I gazed about me at the lack of life and movement. “Is someone in charge here or did it just grow with the weeds?”

We found Cador’s palace in the center of the city, a tow, dilapidated building like a crossbred forum and church; it proba—

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bly served as both at one time or another. Next to it was the officers’ quarters. With some difficulty we located the bored duty tribune, who read our travel orders.

“Pendragon and—uh—Gryffyn, the new squadrons, right? One of my men will show you to the baths.”

“Sir,” I wanted to know, “when do I take up my command?”

The tribune was vague and plainly disinterested. “I couldn’t tell you. You’re the emperor’s concern, not ours. The prince is seeing you tonight because his son fancies a command. Invest you all at the same time.”

The baths were nearly empty, like everything else in Eburacum. One officer we found there told us it was usually like this. Only the Wall and its supporting camps were full manned all the time. Save in emergencies, only a skeleton force remained on duty in Eburacum. He had not been paid for months and wished he were home on his farm south of the city. Of course, if there was danger, the whole legion could assemble in a day and a half— aye, that quick they could.

I couldn’t help thinking how it would cheer Cerdic to know he could be in Eburacum before its defenders.

Cador’s palace seemed more home than headquarters. Crossing the casually guarded portico into the entrance hall, we saw as many priests as soldiers. The royal house of the Parisi had been Christian for many years. The bishops’ fulsome praise of Cador as patron of the Church masked a reproach of secular Ambrosius who, so far from endowing chapels, had not even dropped incense on the old altars for longer than he could remember.

Bedivere and I were in full ceremonials, proper-hung and bright-shined, though to our growing disgust we saw no one else in harness. At the entrance to the crowded state chamber, we edged inside and waited to be noticed. This seemed unlikely; the chamber was full of long-robed officials in busy conversation everywhere one looked. Next to me I noticed the tribune who had met us earlier, speaking familiarly to a fat man whose flabby jowls shone with oil from the baths. At a stand near the raised state dais, a harried priest-scribe wrote rapidly as the prince spoke with this or that official. Cador himself appeared an agreeable, accessible man with an ingratiating manner, well advanced toward baldness, with a round face quick to smile, dressed in white with only the purple edging to his robe and the gold armlet to show his rank. But the young woman next to him—

“Jesu-Mithras, who is thatT’

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“The consort?” Bedivere guessed.

I couldn’t take my eyes from her. “No, too young. Most likely his daughter.”

“Let you hope so.”

I still remember how she looked that day: in white like her fattier, hair in a single thick braid draped forward over her breast. Her name in the Paris! dialect means yellow-hair; it must have been lighter when she was small, but reddish now and bound by a single strand of gold wire. Not the coolness of her expression excited me, but the hint of warmth underneath betrayed by her easy laughter and the way she threw her head back as she shared some nonsense with the young priest beside her. A large bronze cross hung around her neck and moved with the gentle sway of her breasts under the soft kirtle. I remembered my words with Eleyne about faith. For a woman like this, I would be baptized in boiling oil. Slowly.

“What is there now?”

Cador’s voice carried through the noisy chamber with unstrained authority. He was handed a roll and glanced at it briefly before speaking again. “We have the emperor’s schedule of commanders for his newly formed atae. Let them stand forth as named. ‘Ambrosius Aurelianus, Imperator, to Cador, et cetera. At our considered discretion, we attach to your own forces the five squadrons of horse elsewhere described, and appoint as commander of each the officers named below.’ “

Cador passed the schedule to a hovering minister who barked out the first name: “Gawain, son of King Lot of Orkney.”

The young man—the young mountain—lumbered to the dais and knelt. He was as large a man as I’ve ever seen, bristling in every point, black hair and thick beard, the dark fur on the backs ‘of his ham hands. I am not small, but his cloak would have served me well as a tent. He remained kneeling, head bowed, until Cador addressed him.

“My princely cousin, most welcome.”

“My honored lord.”

Bedivere’s lip curled. “Ach*y~fi, but aren’t we courteous?”

“Lot’s stupid elder son,” the tribune chuckled to his fat friend. “Lead a squadron? He couldn’t lead his mother to mass,”

And yet as Gawain towered to his feet and full height, like a whale breaching from the sea, mere was a power in his stance that made me glad he hadn’t heard the tribune. Cador extended a small rolled parchment. “To you, Prince Gawain, the first-Dumbered squadron.”

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“Agrivaine, son of King Lot of Orkney.”

I looked at Bedivere. “Keeping it in the family, too.”

Agrivaine had his brother’s coloring but not his bulk, and I noticed the slight limp he tried to conceal. He was born with it, I learned, and knowing them many years now in good times and bad, I say Agrivaine was never the half of his brother, though not for lack of courage. He could turn a good day’s soldiering and grew worthy of some trust, but always marred by the spleen and envy that finally corroded his heart.

“To Agrivaine, the second squadron. We note that Orkney stands supply for both his sons.”

Bedivere nudged me. “We’re the only ones in harness. Do we kneel or salute?”

“Kneel nothing. Square it off sharp and the hell with “em.”

“Peredur of Eburacum!”

A sudden burst of applause. My first impression was of a very young man in white, slimly cut with long hair and an expression that reminded me somehow of a pictured saint. Not weakness, but detached and remote. What disturbed me. was the way the beautiful young woman smiled on him as Cador handed down the commission.

“To my dear son, the third squadron.”

Now Bedivere whispered in genuine concern: “Artos-bach, this is no legion but a clan!”

And so we must use them, Ambrosius said. Peredur was his nod to local politics. The son of Cador would be a link of goodwill, like a marriage between tribes. He had been on the verge of entering the priesthood when Ambrosius’ letter caused him to hesitate and postpone the decision—You have a lifetime to serve God, Prince Peredur. You would honor me with a few years ,’. . Never say Ambrosius could not sway men to his side.

The young woman left her chair and skipped down to hug Peredur with a kiss on the mouth: “Oh, I am so proud of you!”

I felt a definite pang and prayed hopelessly she was his sister, but then she swung around to address the room with the ease of one bom to it.

“Anscopius, holy bishop, fathers of, our beloved Church. Never fear my brother will forget his calling—”

“He is her brother!” The stars shone again on my life.

“And you’re back in the game.”

Two priests shushed us with a cold stare of disapproval. We lowered our heads and tried to look official.

“—He only goes a short journey for his temporal lord. As

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King Lot stands supply for his sons, so Guenevere does the like for Peredur. My jewelry, all but that left by the queen my mother, is casked and ready for sale. Peredur’s men will want for nothing.”

A patter of polite applause, and Cador said, “Not even an earloop? My daughter will feel positively nude.”

“What need of gold?” said the girl who was gold herself. “With such a family, am I not already adorned?”

When the hubbub of praise and congratulations subsided, Cador’s minister read again from the roll: “Lord Trystan of Castle Dore.”

Ah, I thought as he stepped out, here’s a familiar face. Familiar in its features. What it concealed took me years to team. A battlefield of a face, ravaged by the emotions that warred behind it. A man obsessed, driven by furies he couldn’t control to a wasted, too-early end. And for what, Tryst? I ponder that even now with yourself white bones in Gaul. For what? Ask yourself, was she worth your soul? Better, ask a woman.

But that was Tryst later for now there was only recognition, a young man seen often at Caerleon as nuncio for Prince Marcus of south Cornwall.

“To you, Trystan, the fourth squadron. Who pledges your supply?”

Trystan tried to answer—somewhat sotto voce, it seemed—but die minister, not to be robbed of his office, brayed to the court at large: “Yseult, consort to Marcus Conomori.”

Cador leaned over to his daughter. “Another lady gives battle to our enemies with a silver sword.”

“As is fitting.” Guenevere nodded graciously to Trystan. “You should call your men the Queen’s Own.”

“So he should,” the tribune tittered to his fat friend. “1 hear she’s supported him often enough.”

I put the tribune down then and there as a loose-mouthed fool. That wasn’t the sort of gossip to be scattered carelessly about a court, though there must have been reasons why Lord Trystan left Castle Dore. Even the painfully just Eleyne referred to Queen Yseult as “the shameful woman of Leinster.” Years later they said the same of Guenevere. Women’s reverence seems reserved for God and men; they can be wondrous uncharitable toward each other.

“Centurion Artorius Pendragon.”

I stepped forward. No genuflection from me; my movements were snapped-to and squared off, left hand firmly on my sword

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hilt. I marched to the dais, touched fist to breastplate and flung the stiff-armed salute.

“Ave, Legatus!”

On reflection, I can understand the momentary confusion that flickered across Cador’s round face, and the subtle amusement of Guenevere. Against Gawain and Peredur and the rest, prince on prince like the back row of a chessboard, I must have seemed the mere tail of the dog. Cador frowned over the schedule, then comprehension dawned. “Pendragon … Pen—ah, yes. Prince Caius* brother, who stands your supply. We have met him in the Council, and your—er—father was also known to us.”