A sword point was held to my manhood, pressed there, and I was ordered to step into it, and as I did the sword point went away. All tricks, of course, but the herbs and fungi put into the drink were enough to magnify the tricks into miracles and by the time I had followed the tortuous course down to the hot, smoky and echoing chamber at the heart of the ceremony I was already in a trance of terror and exaltation. I was taken to a stone the height of a table and a knife was put into my right hand, while my left was placed palm downwards on a naked belly. “It's a child under your hand, you miserable toad,” the voice said, and a hand moved my right hand until the blade was poised over the child's throat, 'an innocent child that has harmed no one,“ the voice said, 'a child that deserves nothing but life, and you will kill it. Strike!” The child cried aloud as I plunged the knife downwards to feel the warm blood spurt over my wrist and hand. The heart-pulsing belly beneath my left hand gave a last spasm and was still. A fire roared nearby, the smoke choking my nostrils.
I was made to kneel and drink a warm, sickly fluid that clogged in my throat and soured my stomach. Only then, when that horn of bull's blood was drained, was my blindfold taken away and I saw I had killed an early lamb with a shaven belly. Friends and enemies clustered about me, full of congratulations for I had now entered the service of the soldiers' God. I had become part of a secret society that stretched clear across the Roman world and even beyond its edges; a society of men who had proved themselves in battle, not as mere soldiers, but as true warriors. To become a Mithraist was a real honour, for any member of the cult could forbid another man's initiation. Some men led armies and were never selected, others never rose above the ranks and were honoured members. Now, one of that elect, my clothes and weapons were brought to me, I dressed, and then was given the secret words of the cult that would allow me to identify my comrades in battle. If I found I was fighting a fellow Mithraist I was enjoined to kill him swiftly, with mercy, and if such a man became my prisoner I was to do him honour. Then, the formalities over, we went into a second huge cave lit by smoking torches and by a great fire where a bull's carcass was being roasted. I was done high honour by the rank of the men who attended that feast. Most initiates must be content with their own comrades, but for Derfel Cadarn the mighty of both sides had come to the winter cave. Agricola of Gwent was there, and with him were two of his enemies from Siluria, Ligessac and a spearman called Nasiens who was Gundleus's champion. A dozen of Arthur's warriors were present, some of my own men and even Bishop Bedwin, Arthur's counsellor, who looked unfamiliar in a rusty breastplate, sword belt and warrior's cloak. “I was a warrior once,” he explained his presence, 'and was initiated, oh, when? Thirty years ago? That was long before I became a Christian, of course."
“And this' — I waved about the cave where the bull's severed head had been hoisted on a tripod of spears to drip blood on to the cave's floor 'is not contrary to your religion?” Bedwin shrugged. “Of course it is,” he said, 'but I would miss the companionship.“ He leaned towards me and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ”I trust you will not tell Bishop Sansum that I am here?“ I laughed at the thought of ever confiding in the angry Sansum who buzzed about war-shrunken Dumnonia like a worker bee. He was forever condemning his enemies and he had no friends. ”Young Master Sansum," Bedwin said, his mouth full of beef and his beard dripping with the meat's bloody juice,
'wants to replace me, and I think he will."
“He will?” I sounded aghast.
“Because he wants it so badly,” Bedwin said, 'and he works so hard. Dear God, how that man works!
Do you know what I discovered just the other day? He can't read! Not a word! Now, to be a senior churchman a fellow must be able to read, so what does Sansum do? He has a slave read aloud to him and learns it all by heart.“ Bedwin nudged me to make certain I understood Sansum's extraordinary memory. ”Learns it all by heart! Psalms, prayers, liturgy, writings of the fathers, all by heart! Dear me.“ He shook his head. ”You're not a Christian, are you?"
“No.”
“You should consider it. We may not offer too many earthly delights, but our lives after death are certainly worth having. Not that I could ever persuade Uther of that, but I have hopes of Arthur.” I glanced round the feast. “No Arthur,” I said, disappointed that my Lord was not of the cult.
“He was initiated,” Bedwin said.
“But he doesn't believe in the Gods,” I said, repeating Owain's assertion. Bedwin shook his head. “Arthur does believe. How can a man not believe in God or Gods? You think Arthur believes that we made ourselves? Or that the world simply appeared by chance? Arthur's no fool, Derfel Cadarn. Arthur believes, but he keeps his beliefs very silent. That way the Christians think he is one of them, or might be, and the pagans believe the same, and so both serve him the more willingly. And remember, Derfel, Arthur is loved of Merlin, and Merlin, believe me, does not love unbelievers.”
“I miss Merlin.”
“We all miss Merlin,” Bedwin said calmly, 'but we can take comfort in his absence, for he would not be other where if Britain was threatened with destruction. Merlin will come when he is needed."
“You think he isn't needed now?” I asked sourly.
Bedwin wiped his beard with the sleeve of his coat, then drank wine. “Some say,” he said, dropping his voice, 'that we would be better off without Arthur. That without Arthur there would be peace, but if there's no Arthur, who protects Mordred? Me?“ He smiled at the thought. ”Gereint? He's a good man, few better, but he's not clever anH he can't make up his mind and he doesn't want to rule Dumnonia either. It's Arthur or no one, Derfel. Or rather it's Arthur or Gorfyddyd. And this war is not lost. Our enemies fear Arthur and so long as he lives, Dumnonia is safe. No, I don't think Merlin is needed yet." The traitor Ligessac, who was another Christian who saw no conflict between his avowed faith and Mithras's secret rituals, spoke with me at the feast's end. I was cold towards him, even though he was a fellow Mithraist, but he ignored my hostility and plucked me by the elbow into a dark corner of the cave.
“Arthur's going to lose. You know that, don't you?” he said.
“No.”
Ligessac pulled a shred of meat from between the remains of his teeth. “More men from Elmet will come into the war,” he said. “Powys, Elmet and Siluria' he ticked the names off on his fingers' united against Gwent and Dumnonia. Gorfyddyd will be the next Pendragon. First we drive the Saxons out of the land east of Ratae, then we come south and finish off Dumnonia. Two years?”
“The feast has gone to your head, Ligessac,” I told him.
“And my Lord will pay for the services of a man like you.” Ligessac was delivering a message. “My Lord King Gundleus is generous, Derfel, very generous.”
“Tell your Lord King,” I said, 'that Nimue of Ynys Wydryn shall have his skull for her drinking vessel, and that I will provide it for her." I walked away.
That spring the war flared again, though less destructively at first. Arthur had paid gold to Oengus Mac Airem, the Irish King of Demetia, to attack the western reaches of Powys and Siluria, and those attacks drained enemies from our northern frontiers. Arthur himself led a war-band to pacify western Dumnonia where Cadwy had declared his tribal lands an independent kingdom, but while he was there Aelle's Saxons launched a mighty attack on Gereint's lands. Gorfyddyd, we later learned, had paid the Saxons as we had paid the Irish and Powys's cash was probably better spent for the Saxons came in a flood that brought Arthur hurrying back from the west where he left Cei, his childhood companion, in charge of the fight against Cadwy's tattooed tribesmen.