Jack Whyte - The Sorcer part 2 - Metamorphosis

Arthur's face was now set in deep graven lines that made him look far older than his years. He nodded, once. "So be it. I'm convinced. Let's do it, quickly. "

"We will, now. But while I talk to Enos, which may take some time, have your troops start filing into the theatre as planned. You did have them draw lots, I hope?"

"Aye, they're prepared. " He looked at Benedict. "Ben, pass the order, if you will. Tertius Lucca is expecting it. " Again his eyes returned to me. "Well, Caius Merlyn, I am in your hands for the next hour or so, and I shall try to be attentive to what happens. Do you still want me to strike my sword against the stone when it's all done?"

I flashed a grin at him. "Aye, Arthur. Do that for me. "

I watched the proceedings from high above, concealed beneath the curving arches of the colonnade that circled the huge building at its highest level. The space below was filled to capacity, and Arthur's troopers lined the outer walls three deep in places. The broad central aisle, sloping gently from the entranceway down to the steps directly before the altar, was the only clear space in the entire assembly ; all of the lesser aisles, radiating upwards from that central, focal point, were crowded with people. The consecration of the bread and wine had been completed, and the throngs should now have started forward to receive the Eucharist, but that was plainly impossible, with such a massive gathering in so confined a space. The bishops would distribute the Eucharist later, in the meadows outside the walls.

At the front of all, in the seats of honour reserved for the highest guests at each performance, now directly in front of the sanctuary, sat the civilian contingent from Camulod. Shelagh was there, sitting beside Ludmilla, and on her other side, her face now lined with age, sat Turga, Arthur's childhood nurse. On either side of these three sat Luceiia and Octavia, the eldest children of Ambrose and Ludmilla and the newest generation of Britannici, and beyond them several of the senior Councillors of Camulod.

Behind and about this group were ranked the gathered kings of Britain, representing every region of the land that had not fallen beneath foreign invasion and domination. There were some thirty of these, and I knew few of them. Derek of Ravenglass was there, as was Brander Mac Athol, with his brothers Connor and Donuil, but these three were set slightly apart from the others, in consideration of their status as visiting guests and allies from beyond Britain. Among the British kings I could see, even from my lofty vantage point, that there was much distrust and tension;

they managed, somehow, to remain stiffly apart, despite their propinquity, divided by tiny barriers of empty space which all were careful not to cross over.

Slowly, almost unnoticeably, the utter stillness of the crowd gave way to a swelling murmur as people leaned towards each other restlessly to comment on the strangeness of the proceedings. I looked to where Enos stood with his back towards the crowd, conferring with six of his senior bishops while the other clerics held their places in the semicircle that ringed the space at the back of the sanctuary, the sacred precinct of the consecrated Sacrament. The crowd had murmured earlier, when Arthur's soldiers had begun to file into the assembly, filling all the empty seats and taking up the space around the perimeter, but Enos had quickly quelled that, raising his hands high and explaining that the soldiers had but come to witness the Easter rituals and join in the Communion. This time, however, the muttering was going on too long, growing in volume with each passing moment. Enos turned about and stepped forward again, raising his hands to shoulder height, while the small .group of bishops with whom he had been conferring descended from the sanctuary with dignity and evident purpose and made their way, side by side in pairs, out of the theatre.

Before they had reached the external portals, silence had settled again within the assembly. A gust of errant wind swirled about me and I looked up at the skies above, restraining a shiver, whether of cold or nervousness I did not know, although if it rained now, I thought, the effects on what went on below in the open roofed theatre would be disastrous.

As I looked down at Enos I realized I had been foolish to perch myself so high upon the outer wall. I was unable to see his face with ease and peered down, indeed, almost upon the top of his head. Enos began to speak, in a voice much quieter than that which he had used so tellingly before, and I could barely make out his words.

I turned and went back to the stairwell and the steep, dangerous stairs I had climbed to reach this place. As I began to make my way back down, one step at a time, I discovered to my fury that I had to do so with great care, clinging to the iron handrail set into the wall like an old, bent man. It was a matter of balance—my shortened, stiff left leg dragged at every step, catching the lip of each stair and threatening to throw me sideways, so I had to proceed bad leg first, lowering my weaker foot deliberately at each Step before entrusting it with my full weight. The vertiginous depths of the well on my right had seemed like nothing at all as I climbed with my strong right leg, raising the other one effortlessly behind it. Now, on my weakened left, those self same depths seemed to beckon me.

I thought about what I would do when I arrived at the bottom. Where would I go, that I might not be seen and recognized? Then, forgetting completely that I wore a bishop's robe, I resolved to go boldly into the throng and make room for myself on the steps of one the lesser aisles.

At regular intervals on the way down, I passed narrow windows looking into the main body of the theatre, and I paused at each of them, listening to what Enos was saying. He had begun by talking of the God of the Israelites, and how He always protected and preserved His faithful servants. At the next window, I heard him speak of the Maccabees, the fierce and warlike rebels who had fought the Roman overlords of Israel so well and for so long, and of how they had faced death gladly for the preservation and protection of their religious beliefs. I wondered what the Israelite Maccabees had to do with Britain as I moved on to the next flight of stairs. By the time I arrived at the window below that one, he had brought the Romans into Britain and was talking of Queen Boudicca and how she had fought against invasion. Then an understanding of the tenor of his speech began to take shape in me, so that I was unsurprised to reach the last and lowest window and hear him talking about Camulod and the Saxon hordes who threatened Britain. I had missed the greater part of what he said but I could see the Camulodian troopers, standing around the walls, looking pleased and nudging each other with enjoyment.

I moved away again, to make the final stages of my descent, but I was less than half way down the next flight when I was stopped short by a most surprising and unexpected sound. A single, brazen horn began to blow, and I recognized the sound before the first three notes had ended. It was the ceremonial trumpet call of Camulod, played upon all our horns on special and great occasions but never before heard beyond Camulod. It began with the solo notes of the deepest cornua, the long, circular hems of the legions that were borne wrapped round the bodies of the trumpeters. I turned immediately and made my way back to the window as another, higher horn, the second of the four that would complete the call, joined in, and I stood there enthralled by the effect the sounds were having on the throng below. As the music swelled and the number of participating instruments increased, a ripple of pure wonder passed over the crowd.

Then, as the volume rose to a crescendo, Arthur Pendragon entered the assembly from the main portals at the head of the central aisle, escorted by the six bishops. He made his way slowly down through the throng to the altar steps. I could not see Enos from where I stood now; all I could see was his hand outstretched to receive Arthur. The young man walked bareheaded and erect, his eyes fixed on the white block of the altar ahead of him, his long scarlet cloak with its great, golden dragon making a brilliant contrast against the plain white robes of his escort." As he reached the top of the steps to the altar and stepped beyond, out of my line of sight, the notes of the trumpet call faded away, leaving a hushed, vibrating silence.