"Walk with me, " he said. "We still have much to say on this, and it is late. Some cool night air will blow the cobwebs from our minds. "
We made a circuit of the encampment together, and he did all the talking as we walked. He was greatly concerned, he told me, by the escalating ravages of the invading Saxons. The Anglians were becoming Christians at a pleasing rate and were, for the most part, willing settlers and strong providers for their families. The Saxons, on the other hand, were a different matter altogether, and they had declared war on God's Church and its missionaries. Increasingly frequent reports were reaching him, through his fellow bishops, of appalling and inhuman atrocities committed against Christian clerics: decapitations, mutilations and fiendish torture, prolonging agony for as long as possible before death intervened. Bishops and priests woe being flayed alive, he said, the skin ripped and peeled from their bleeding flesh to expose their entire body's living muscle to the air. Some were then left that way, hanging by the wrists to die in excruciating torment, while others had been roasted alive over slow burning fires. The people who could do such things were not God's children, he maintained, but animated creatures of evil, sent from the Pit by Lucifer himself to torment mankind. Even the apostate bishop Agricola, the man whom he had come to Britain to denounce, had written to warn him of the dangers of travelling by Britain's eastern coast.
As we walked the perimeter of the camp, acknowledging each guard in passing, I found myself becoming more and more depressed and despondent at the litany of unsuspected ills my friend was pouring into my ears. I had known Britain was being ravaged, but I had not suspected half the evils that he had described, and I found myself wondering if we in Camulod were blessed or cursed by our isolation in the west. By the time we returned to the central area of dimly lighted tents, we were both walking in silence.
Inside the tent again, Germanus shrugged off his cloak, and I sat in my chair observing him.
"You paint a bleak picture, my old friend," I said.
He pursed his lips, looking me in the eye, then nodded, sharply. "Aye, it's bleak, but I have begun to think it is not entirely hopeless. This lad of yours, young Arthur Pendragon, might well be the salvation of us all."
At first I thought he was being facetious, but then I saw immediately that he was not. "You believe Arthur might be the salvation of us all today? That is ridiculous. How could you even think a thing like that? He's but a boy, barely sixteen!"
"He is a king, you said. The King. You named him as the possible Riothamus."
"Some day, perhaps, but not for years to come."
"No, next year. He'll be seventeen. Flavius Stilicho was. seventeen when Theodosius sent him on embassies to foreign kings. At twenty-one, he ruled the armies of the whole Empire. He was my Imperator and your father's."
"But that was Stilicho, the greatest military mind since Alexander—greater than Gaius Marius, greater even than Julius Caesar! And he was favourite of the emperor, with all the patronage a man could ever want. Arthur Pendragon is a boy, unknown, and no one's favourite save mine. He'll be of age next year, and he will have his own command in Camulod, but he must learn to exercise command. Until he does, no warrior of note would follow him, a stripling boy. The very thought is ludicrous"
"Is it? And would it still be ludicrous if he were crowned by me, or by the highest bishops in this land, and named Protector of our Holy Mother Church? I swear to you, my Mend, such patronage is worth more than an emperor's favour nowadays, when Rome's own emperors have vanished from the earth. " I sat gaping at him, robbed of the ability to speak, and he smiled down at me. "I mean it, Merlyn. I am not speaking lightly. "
"But how... why, in God's name, would you suggest such a thing?"
"Precisely for that reason: in God's Holy Name. You have answered your own question. God needs a champion today, Merlyn, to defend His people and His faith right here in Britain, and you have described that champion to me this night, in Arthur Pendragon. He will lead Camulod, by your own admission, and you could, if you so wished, arrange it so that he comes into power sooner, rather than later. Wait you! Hold your rejections. Think about all I have said tonight before you refuse to hear me.
"Britain is falling into darkness rapidly, in danger of being overrun by devils. The bishops who present the word of God to all His faithful are being slaughtered wherever they are found by these marauders. They know safety only in the northeast, where Vortigern holds power, in the southeast, where people such as Cuthric still rule, and in the west, in Camulod. Vortigern has problems with his Danish friends, but between diem, they hold the Saxons to the south. And< recently, you say, the Danes have moved into the Weald. If it is God's wish, they may combine with Cuthric to have the' same effect. But in the west, where Camulod holds sway, there is no danger for our people or our Faith. And Camulod—Camulod's armies—are invincible. Nothing like them exists in Britain or elsewhere. Who rules those armies could, and should, rule Britain, providing that he be a man of simple faith and Godliness, of dignity and inborn nobility., Arthur Pendragon will be that man, I believe, for we will place him high upon a throne that all the land will see, and under his leadership and guidance all the folk of Britain will combine to throw these Saxons out and make this land once more a place where Christian folk may worship without fear."
Still I sat shaking my head, wordless and incapable of framing any of my thoughts. He turned away from me, crossing again to where my sword leaned against the wall. He came back and sat again across from me, holding it by its sheath.
"Do you recall my mention of a new order?"
"Aye," I responded, blinking. "Knights, an order of horsemen. I've been thinking about that."
"And what have you decided?"
"Nothing." I shook my head, wondering at this sudden change of topic. "It would need something... some means of achieving status, and I have no idea what that might be. Simple possession of a horse is not enough. Every one of our troopers has a horse."
Germanus whipped the sword out of its sheath with a rasping sound and jammed the point of it hard into the ground, leaving it to sway gently back and forth. "There's your status!"
"How? What do you mean?"
"Look at it, man! Look at its shadow there, on the wall. " He picked up a candelabrum so that its light threw the shadow of the sword onto the wall of the tent. "It's a cross! The symbol of our faith. We talked of symbolism once before, do you remember?"
"Aye, I do. " The shadow of the sword, with its straight cross guard, did look like a cross. "You said that every great popular movement required a recognizable symbol to stir the people. "
"Good man, you do remember! Well, every order requires a symbol, too, and what could be a better symbol for a Christian fellowship than the Christ's own Cross? Let it be known that Arthur's most deserving followers may become Knights once they have earned the right to enter the new order. That earning must involve commitment, and a sacred oath to safeguard Mother Church and all her flock, from the most exalted to the humblest. Your Knights must become defenders of the Christian Faith itself, and when they do, they will have the blessing of the Church and the sworn right to wear the symbol of the Cross upon their armour. Can you see that now? Can you visualize it?"
"Aye, I can, " I whispered, feeling my heart begin to hammer in my chest and recalling clearly my dream of several nights before. "The Cross, in red, upon their breasts. "
"In red? Why not? The symbol of the Redeemer and the colour of the sacred blood He shed. On a field of white, for purity of soul and spiritual humility. " Germanus seemed to have grown taller as he spoke, and his eyes were glowing with a huge excitement. "Do you think that concept might appeal to your young King?"