'It will get worse before it gets better,' I warned.
'Then I do not know how it will be settled without bloodshed.' He shook his head gravely. 'Still, I think it proper to conduct such important matters on consecrated ground.'
Urbanus was not as troubled as he pretended. In his heart he was pleased to have a hand in the king choosing – if only in providing a roof under which it could take place. Make no mistake, that this king choosing should take place in a church was no small thing. For it meant that the lords accepted Aurelius' precedent; they felt comfortable with the church and were willing to allow it a place in supporting their affairs.
Although I entertained no illusions that most of those sheltering under Urbanus' roof would just as well have gathered in a stable or a mud hut if that had been offered. Their eyes were on the crown, not the cross.
'And I do not mind telling you,' the bishop continued, 'this has happened at a most inopportune time. If you have not guessed already, we are enlarging the edifice. When the masons are finished, we will have an apse joined to the basilica, and a larger transept. And there will be a proper narthex with an arched entrance like the larger churches of Gaul.'
I had noticed the building work, of course. There were piles of rubble stone scattered around the church; masons worked on wooden scaffolds and cutters trimmed the huge blocks lying in the yard. I guessed the work had been paid for by Aurelius – for a certainty, Uther would never have given money for such a venture.
It was clear Urbanus' fortunes were rising in the world, and he relished the ascent. Very well, allow him his big church; there was no harm in it – so long as he managed to keep a true heart and humble spirit.
The kings were not the only ones with an interest in the High Kingship, Governor Melatus had summoned some of the more powerful magistrates as well. What they thought to do, I cannot say. No doubt they saw in the gathering of the kings a chance to reclaim some small part of their dwindling power. Roman government survived only, if it survived at all, in old men's memories and the Latin titles they wore.
Pelleas found us a place to stay – the house of a wealthy merchant named Gradlon, who traded in wine, salt, and lead, among other things, and who owned the ships that carried his goods. Gradlon was a friend of Governor Melatus and an influential man in the affairs of Londinium. I suspect that Melatus had requested that his friends make free their houses to anyone attending the king choosing, so that he could be informed as events took shape.
Gradlon, however, was a genuine host and made no secret of his allegiances, saying, 'A merchant pays tribute to the man who keeps his business healthy. If it is a king, I bow the knee; if an emperor, I kiss the hem. Either way I pay taxes.' He held a chubby finger in the air for emphasis. 'But I pay them gladly as long as the roads and sea routes remain open.'
The governor and magistrates held council in the governor's palace with the intention of drafting an ultimatum to lay at the feet of Emperor Aetius: send the troops, or lose Britain's good will.
Britain – in the greatest good will or vilest temper – had never been worth the Empire's sweat in maintaining it. Well, for a few generations the tin and lead and corn the Britons paid had been some value to the Empire, I suppose. But this little island had cost Rome far more than it ever returned.
Now, when the rest of the Empire bled under the relentless blows of the barbarian axe, the concerns of little Britanniarum were no concern of the Emperor at all. The small agonies of a flea-bitten hound in the Emperor's stable might elicit more sympathy, I considered, but could expect no more relief.
I pitied the governor and his magistrates for not realizing this.
Our future was as Britain, not Britanniarum. To think otherwise was folly. Perhaps dangerous folly at that. Reality can be most severe; it has a way of punishing those who ignore it too long.
The kings, on the other hand, were not much better. They believed, apparently, that the barbarian threat could be checked by personal aggrandizement: the greater the king, the more the Saecsen trembled.
I need not tell you what I think of such beliefs. Well, and this is how the council of kings began: deadlocked over the question of who was qualified to decide among those who fancied themselves capable of wielding Macsen Wledig's sword. The question of how to settle that question added another stratum of animosity to the proceedings.
The only voices of reason were those of Tewdrig and Custennin. But by the time they arrived, the others were too far withdrawn behind the walls in their indefensible positions to hear. Reason, as I have said, does not avail in these situations anyway.
Each day when the kings gathered in the church to begin their debate, I went with them, biding my time. I did not speak, and no one asked me. I waited, thinking I might yet find an opportunity to help. Certainly I could expect no more than that. One chance only. I must make it count.
While I waited, I sat in my place and watched all. I searched among them, noting each one carefully – the tone of his voice, his command, wisdom, strength. I weighed all and found none the measure of Aurelius, or Uther either, for that matter. Lord help us, I would have settled for a Vortigern!
The most able among them was Custennin. But his kingdom was small and he was a northerner. That is to say, he lacked the near inexhaustible wealth of the southern kings which he would need if he were to try maintaining two, or possibly three, courts and field a warband large enough to keep order in the land. And then, living so far in the north made him dubious in the south. Northerners, it was widely thought, were savages and brutes, lacking all refinement and civility. Men would never follow a king they considered little better than the barbarian.
Tewdrig, I thought, might be more likely. He possessed great wealth, enough to command the respect of the southern kings. But the Demetae and Silures, among the oldest tribes of Britons, were also the most independent. It was doubtful that other kings would hold to Tewdrig when already they complained of Dyfed's indifference and insularity. Also, I suspected that the High Kingship meant little to Tewdrig; it might mean more to his son, Meurig, but he was still an untried leader.
Of the others, Ceredigawn showed some promise. That his great grandfather was Irish might be overcome, for he was a forceful and upright ruler. But the fact that his family gained their realm by virtue of the unpopular Roman practice of planting rulers in troubled regions, over the protests of those who must live with them, was a lasting embarrassment. As a consequence, his people had never troubled themselves with forming alliances with other ruling houses and so Ceredigawn, however able, was not well liked.
As the days dragged on – days of insane posturing, absurd threats, and breathtaking arrogance – it became clear to me that there could be no harmony of opinion reached among them. Lord Dunaut, of the wealthy Brigantes, succeeded in thwarting all reasonable discussion with his ludicrous demand that the next High King should support the entire warhost out of his private treasury.
Rather than maintain the warhost of Britain from a warchest into which all the lords contributed equally, Dunaut and his friends insisted that the freedom of Britain depended upon the freedom of the High King to rule the warhost without let or hindrance from the petty kings. Otherwise, the small kings would be tempted to influence affairs by withholding tribute needed to support the warhost. 'The High King will only be free,' Dunaut declared, 'if he rules from his own treasury!'
This infuriated men like Eldof and Ogryvan and Ceredigawn – able leaders who nevertheless had trouble enough maintaining even their own modest warbands, simply because their lands were not so well suited to the growing of grain, or the mining of gold and silver.