Jack Whyte - The Eagles' Brood

I was enjoying my task for once, writing down fully and completely my recollections and impressions of the events that had taken place and of the wealth of new friends we had encountered. I had already dealt with Ambrose and the unexpected resolution of the mystery of my father's convalescence and the attempt on his life. I was outlining my thoughts pro and contra Vortigern's employment of Saxon mercenaries in Northumbria and the entire matter of self- protection in the face of invasion, when I heard the sound of voices outside my tent, where Donuil was still moving around, attending to his own duties. Moments later, I heard the flaps of my tent being pulled apart and I swung around to see Bishop Germanus leaning in.

"Merlyn? May I disturb you?"

"Of course!" I rose quickly to my feet to welcome him, making no attempt to hide my surprise and pleasure. "Come in, please, Bishop. You are not disturbing me at all. I was just finishing off here and thinking about having a cup of wine or mead."

"Think no more." He produced a flask from behind his back with a flourish. "I bring an offering in return for my impertinence in thrusting myself upon you. They told me at the Carpe Diem you were here, labouring alone, so I sought you out."

"The Carpe Diem ? You went there?"

"He heard the surprise in my voice and grinned at me as he stepped into the tent. "I did. A minor sin of intolerance leading to another of self-indulgence. I could not stand the thought of any more learned debate this night, so chose to seek the company of soldiers." He was looking around the tent, enjoying the warmth and brightness. "You are well set up, here, for working late at least." His eyes crinkled in raillery. "Are you sure you have enough light?"

I laughed. "Aye, thanks to the excellence of your clerics supplies. From now on, when I hear mention of the light of learning carried by the Church, I'll know what it means. Please, sit down." I unfolded a stool for him by the fire and; found two cups while he withdrew the stopper from his flask and poured for both of us.

For a time we talked of inconsequential things as we enjoyed the comfort of the glowing brazier and the luxury of his excellent honeyed mead, each of us glad to idle away some pleasant time without any urgency imposing itself on us. When we ran out of trivialities, we talked of the condition of the town of Verulamium and of the similar fate that seemed to be settling upon all the towns of Britain now that Rome, with its urban influences, was no longer part of the life of the country. Germanus was convinced that all towns would eventually fall completely into disuse, an idea that sat uncomfortably with me. He pointed out that, without a unifying, centralizing force such as the Army, and lacking the necessary volume of road traffic moving from region to region in organized trading ventures, there could be no real need or use for townships in the sense in which they had grown up. Not all towns would die out, however, he opined. There would always be points of natural confluence at which colonies would cluster, much as our own Camulod had grown out of our need to defend our farms, but he convinced me that the civically governed towns of Britain, as we knew them now, would continue to decline swiftly until such times as regular commerce and traffic re-emerged on a large scale. When I asked him for an opinion as to when that might be, he shook his head and looked grim. He had no hopes that it would be soon, he said, or even within the lifetime of anyone now living. He had seen the homelands of the Saxons who were now raiding Britain so regularly, and nothing he had seen there encouraged him to think the raids would lessen. The Saxons, in his opinion, looked upon Britain much as the ancient Israelites had looked upon Canaan: as a land flowing with milk and honey, containing all the blessings that their own lands lacked. He could see no hope of freedom from invasion for this land of ours. The raiding would continue, he believed, and would escalate until God Himself saw fit to bring an ending.

That disheartening observation led us on to talk of the organization of defences against the peril, and he spoke now as Germanus the Legate as we discussed the matter of Vortigern. From there, looking for brighter skies, we talked of my new-found brother, and then of dreams and symbolism. His views on the latter surprised me, for I had believed—somewhat foolishly, I soon realized—that both as a professional soldier and as a bishop he would have little patience with either of these insubstantial, almost superstitious notions. He disabused me quickly, pointing out that, as a bishop at least, he dealt with and made use of symbolism constantly. The Christian Cross was, after all, the symbol of our Faith. I could not argue with that, but we discussed the Cross and the emerging use of the crucifix at length. The two were not the same, Germanus told me. The crucifix, with its pain-racked victim, symbolized crucifixion, as it was meant to, glorifying the horrifying fate of the Divine Saviour at the hands of man. The Cross, however, was a different entity. He assured me that it was a much older symbol of light and revelation, revered in ancient Egypt and even earlier in Babylon. The Cross was also one of the distinguishing symbols of Mithras, the god of light, whose cult had worshipped in secrecy. Mithras had also been for centuries the Roman soldiers' god of militancy, masculinity and the manly virtues. I had known these things, but I listened to him in silence, unsure of what to make of it all—coming, as it did, from a Christian bishop.

One thing was certain, he summed up, making me feel much better: an emblem, some form of simple, immediately recognizable symbol—a signet of belonging, of conformity, of identity—was essential to the success of any great popular movement. I listened and nodded my head wisely, feeling the mead making my head spin, and completely unaware that Germanus, bishop militant of God's Church in Rome, was implanting a seed in my consciousness that was to grow and influence an entire people.

More than two hours had passed before we allowed the conversation to turn towards the debate that had filled the past two weeks, and even then we approached it cautiously, he graciously avoiding the temptation to talk in terms of polemics and theology.

"Well," he asked me, "as a soldier, what did you think?"

I made a face. "As a soldier? I thought the same as I thought as a man. I was totally lost from the first day. Hardly understood a word, let alone the ideas that were being thrown around so strenuously."

He smiled, gently. "Yes, I noticed your presence became harder to detect from day to day. I warned you, however, the first time we met."

"True, Bishop, you did." I thought about that, remembering my reaction to his surprise that I should wish to be here at all. "But I wanted to be there, as I told you at the time, to witness this, because of its importance to us all. I tell you frankly, though, there were times I wanted to jump to my feet and scream for someone to say something in plain language, something a man might have a hope of understanding. Finally I lost hope, trusting instead that somehow I might have a chance to talk to you, to ask you what had happened, what had been decided."

"Well, I'm here. Ask me."

I looked at him, seeing the man and not the cleric. We had done serious damage to the contents of his flask since he arrived, and he was relaxed and comfortable. Donuil had replenished the brazier some time earlier, before he went to bed, graciously refusing our invitation to join us. Now the coals glowed at their peak, throwing out an hospitable, smokeless warmth that had lulled both of us into a condition of perfect equanimity. I smiled at him, enjoying the mood.

"Bishop, I don't know where to begin...I don't know what to ask."