“Go to bell, Artorius. I’m not going to be lifted out of this thing like a bride.” Then in a lower voice: “Cador’s been waiting for me to cash in like all the rest of ‘em. 1 think he’s going to have his wish.”

Ambrosius gathered his strength for the exertion, chuckling maliciously. “But not today.”

He alighted unhelped, but I saw the cost in the clenched jaw and trembling, wasted limbs. He stood emaciated but erect, drawing the cloak over his stained garment, hand raised in imperial invitation.

“Come down, Prince. And bring your lovely daughter with her welcome cup.”

The emperor’s slave-taster approached to intercept the cup. Ambrosius revived this ancient office when one of the (late) Coritani chiefs tried to assassinate him at dinner. Now, as the prince approached with gracious smile of state and open arms, Ambrosius mused softly to me: “Cador doesn’t need poison. That oily bastard could charm you to death.”

Guenevere’s scheme worked. Agrivaine considered it quite his own hour when, before the high blood of the north, his commendation was read out by Cador’s minister and sealed by Ambrosius. When Agrivaine knelt to receive the honor, Guenevere came forward with the new-made laurel—“The last gold leaf i

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could find. Dear mother, forgive me”—and held it high for all to see before setting it on Agrivaine’s dark head as the cheer went up.

“Hail Agrivaine!”

1 caught his vindictive eye and bowed formally to show my complete approval.

Bedivere nudged me. “Are my eyes going, or did Guenevere wink at you?”

“Wink? Oh, no.”

Smoothly done, Gwen.

“Let all give ear!”

Cador’s portly little minister rapped his staff on the dais. “Princes and magistrates of the Parisi and Brigantes, lords, ladies. Give ear to Ambrosius Aurelianus, Emperor of Britain.”

The hall grew quiet, yet even the smothered rustle of garments and breath made it hard to hear the ailing, feeble voice.

He spoke of his defeat in the south and the inadequacy of fixed legions to counter a seaborne enemy like the Saxon. Beyond that he reminded us that spring would see them pushing west again toward Severn. The resistance so well begun and so brilliantly developed must move even further, must carry the war home to the enemy. Only a mobile force could do that. Therefore, with allowance for sufficient horse to maintain the Wall of Hadrian, and with the concurrence of Prince Cador—

Ambrosius held up the cohort’s notitia, our roll of muster. Before our eyes he tore the parchment in two. Bedivere and I exchanged a dumbfounded look. What in the name of—?

“We detach from Eburacum the alae heretofore known as the Sixth and declare it henceforth a voluntary fealty of man to his lord by the hereditary custom of Britain..Call Artorius Pendragon.”

The minister whacked down hard with his staff. “Artorius Pendragon, stand forth!”

I shouldered through the crowd to stand before my king, not knowing at all what would come next. As of now, we weren’t a cohort or anything at all but a disparate mob bound by no law or oath. Any one of us could pack up and go home.

Ambrosius held out his hands. “Give me your sword, Artorius.”

I laid the longsword across his callused palms.

“We declare your legionary rank and that of your former centurions null and of no force, and further declare that no monies may be claimed by virtue of notitia.”

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A Roman precaution for you. We never received so much as a gold solidus on the Wall. Our own princes supported us.

“Nor any suit of legion taw pressed against you under those same voided articles. Artorius,” my emperor said, “will you swear by the custom of your fathers to be my man?”

His cheeks glistened with perspiration, cold as it was in the great hall. Just speaking cost him strength.

“Imperator, I will.”

The custom of my fathers eluded me for an embarrassed moment, men I remembered the old Dobunni chiefs renewing their allegiance to Uther, and the simple words by which they bound themselves to him. A plain oath for illiterate men, but deeply sworn with life as forfeit in the breach. I knelt, touching the top of my head and the sole of my shoe.

“I swear on life and the gods of my fathers that, head and foot and all between, I am your man, to call you lord, live by your laws and look only to you for increase.” ,

“So do I swear,” Ambrosius gave the response, “to be your faithful lord before this company and by the gods”—he caught himself and went on—“before God and His Holy Church. And by this oath, I create you Comes Brittaniarum.”

I gaped up at him, forgetting to breathe.

He held out my sword. When I received it, Ambrosius took a simple bronze circlet from the couch beside him. While I knelt, still numb, Ambrosius placed the circlet on my head.

“Rise, Arthur, Count of Britain.”

The cheer began with Bedivere and Trystan, but swelled with the voices of all my aloe:

“Hail Arthur, Count of Britain!”

Quick impressions in my confusion: Cador’s unreadable face as he applauded politely. Bedivere pounding me on the back, the knot of my men around me, and Guenevere leaving her chair to kneel and kiss my hand. I raised her up.

“My God, Gwen,” I stammered foolishly. “Look what they’ve gone and done.”

Coming from the baths, I looked for one of my men to carry a message and spied Lancelot, usually somewhere near the palace these days. Unlike some of my men who took advantage of leisure to primp, Lancelot wore his old brown robe and black cloak like a homeless monk.

“Lancelot, please take a message to the palace.”

He was more than willing. “Of course, my lord.”

In some haste I jumbled the instructions. “Ambrosius sent for me and I’m already late, won’t be able to dine till later.”

His brow furrowed. “This to Cador, sir?”

“No, sorry I’m in such a rush. To Guenevere, we’re dining alone.”

Lancelot just Winked at me. “The lady, you say?”

“Yes. Now head off, I’m late.”

Without 8 word of good-bye, this normally courteous man turned and plodded through the dirty snow toward the palace. Closed in as Trystan, but without Tryst’s laughter.

Cador had prepared an opulent house for Ambrosius, though I doubt the emperor even noticed the luxury. A stool, a table, cot and dry roof would content this man who slept most of his life in a tent.

Passed in by Ursus Strabo, tribune of the imperial staff, I found Ambrosius at work as usual. By now one was used to the ever-present blood spot where it soaked daily through his bandages. The wound would not close and the infection gained. Ambrosius chose to ignore it; like the other ordinaries of daily life, it made way for work or did not exist. Amid a profusion of papers on his table, the remains of a frugal meal grew cold.

“Artorius, come in. Sit here by me. You look a tittle fresher than the day I came. Such a robe, too! From Caius?”

“From Lady Guenevere, sir. A gift.”

“Ah yes,” Ambrosius remarked. “An ingratiating family.”

“I’m very glad to see you better, sir. Have you talked to Lancelot? I mean Ancellius?”

“Yes, he came yesterday. A modest man, I must say, but he knows cavalry. That ring-mail’s a beauty. Will you adopt it?”

“If Kay can make it, yes.”

“As for my health,” Ambrosius made a sour face, “I seem to have mislaid it. Damn nuisance, up one day, down the next.”

“Your physicians?”

“Will not tie to me. I wish they would now and then.” He drew toward us a vellum map of the southwest and middle provinces of Britain. “Now let’s to work. You’re going to clear the midlands this summer. Since you’re more than an officer now, I wanted to acquaint you with the policy.”

All very well, he said, for aloe to dash here and there heading off piecemeal raids. But each spring more fortified Saxon farms

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dotted the midland downs, and the Catuvellauni refugees were becoming a problem for western princes like Kay.

Ambrosius nibbled absently at a scrap from his supper. “This Saxon peasant is quite different from your own. When he says mine, he means it. He carves out a holding, the reeves reckon his worth to the penny, and it’s his by law. If you were his lord, you couldn’t enter his house without permission.”

Ambrosius’ fingers slid over the map, familiar with every feature and strategic ramification. “But the midlands are the key to Britain, Artorius. Specifically here on Mount Badon.” His stylus pricked the map. “A cavalry force on this hill controls the midlands and the west, the whole game in fact. You agree?”

By the map, no other logic held. On Badon I could defend the west and be within three days of any point in the midlands. A Saxon on that hill could corner the southwest and the heart of the rich Severn lands. My own home. Kay and Flavia.

Ambrosius poured fruit wine for both of us. He drank in silence for a few moments, regarding me thoughtfully.

“You’ll win, of course. There won’t be any organized resistance, certainly no cavalry. By midsummer, the Catuvellauni will be able to go home. And they’ll go with every hope of staying this time.”

! caught his emphasis on wilt. “Yes, sir. I’ll clear as much as I can, pack the women and children back east—”

“You’ll pack nothing,” Ambrosius corrected deliberately. “You’ll leave them where they He.” Surely I misunderstood him. “Women and children?” Ambrosius looked away. “Some things have to be, Artorius. Just do it and don’t dwell on it.”

He made himself clear. There was nothing to say. “The Catuvellauni are our buffer in the midlands tike Cador here. But not if they’re hiding in Caerleon. They’ll go home this summer over a highway of bones. Big ones and little ones to tell those thick-skulled Saxon princes that their land-grabbing days are over. You’ll root them out, burn them out, fight when you can and slaughter when you have to, but at the end you’ll empty toe midlands. Do you understand?”