"They can't work out their own salvation! Well, that's not true, I suppose they can—they're going to have to. But Merlyn's still not himself, and that's what frightens me most of all. He's the only one with balls enough to do what needs to be done. Titus and Flavius are good, but they're old now, both of them, and too set in their ways, having relied on Merlyn and his father, Picus, all their lives for strong leadership. Besides, they're cavalry officers above all else, Roman-trained and Roman-minded, and this fight that's looming has nothing Roman about it.
"Camulod will be relying heavily on us, and we won't be able to give them too much support, even if we slaughter the invaders at Carmarthen. By the time we march from there to Camulod, it could all be over. So I'm going to have to come up with some solution quickly. And what you say is right: knowing the terrain gives us no advantage at all in this instance. None at all . . ." He fell silent, staring into the brazier.
"The worst of it is, these two commanders, Issa and Loholt, are the best Lot has. They're probably among the best in Britain, because not only are they both Roman-trained, they're trained as independent mercenaries—guerrilla fighters accustomed to operating on their own without having to answer to a chain of command.
These fellows are fighters to reckon with. They were Rome's mercenaries long before they became Lot's. They hate each other's guts, too, from what I've heard, which means they won't be operating jointly, so I can't see any way of dealing with them as a single enemy force. Each of them will move in separately for the kill, with Camulod's wealth as the prize, and that means neither of them will waste any time in anything they do. And as you heard for yourself in the letter, each of their armies is the size of a full legion."
Uther looked from one to the other of his two listeners. "Two armies, each at legion strength . . . Even allowing for a huge exaggeration, that's at least three and perhaps four thousand men apiece. Greedy men, lusting for a prize, and all of them afraid they'll lose it if their allies reach it first. That could mean as many as eight thousand mercenaries, all of them unpredictable and all of them hungry, marching into Camulod from two different directions." He snorted, a bitter, self-deprecating sound. "The only clear idea in my mind is that we need a scourge, a sickness, like the one that hit us here recently, but far more fatal—and we need it now. It need not be a widespread pestilence, just a gods-sent little one that would kill Issa and his cohort Loholt. With those two gone, Lot's armies would not even march, because there's no one else who's capable of leading them."
"What about the other two we spoke of months ago, what were their names?"
"Cuneglas and Ralla, Lot's Cornishmen? They're incompetents. The German mercenaries probably wouldn't even march with them. But it would be a waste of time, I think, even to wish for anything like that. The gods have never taken the time to smile on me before, so the odds against one of them sending us a plague now, when I need one, are daunting. Issa and Loholt are healthy and itching to be on the road. They'll be massing for departure in six weeks. Which reminds me, is everything ready for our journey to Carmarthen tomorrow?"
Garreth nodded. "Aye, everything is in order. We'll be off at first light."
"Good. I want to be back here within ten days, and after that I'm going to ride down to Camulod for a brief visit just to see how things are progressing there. I'll be back here within the week after that, and by then it will be almost time to gird on our battle armour. So, Owain, where have you been? I haven't set eyes on you in months."
Owain of the Caves began telling Uther all that he had been up to since last they met, and as he listened, Uther's attention kept being distracted by a recurrent vision of Ygraine of Cornwall, sitting on a high-backed chair with a laughing child on her knee. It was a vision that was to remain with him constantly from that time onward, one that would catch him unawares at the most unexpected times and one that he quickly grew to love. On this occasion, however, all thoughts of Ygraine were suddenly banished when he realized that Owain of the Caves was asking an important question.
He had enjoyed working with Uther, Owain said, and he was grateful for the new life accorded to him here in Cambria among the Pendragon warriors, who had adopted him as one of their own. The fact that they had tutored him in the use and care of their magnificent longbow was more significant to him than any other recognition he had received from anyone in his entire life. Now, however, having learned that there was a life to be lived out there in the world that had no resemblance to the miserable existence he had known before joining Uther, something deep inside him was telling him to go and seize it before it became too late for him. He would fight in the coming war, he promised, but after that he would like to return to his place of origin, in the north of the country, simply to see if there was a life of any description up there that he might salvage.
Uther listened without comment until the big man was done, and then smiled, hiding the consternation he felt and putting the best face he could on what he was being asked to do. The taciturn Northerner had served him well, doing the few things required of him without demur or complaint, and Uther had come to depend upon the silent big man. He knew well that there was nothing to be gained in saying anything other than yes, but he felt it was important that he should not only accede to Owain's request, which was far from unreasonable, but also encourage the man to follow the demands of his heart. He finally stood and embraced Owain of the Caves, giving him his blessing and even urging the man to go as soon as he felt the need to go, knowing that a welcome awaited him back in Tir Manha should life in the north lands not turn out to be as he hoped.
Owain stood speechless after that, his eyes shining with what Uther assumed must be gratitude, and then he stooped and kissed Uther's hand before turning and striding quickly from the room. Uther glanced inquiringly at Garreth Whistler, who merely raised an eyebrow and shrugged before following Owain.
Alone again, Uther sat back down by the brazier and stared into the glowing coals for a long time, until the candles on the nearby table had burned down and begun to flicker and the fire itself was buried in glowing ash. Then, coming to awareness again, he rose to his feet and went to bed.
He slept very badly, plagued by formless dreams and imaginings, and when he got up the next morning, feeling as though he had not slept at all, Owain of the Caves was no longer in Tir Manha. He had left the previous night and had told no one where he was going. Uther said nothing when Garreth told him the news, but he felt abandoned, and he saw Owain's departure as an evil omen.
It was closer to fourteen days than to ten by the time Uther returned from his journey to Carmarthen, but he was well satisfied with what he had achieved there. The young Chief Dergyll ap Griffyd, whose home base Carmarthen was, had been made paramount Chief of all the Griffyd clans a year earlier and was quickly proving himself to be a superb warrior and leader. A handsome, broad-shouldered young man—Uther estimated his age at no more than twenty-three or twenty-four—of moderate height, strongly muscled and of slim, supple build, he was supremely confident in his own abilities, yet still blessed with an appealing sense of fun. His people looked up to him and admired everything about him, and from what Uther could gather, the man had no visible flaws and no discernible weaknesses. Uther and he had known and liked each other briefly in boyhood, but many years elapsed before each set eyes upon the other again, this time at the funeral of the veteran Chief Cativelaunus of Carmarthen. Uther had known that the old Chief had had a protégé called Dergyll, but it had never occurred to him that it might be the same Dergyll who had been his companion during one of the long summers of boyhood. He knew three other men called Dergyll, and had anyone asked him, he might have admitted to being prepared to dislike a fourth, simply for bearing the name of the three he knew.