,” Maximion said, “but I was part of that embassy, six years ago. The country was in a more fragile state in those days. There were many recalcitrant elements that Arthur had to deal with. But even then he saw no advantage in bowing to Roman rule. Why would he see things differently now?”
Rufio also stood. “Tribune Maximion has a very defeatist attitude. I was there also, and I detected divisions among Arthur’s nobility. I did not see him as the invulnerable sovereign his propagandists claim.”
“Gentlemen, please!” Bishop Malconi said, standing. “May I…?”
He gestured gently at the two soldiers, and reluctantly they sat.
“We all know Arthur to be a strong and confident ruler,” Malconi said. “We also know that he has the full support of his people, magnates and peasants alike. He is to be respected, certainly… but let us not get carried away. By no stretch of imagination can we put him on the same pedestal as our own revered ruler.”
There was hearty agreement, and Tribune Maximion shook his head firmly, as if to dispel the very possibility.
“Well spoken, my lord bishop,” Lucius said. “Please continue.”
Malconi wove his fingers together, a pose he used in the Senate when he felt he was on secure ground. “The main difference, as I see it, between this embassy and the last is that, increasingly, we have right on our side. And the whole of Christendom will recognise…”
Maximion stood up again. “Forgive me, your grace, but how can it be right to steal another man’s freedom?”
There was a disbelieving silence. Malconi looked around at his opponent as if he couldn’t quite believe that anything so blasphemous had been uttered in the presence of a Roman Emperor. Maximion flushed a little, perhaps realising that he’d gone too far. He turned to his master, although it was difficult meeting the Emperor’s cool, green-eyed gaze.
“Tribune Maximion, your opinions are welcome,” Lucius said. “That is why I summoned you here. But I think you misunderstand our purpose. We are not denying anyone their freedom; we are merely seeking to bring order to the world. Bishop Malconi is quite correct. With the rest of the Western Empire settled, and only one unruly state remaining, it could even be said that we now have a moral obligation to intervene in British affairs…”
“And I say again, Caesar…” Maximion looked troubled by the stand he was making, but he persisted. “When I look at Britain, I see no unruly state. In our absence, Camelot has become the cultural heart of northern Europe. The people are content to work and play under a ruler who does not oppress them. Surely this is something we should encourage, not punish?”
“And what of the devil, Merlin?” Bishop Proclates wondered.
Maximion shrugged. “I’ve heard that Merlin has left Camelot.”
“You’ve heard, but do you know?” Proclates’s voice was scornful. “And even if Merlin has left, Arthur’s power was built on his druidic magic. The pagan influence is everywhere. You only need wander Britain’s woods and fields to see standing stones, ancient temples…”
“Yes,” Maximion retorted. “In an equal state of disrepair to those in Rome.”
Proclates sneered, but had no immediate riposte.
“It’s good that we’re having this debate,” Lucius interrupted. “This is exactly what I was hoping for when I assembled you.” He turned to Maximion. “But while I think you speak from the heart, tribune, I fear you underestimate what Roman citizenship can bring to a nation. Britain may be a happy land at present, under its kind king. But I see few roads there, and even fewer cities. I see no system of education for the people of the country, no organised civil service. Much of the land is still covered by wild forest. Britain could be so much more than it is today. Surely you don’t dispute that?”
“No, my lord, I don’t. But if they don’t want it…”
“When you say they, who do you mean, tribune? They as in Arthur and his court, who enjoy all the liberties and luxuries of any nobility? Or they as in the people on whose backs that nobility rides?”
Maximion sat down, knowing when he was beaten.
Malconi broke the brief silence that followed. “Tribune Maximion’s concerns are understandable, Caesar. Those who matter in Britain will not wish to be made servants in their own land, no matter how cleverly we argue at the negotiating table. They will resist us.”
Lucius nodded sadly, as if reluctant to accept.
“They may also, my lord,” Malconi added, “appeal to the Vatican. Arthur is a Christian monarch. His knights were famous for their battles against heathen powers.”
Again Lucius nodded. “All of this is acknowledged by the Holy Father. For which reason he will always seek, in public at least, to steer a middle course. But at heart he shares our worries for the common good of the British people, and in addition has concerns of his own. He feels that Christian teaching in Britain is in need of reform. It may even be straying into the realms of heresy — not purposely, but through a lack of communication.3 Britain is on the fringes of our known world. Like fruit at the end of a tenuous vine, it is withering. Pope Simplicius sees it as our duty to nourish this fruit. And to do that, we must first enclose it in our own vineyard.”