Jack Whyte - The Sorcer part 2 - Metamorphosis

As we stood listening to the rising consternation among Nero's people, I glanced at Dedalus, who looked at Benedict and Philip and then huddled with them, speaking quietly. Mere moments later, he turned and nodded to me.

"Two days," he said. "In that time we can lay out the design, show them which trees to cut and how to stake them, and help them to make a start on the digging." He stopped, looking me straight in the eye. "You wouldn't want our men to do the digging for them, would you?"

I smiled at him. "How could you even ask such a question?"

We resumed our homeward journey on the third day after that, leaving Nero's people in a sweat of industrious cooperation. I had promised to send another expedition to check on their progress as soon as we had arrived home and explained our newly formed alliance to the Council of Camulod. Should the Council approve, I promised that the returning expedition would bring with them additional supplies and support in the form of weapons and armour, and training personnel whose task would be to work with the Appius garrison, instructing new, local levies in weaponry techniques and simple tactics. These troops would work simultaneously with Nero and his senior people to develop strategies to govern the defensive structure of their community from that time on. Our taciturn Benedict had already volunteered to lead the returning expedition, and that in itself augured well for the campaign's success.

During much of the five year period that was to follow, Camulod itself went to war without committing any of its new allies, and it did so on two widely separated fronts, which is considered by military strategists to be suicidal. And yet the process of radical change described above continued without impediment, fostered to a very large extent by Camulod's constant efforts and encouragement.

At any other time and in any other place, what our armies achieved in those five years would have been deemed impossible. That one community—for that is all we were, a community, not a state or even a city—should commit itself and all its resources to two different, simultaneous wars would defy credence in the eyes of sane and civilized men. Yet that is precisely what we did, and the reason we were able to do it seems purely arrogant when stated baldly: it was our time.

Camulod, the young, lusty Colony that embodied the dream of its two founders, was coming to its prime. More than sixty years had passed since its formation, and those years had been dedicated diligently and incessantly to preparation for the confrontation of catastrophe, and survival in its aftermath. We had a tightly disciplined army of nine thousand, more than half of them intensively trained, heavy cavalry, and all of them commanded by an officer corps that was superb, its codes and ethics modelled upon the ancient ideals of Republican Rome. We had formed three small but hard hitting armies from our complement, each of them half the size of a traditional Roman legion, comprising fifteen hundred infantry and the same amount of cavalry, and although but half the size of a legion, each was more than twice as powerful as any legion had ever been. That power, and the crushing force of it, was the result of the mobility and versatility offered by our cavalry: a full thousand heavy troopers plus five hundred of our lighter, faster force—an innovation developed and launched on my brother's initiative, during the five years I had spent in Ravenglass—in each of our three armies. The combination of superior weaponry, entrenched discipline and inspired leadership brought Camulod to preeminence in Britain, and each of those three elements depended absolutely upon each of the others.

FIVE

Although I was born and raised in Camulod, and had served as its Legate Commander since before the death of my father, I found myself taken aback and almost moved to tears by what I found on my return. I had left a thriving Colony that was, in spite of its military strength, in essence an overgrown farming community dominated by a hilltop fortress. What I found on my return was so different that I could scarcely grasp the change.

It began with our arrival at the point where the side road to Camulod joined the main route south to Isca. This side road had always been well enough used, but it was a mere track nonetheless, two broad, parallel wheel ruts divided by a humped mound of grassy earth the width of a wagon axle. Now the track was a road, twice as broad as it had been before and uniformly flat, with no sign of grass or wheel ruts on its crushed flint surface. Instead of running straight to form a ‘ T’ with the road, however, this new road curved right at the junction, to blend into the great Roman road, heading south—towards Ilchester and the new garrison, I realized belatedly.

Some fifty paces in from the main road, a new stone guardhouse had been built, roofed in thick tiles and big enough, I guessed, to house some twenty men, with stables for ten horses. The guards came spilling out to form up almost as soon as Dedalus, Philip and I, riding ahead of our group, arrived at the junction. Everything was militarily crisp, the discipline of the guard detail exemplary. The Commander of the Guard, a decurion unknown to me, stepped forward to welcome Philip and Dedalus formally home to Camulod, then allowed us to pass on our way immediately. He had looked at me and through me without recognition, and the shock of being unrecognized in my own home reminded me that I had made extensive changes to my appearance since my departure six years earlier, altering everything as radically as possible, from the colour of my hair to the style of my dress and bearing. I had set out to be, and had become, plain Master Cay, a farmer as different from the former Merlyn of Camulod as I could make him. The Commander of the Guard had looked at me and seen only a mounted farmer, plainly dressed, riding alongside the leaders of a returning military expedition.

My shock gave way quickly, however, and turned to ironic self mockery. I remained behind, waiting by the guardhouse while my military companions rode on, allowing the formations I had previously led to pass by until the wagons reached me. Shelagh and Donuil and their entire household filled up the first of them, and then Tressa came, sitting high on the driver's bench of our own wagon beside Derek, who was driving. His horse, one of ours and a gift from me, walked placidly behind, tethered to the back. I nodded to them as they passed, then swung my leg over and stepped directly from my stirrup into the back of the wagon, tying my own mount's reins beside Derek's before making my way carefully along the wagon bed to the front, sidling around and sometimes clambering over the crates and cases. I positioned myself behind the two of them, kneeling on a sack and thrusting my head between them after kissing Tress on the cheek.

Derek turned his head to look at me over his shoulder. "Why are we thus honoured? We're naught but visitors. This is your homecoming—you should be out there at the head of your men."

I laughed, wryly enough to make him twist around further to look at me, and then I told them what I had just discovered about my own appearance. After a while Tress asked, "Were you really that different, back then?"

Of course, Tress had never seen me as my true self, the man Connor called Yellow Head. I had been Cay of the brown hair and plain clothing since before she ever met me. No sooner had I begun to laugh again than the reality sobered me, so that my laugh died on my lips.

"Well," Derek growled, "Merlyn of Camulod does not exist outside his armour. Is that important at this moment? I don't think so, since the armour can't do anything without the man inside it. This lack of recognition means no more than that no one will see you've come home until you choose to show them, and that means you're free, for now, to sit up here with us and explain all the sights we'll see along the road."