At mid-morning the next day, Lucan was summoned to the royal pavilion, where a Council of the Round Table was to convene. His mail and mantle had been cleaned, as had his wolf-fur. Most of the rest of the senior knights were in attendance, mailed and in their finest livery.
King Arthur received them with Kay and Bedivere seated to either side of him. Bedivere was still ashen-faced; the stump of his left hand was bound with bandages and covered by a leather glove. Many others bore lesser wounds. None of their brotherhood had died in the battle, though they had lost many retainers; Lucan’s own household of sixty knights was down to fifty, with only forty fit for duty. Griflet had lost all of his, and had begged absence from the Council to mourn.
“Gentlemen, your attention,” Arthur said, presenting a parchment. “I have here an estimated tally of casualties. In total, we have eight thousand dead, and sixteen thousand wounded, many of whom may still expire. Several hundred are still unaccounted for.
“The army of New Rome, however, suffered an even more grievous loss.” He glanced up, grave-faced. “Gentlemen… to the best of our knowledge, some fifty thousand Romans lie slaughtered.”
There were subtle gasps. The battle at Castle Terrabil, when the insurgent forces of King Rience of North Wales and eleven Irish princes were crushed, had long been thought Arthur’s bloodiest battle, and yet only forty thousand perished that day, and that between both armies.
Arthur continued: “Among the butcher’s bill we must include over three hundred men of very senior rank. Emperor Lucius Julio Bizerta, Duke Ardeus Vigilano of Spoleto and Prince Jalhid Yusuf ibn Ayyub of Cyrenaica are the foremost of these, along with some nine hundred men of middling title.”
“God help us,” Lancelot said slowly. “We’ve depopulated the Roman nobility.”
“Not entirely,” Arthur replied. “They still have several legions in central Brittany. Breton irregulars attack them relentlessly and they have sent negotiators to seek terms. King Hoel and his deputies have ridden to meet them. But they are still a cohesive and well-armed host. In addition, there are numbers of legionaries still on the loose here in France. We cannot assume they will surrender until they actually do. Therefore we remain in arms, here, until such time as the threat is removed… whereupon we will break camp and march south.”
“We’re not going home, sire?” Bors asked.
“We’re going to Rome,” Arthur said, simply. A tense silence followed. “Gentlemen… let us be under no illusions. The aim of New Rome’s mission in France was to lure the kingdom of Albion into war. They sought, unprovoked, to destroy us utterly. The architects of that scheme are still alive, wallowing in their ill-deserved wealth while so many better men, of their nation as well as ours, are wallowing in their own guts. This cannot — nay, will not — be tolerated. We shall camp outside the city of Rome and I will demand the miscreants be handed over.”
“And if they refuse, sire?” Bors wondered.
“We’ll put the city under siege. I doubt they’ll be equipped to withstand one, while we — thanks to the generously donated cargo train of the late Emperor Lucius — have fodder and water for years.”
“Sire… by ‘miscreants,’ I take it you mean the ambassadors who deceived us at Camelot,” Sir Gareth asked.
“That’s correct. I’ll have a gallows prepared for each of them.”
“But three of them were churchmen. The Holy Father will never countenance the punishment of clerics by lay authorities.”
Arthur smiled as if he had anticipated this. “The Holy Father, I’m sure, will respond to reason. I understand he has concerns about the Moorish influence along the North African coast. How could he not? The Moors are pagans, and their presence in that region grows daily. However, as we speak, Sir Gawaine is at the Court of the Franks in Paris, where he entertains King Childeric and his nobles with drinking contests and tales of his bawdy adventures.”
There were snickers among the knights. This was all too believable.
“My latest information,” Arthur added, “is that Gawaine has befriended his prisoner, Prince Priamus, brother to the late Jalhid. Prince Priamus now has sole rulership of Cyrenaica, for which he is most grateful. When he returns, if we wish it, he will be a moderating influence among the Moorish emirs, of whom our Holy Father is so nervous.”
“‘If we wish it,’” Bedivere reiterated. “Those are the important words.”
“And the cost to the papacy of this moderating influence?” Lancelot wondered.
Arthur smiled again. “The defrocking of those two-faced scoundrels, Bishop Severin Malconi of Ravenna, Bishop Proclates of Palermo and Bishop Pelagius of Tuscany. The lay-ambassadors, I suspect, will be handed over for much less.”
There was a long silence as they absorbed the plan. No-one relished the prospect of remaining in arms for a long siege in Italy, but most, like the King, suspected that it would not be for especially long.
“If that is all, gentlemen,” Arthur said, “return to your posts.”
They left the royal presence with a general clatter and noise, muttering together as they walked away, leaving only Lucan behind.
“Sir Lucan?” Arthur asked.
“Sire,” Lucan said, “you have everything well in hand.”
“Your approval is most welcome.”
Lucan shuffled his feet. “As it appears there’ll be no more hard fighting, might I suggest that my usefulness is past?”
“You may suggest it. I won’t necessarily agree.”
“My lord,” Bedivere interrupted. “I strongly advise that our… comrade be kept in harness. We do not know the fighting is over.”
Lucan glared at his brother, but said nothing.
“I take it, Lucan, you have a private matter you’d like to resolve?” the King said.
“That is so, sire.”
“You wish to detach from the army and go your own way?”
“Now would be the ideal time. While the trail is still warm.”
“I object to this most strongly,” Bedivere said.
“On what grounds?” Lucan demanded.
Bedivere levered himself to his feet. “You know what grounds, Lucan. Revenge has no place at the Round Table. You’ll sully yourself, and all the rest of us.”
Lucan turned to Arthur. “My liege, I have the right to seek satisfaction.”
“You didn’t get enough satisfaction on the battlefield?” Bedivere asked. “That foul sword of yours must have drunk ten gallons of blood.”
“I must take the matter under consideration, Lucan,” Arthur said. “I’m not sure we can spare you yet.” But Lucan didn’t immediately withdraw. “Is there something else?”
“There’s nothing else, my lord,” Lucan replied tautly. “Nothing at all as important to me as this. If you could see your way to making a judgment now?”
“Now, sirrah?”
“In a year’s time, it won’t matter either way.”
“Excellent,” Bedivere said. “Then in a year’s time we’ll give you our decision.”
“Enough, Bedivere,” Arthur interjected. Bedivere sat back, gripping his butchered arm with a grimace. Again, Arthur pondered, watching Lucan from under kneaded brows. “Wait outside,” he finally said. “Until I summon you.”
Lucan bowed curtly and strode from the pavilion.
Outside in the sunlight, the royal enclosure operated with its normal efficiency. Servants ran errands, squires polished armour, cooks cut vegetables and stirred broth. Alaric was seated nearby on a barrel, but jumped to his feet as Lucan approached. Lucan clasped hands behind his back and paced. He sought to look firm and resolute, but saw how he must have looked to his former squire: lost, worried, his future beyond his control.
“I’m sorry all this has happened, my lord,” the lad said. “No-one deserves this less than you.”
“Everything happens for a reason, Alaric. All we mortals can do is search until we find that reason. If the search takes us to perilous places, so be it.”