The third fateful event was very different in nature from the two that went before it. Camulod had a visitor from the land in the far south-west, that place our people call Cornwall because it sticks out far into the sea like a great cornua, or horn. Emrys, the king of the people there, called himself Duke of Cornwall, after the old Roman title of Dux, or Leader. He had heard tales of Camulod and had come north to gauge the truth of them for himself. He was a loudmouthed, far from amiable man who did nothing to endear himself to Uncle Varrus, and he had a hulking, loudmouthed, even less amiable son called Lot, Gulrhys Lot, who did still less to endear himself to me or to Uther. Our relationship was based on hatred almost at first sight.
Lot was two years our senior and big for his age, and from the moment when Uncle Varrus told us to look after him, he set out to let us know who was the master and who the servants among us three. We led him from the Council Hall out into the courtyard where, mindful of my uncle's strict laws of hospitality, I offered to show him around the fort. He ignored me and stopped, wide legged, clenched fists on his hips, and looked around at everything with a wide sneer upon his face.
"Fort?" he said. "You call this hole a fort? It's like the kennels we use at home to keep our dogs in." I looked at Uther and said nothing. My cousin had a look upon his face that I had come to know very well, and it always announced trouble.
"You keep your dogs in a place like this?" he asked, his voice filled with what sounded like wonderment, "your dogs?"
"Aye. We do."
Uther nodded his head deeply then, as though accepting the straightforward explanation of a concern. "Then that explains the stink that hangs about you. You've given up your quarters to the dogs. Laudable, Lot, but stupid. You obviously inhabit the sty now, with your swine."
Lot was not to be provoked into immediate action, however. He smiled an evil smile and moved forward onto the balls of his feet. "What would you know about healthy swine, you little shit? Pigs are too clean for the likes of a gutter-dropped pile of Roman dung like you to know. I hear tell that your mother was a Roman whore who sold herself to beggars before she really disgraced herself by stooping even lower, to your father Uric."
I was appalled. I had never in my life heard a more extreme insult. Uther went white. "Whoreson," he said in a calm voice. "You are dead. You'll never grow a beard. Stay here and don't move. Cay, don't let him sneak away." He began to back away and then he turned and ran towards Uncle Varrus's house.
"Where are you going, dungheap? To tell your grandfather?" Lot yelled after him.
"Just you stay there!" Uther yelled back, and disappeared round the corner of a building.
"Well," sniggered Lot, turning his eye on me. "He threatens death and then he runs away. Are all your men so brave?"
I looked at him with loathing, almost unable to speak. "He'll be back," was all I was able to say at first, and then I added, "and when he comes, you are the one who had better run. Uther will kill you."
"Kill me? Truly? Stone dead? I'm terrified. Perhaps I'd better leave now."
I longed to wipe the sneer off his face but I knew that if I moved towards him he would give me the beating of my life.
"You don't like me, do you, small boy? I can see it in your pasty Roman face."
"No," I said, shaking my head in agreement with him, "I don't like you. Not at all."
"But why not? We've just met. We could be good friends. You could hold my pizzle for me when I pee, and if you were really nice, I'd even let you wipe me."
I could not believe what I was hearing. Uther and I used language that would earn us both a whipping if Uncle Varrus were ever to hear us, but neither of us ever was as foul-mouthed as this uncouth outsider. Looking back on it now, I can see that it was his way of thinking that offended me even then, not his choice of words.
He took a swift step towards me and I drew back involuntarily as he snarled, "Wipe that look off your face, pretty boy, before I wipe your face off your skull!"
I don't know what I might have done then had not Uther come-back around the corner at that very moment, clutching a bundle to his chest. I didn't know what that bundle contained, although I suspected the worst, and my stomach turned over. He walked right up to Lot and looked him in the eye.
"All right, Mouth, come with me." He turned and walked into the nearest building, which I knew was empty, for it was unfinished and the thatch not yet in place. Lot swaggered in after him and I followed, casting my eyes right and left in the hope of seeing someone I could appeal to, but there was no one there. By the time I got inside, Uther had already unwrapped the bundle, exposing two of Uncle Varrus's short, lethal swords. He took one and kicked the other to Lot's feet. "I hope you know how to use that, you foul turd. It's the only thing that might be able to keep you alive." As he said this, he swung his sword in a short, hissing arc. My mouth was dry. I knew Uther and I knew he meant every word he said. There was death in the very look of him. Both he and I were trained in the use of swords, well trained, and he was more than capable of killing. I stepped between them.
"No, Uther! This is bad. Fight him, with your fists. I'll help you, if you need help, but don't do this. Uncle will flog us both."
Uther looked at me as if I were mad. "Have you looked at the whoreson? At the size of him? He'd cripple both of us. Besides, you heard what he said. Stand aside, Cay."
In the event, I had no choice, although I did not stand aside. I felt Lot's weight slamming between my shoulders and I was catapulted towards Uther as I heard the whistling hiss of a hard-swung sword blade close to my head. I landed sprawling on my hands and knees and my head hit hard against the wall, stunning me for a time so that my vision darkened. When it began to return, it was accompanied by a loud roaring in my ears, inside my head, as well as by a ringing, external sound as blade clashed loudly on blade. I looked up incredulously, my head still swirling with dizziness, to see them circling each other in the crouching stance of fighters. Lot looked twice as big as Uther and he obviously knew the feeling of a sword in his hand. As I stared at them, before I had time to move, they swung again, and again the clang of meeting blades shattered the silence.
They went at it hard and furiously, their swords striking sparks from each other. Lot pressed forward, using his weight and height to force Uther backwards, and then there was a scramble and a deep grunt and I saw Lot's sword edge embedded in Uther's thigh. Still kneeling where I had fallen, dizzy and wide-eyed, I saw the blood begin to well and my gorge rose into my throat as they both stood there, frozen, until Uther hissed and lunged, stabbing his blade into Lot's breast.
"Sweet Christ in Heaven! What's going on in here?" I heard the roar and saw my father's huge shape blocking the doorway and I saw Lot sway and start to fall, and then everything went black.
Unfortunately, I was unable to remain unconscious for long enough to evade my father's wrath, or that of Uncle Varrus. It made no difference to either of them that I was not personally involved in the real fighting; as far as they were concerned, I was a party to it and had not tried to stop it. I had, in fact, but I knew that I had not tried hard enough, so there was no point in protesting innocence. Uther and Lot were both carried off to receive medical attention and I was hauled in to face my father, Lot's father Duke Emrys and Uncle Varrus. They sat side by side at my uncle's long writing table and I had to stand facing them on the other side. About an hour had elapsed since the time of the fight, an hour in which I had been confined to my room under guard, I suppose because they feared I might try to run away. Aunt Luceiia had been forbidden to approach me beforehand. I was escorted into the room like a military prisoner going to a court martial. All three men sat there and glowered at me, the Duke Emrys the most malevolent of all.