Merlin

We were awake with the birds and found our horses already saddled. Our genial host gave us little loaves of black bread and sent us away, after receiving our promises to stay with him if ever we returned to Caer Ligal. 'Remember, Caracatus!' he called after us. 'Best mansio in all Britannia. Remember me!'

For once it was not raining as we started out. Baram took the lead as we rode out through the gates, and I let my horse fall in behind. There were other travellers leaving Caer Ligualid that morning – a merchant and his servants – so Gwendolau rode along beside to exchange news. Gnawing my bread, I had time to think as we rode out from the city.

Well, I thought, Maximus had declared himself emperor, or had been so declared by the legions, and now had taken his army across to Gaul – taken our army away to Gaul. A popular move apparently, judging by Caracatus' reaction, certain to please many who felt our taxes ill-used and our interests subverted to some greater good we never shared. Popular, to be sure. But disastrous.

Maximus – I remembered the man, yes. And I remembered the first time I saw him and knew I would not see him again. He was a brave man, and a solid and fearless general. Long years of discipline and campaigning had schooled him well. Nothing rattled him on the field; he remained cool, kept his temper and his wits. His men worshipped him. There was no doubt they would follow him all die way to Rome and beyond.

There was the hope, of course, that Imperator Maximus could do more for us in Gaul than Dux Maximus could do for us in Britanniarum, that a peace among the barbarians across the sea would provide a measure of peace for the Island of the Mighty. It was a small hope, but a hope nonetheless, and not to be despised. If anyone could do it, Maximus was the man to try.

The weather stayed dry for the while although, as the land rose to meet the mountains, the high places wore their winter mantles of white. We made good use of our time and proceeded south with all speed.

We shared a camp for several nights with our fellow travellers, the merchant and his servants. He had spent the year trading along the Wall, east to west, and, now that winter threatened, was making his late way back to his home in Londinium. As it turned out he had, as merchants will, travelled widely and traded with whoever had gold or silver in their hands, asking neither whence it came, nor how obtained. Cpnsequently, he had dealings with Pict, Scot, Saecsen, and Briton alike.

He was a placid, talkative man named Obricus, edging into his middle years with the grace that wealth can bring. He knew his business and his tales bore the ring of truth more often than not; he was no braggart and did not speak

to hear himself talk. What is more, having spent the trading year on both sides of the Wall, he was well informed about the movements of the legions.

'I saw it coming,' said Obricus, poking the night's fire with a stick. He did not appear at all happy to have seen it. 'Gaul is in trouble deep and dire. It will not last. Gratian is not strong and the only thing the Angles and Saecsens respect is strength… strength and the sharp point of a sword, and that none too much.'

Gwendolau chewed this over for a long moment, then asked, 'How many troops went with him?'

He shook his head. 'Enough… too many. All of Caer Seiont – the whole garrison – and troops from other garrisons as well – Eboracum and Caer Legionis in the south. Seven thousand or more. As I said, too many.'

'You said you could see it coming?' I asked. 'How so?'

'I have eyes, to be sure, and ears,' he shrugged, then smiled, 'and I sleep lightly. But it was no secret in any case. Most of the men I dealt with wanted to go. Could not wait, in fact – their heads full of the spoils to be won: rank for the officers, gold for the troops. So it was presents for their women, trinkets to take with them. I have seen enough of them go, and it's always the same.

'Make no mistake, the Picti knew of it, too. I do not know how they knew – I did not tell them; I tell them nothing – but they knew.'

'What will they do?' asked Gwendolau.

'Who can say?'

'Will it make them bolder?'

'They need little enough encouragement.' Obricus stabbed at the fire. 'But I tell you the truth when I say I will not come this far north again – which is why I stayed so long. No, I will not come this way again.'

Maximus had gone to Gaul, gutting the garrisons to do it, and the enemy knew. It was only the presence of the legions that kept them in check in the best of times and this was not the best of times. Gwendolau knew it, too, and he shrank into himself as the realization struck home.

'How can you trade with them?' he asked angrily, snapping a stick with his hands and throwing it into the fire. 'You know what they are like.'

Obricus had heard it before. He replied mildly, 'They are men. They have needs. I sell to whoever will buy. It is not the merchant's place to decide which man is enemy and which is friend. Half the tribes of this fly-blown island are the enemy of the other half most of the time anyway. Alliances change with the seasons; loyalties ebb and flow with the tide.'

'It will be your head on a stake, and your skin nailed to the gate. Then you will know who your friends are.'

'If they kill me, they kill their only source of salt and copper and cloth. I am more valuable alive.' He hefted the leather purse at his side. 'Silver is silver and gold is gold. I sell to whoever will buy.'

Gwendolau remained unconvinced, but said no more of it.

'I have been in the north for a while,' I said, 'and would be grateful for any news of the south.'

Obricus pursed his lips and stabbed at the fire. 'Well, the south is as ever. Healthy. Strong. There have been raids, of course, as everywhere else; there are always raids.' He paused, remembering, then said, 'Last year there was a council in Londinium – a few kings, lords, and magistrates came together to talk about their problems. The governor met with them, and also the vicarius, although he is senile and from what I hear sleeps most of the time.'

'Was anything decided?'

Obricus barked a laugh and shook his head. 'Oh, impressive decisions!'

'Such as?'

'It was decided that Rome should send more gold to pay the troops; that the Emperor should come himself to see how terrible and dangerous the situation is here; that more men and arms should be made available for our defence; that signal stations along the south-east coast should be increased; that the garrisons on the Wall should be repaired and remanned, that warships should be built and crewed…

'In short, that the sky should cloud up and rain denarii over us for a year and a day.' The merchant sighed. 'The days of Rome are over. Look not to the East, lad, our Imperial Mother loves her children no more.'

The next day we reached Mamucium, now little more than a wide place where the road divides, one part turning west to Deva, the other bending away south and east, ending eventually in Londinium. There we parted company with the merchant Obricus and continued on into Gwynedd.

The journey should have taken six days. It took many times longer. What with the rain and icy sleet in the high bleak hills it is a wonder we made it at all. But my companions were stalwart men and did not complain of the hardship. For that, I was grateful. Although it had been Ganieda's idea, I still felt responsible for them, for their comfort and safety.

At Deva, the old Caer Legionis of the north, we asked after my people. No one knew anything about a missing boy or anyone looking for one. We bought provisions and continued on into the mountains, striking south, rather than north through Diganhwy and Caer Seiont. It was further to Yr Widdfa, but the road was better and we could search the many-fingered glens and valleys along the way.