Nine
The Romans accepted Arthur’s invitation, and early that evening a succession of palanquins ferried them up the Eagle Road to the palace.
The feast was served in the main banquet hall. Normally, the tables in there would be arrayed in a great horseshoe around a blazing central hearth, with King Arthur and Queen Guinevere at its head, Archbishop Stigand to their right, Sir Kay to their left, and all other senior nobility and their consorts seated in descending order of importance down either leg. But now, with the Roman ambassadors and their chief flunkeys present, not to mention sundry other courtiers, barons, churchmen and city burgesses, the hearth had been cleared and additional tables set out.
The gathering was noisy but good-natured. Certain of Arthur’s knights, who for various reasons had missed that first day’s Council but had now arrived during the course of the evening — Sir Gawaine, for instance, and his brothers, Sir Gareth and Sir Gaheris — had needed to be accommodated on smaller trestle tables, which owing to the numbers elsewhere, were located far from the presence of the King. But such was the etiquette at Camelot that no man took offence on a grand occasion like this, least of all Sir Gawaine, who, being loud, garrulous and a great songster when the drink was on him, was happy to be in any genial company.
The meal was exquisite. The first course consisted of shellfish simmered in garlic, wine and honey, and the main course of roast fowls glazed in sweet, sticky sauce, served with buttered, crusty bread and trenchers of steaming vegetables: cabbages, onions, turnips, carrots and leeks. The procession of servants who brought the repast had to weave their way in and around the jugglers and tumblers who held court in the very centre of the chamber. Rich, sweet wine was poured liberally, or, if the diners preferred, flagons of frothing ale or crisp cider were provided.
From the high gallery surrounding the chamber fluted the sweet voice of Taliesin, accompanied by the harmonious tones of gitterns, dulcimers and reed-pipes.13 The noise levels rose steadily, shouting and guffawing piercing the smoky air as any cantankerous feeling lingering from the day was smoothed over. Arthur had taken care with his seating arrangements, ensuring that Romans were always interspersed with Britons, who were under strict orders to make cordial conversation. Where possible, the senior Roman ambassadors were placed alongside the most beautiful ladies of court, while potentially recalcitrant elements — such as Cador — were dispatched to the far corners.
Lucan observed the ambassadors with interest.
Consul Rascalon was the most obviously ‘Roman’ of them, inasmuch as he was portly to the point of being corpulent. His garments were the richest on show, his chain of office the most ornate. He wore a fur-trimmed white satin gown, with sleeves puffed and full from elbow to shoulder, over a lilac jerkin covered with gold embroidery. A blue, flat-brimmed cap decorated with a peacock plume was pulled down over his fluffy white locks. His fat, moist hands were bedecked with gem-encrusted rings, and he made constant fluttering gestures with them as he spoke. All through the banquet he issued curt instructions to the servants, apparently anticipating disrespect and determined to dissuade it by his manner alone. By contrast, Bishop Proclates seemed remarkably young for a high-ranking clergyman, and though handsome and virile, there was also something vulpine about him — he had the aura of a hard man, a cold man. Not once had Lucan seen him smile. Though clad in the skullcap and ecclesiastical purple, Proclates’s velvet houppeland14 was high-collared, girdled at the waist and had long, trailing sleeves, which exposed powerful wrists. The cut of his garb accentuated a lean but strong physique.
“I understand you are a fighting man of some note?” came a voice from Lucan’s left.
He turned to view the Roman ambassador seated next to him. This fellow was clearly not a churchman. His garb was too simple: a tan leather doublet worn over a white shirt with puffed sleeves laced at the cuffs and collar. His iron-grey hair was cut very short, and he was clean-shaven. He had a refined but angular face which was marked by old scars. His eyes were hazel but of an intense lustre. There was something intelligent but solemn about him. Lucan remembered that they had crossed words during the debate.
“I’ve fought for Arthur, yes,” Lucan said. “I’m Lucan, of the House Corneus.”
“You are Steward of the North, I understand?”
“I am. Forgive me…?”
The Roman offered his hand. “Quintus Maximion, Senior Tribune of the Eighth Legion.”
“Ah yes,” Lucan said. “You’ve been active in Rome’s reconquest of the West.”
“I’ve had some success in the Emperor’s name.”
“If nothing else, we’re both modest men, Lord Maximion.”
Maximion half-smiled. “This is a most impressive hall.”
He surveyed the chamber appreciatively. Its high roof was of oaken shingles, supported by four great stone arches painted lavish colours and carved with woodland scenes. The walls were hung with weapons and battle-standards, many captured from Arthur’s enemies. There were also tapestries, sumptuously woven. The floor was of sanded marble, the broad avenue leading into it laid with a crimson carpet.
“It has the rugged grandeur of the wild north,” Maximion commented. “Yet there is comfort here, and a sense of artisanship.”
“This is Camelot, after all,” Lucan said.
“Yes, but many in Rome would be surprised.”
“They’d expect a barbarian stronghold?”
“They would expect little more than a palisade, maybe with a few longhouses and cattle-sheds crammed in the middle of it.” Maximion glanced at his goblet — it was wrought from silver, ornamented with elves and dragons. “They would expect drinking-horns rather than handsome cups.” He assessed his knife and fork — they were of elaborate Italian design. “And a single knife instead of cutlery, maybe the same one used earlier that day to slit an enemy’s throat.”
“And will they be worried to learn otherwise?” Lucan asked.
“Probably not, is the sad truth.”
“The sad truth?”
Maximion sipped his wine thoughtfully. “I spoke out of turn, Earl Lucan. I’m only a soldier. I have no personal views regarding our mission here.”
“Then why were you sent?”
Maximion shrugged, as if he had already given too many of his feelings away.
“There’s no need to answer that question,” Lucan said. “I know the answer. And so does King Arthur. You are here to assess our defences, are you not?”
“If that were true, I would be awe-stricken by them. This fortress, I would guess, is impregnable. Should it ever be put under siege, I’d imagine it has stores that could last it many years. During our journey here from Dover, we passed similar castles: Sissinghurst, Scotney and Petersfield,15 I believe, were some of their names?”
The main meal was now complete, and baskets of fruit and honeyed barley cakes were being passed around by servants. Lucan took a cake and broke a small piece from it. “That would be correct.”
“Fine defensive structures, all,” Maximion added. “Most disconcerting… for an enemy, I mean. But I fear this is an uncomfortable subject for discussion.”
Lucan turned to face him, the elf-grey eyes gleaming in his pale face. “Lord Maximion, you clearly speak with candour. And I would be doing you an injustice if I did not respond in kind. Let me tell you truly… we have no fear of New Rome. An extensive war between us would be ruinous for this kingdom, but we have fought so many wars already. We’ve all of us in this room buried friends and family. We ourselves have behaved like brute animals when the necessity came. It isn’t something any of us particularly want to experience again, but it’s something we are used to. You understand?”
“Of course,” Maximion replied.