'Have you enjoyed life, Marcus?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Have you lived it to the full?'

'I think so, sir. Why do you ask?'

'It is my belief that death waits, hidden in those trees. There is no glory there - no prospect of victory. Just pain and darkness and an end to joy.'

The young man's face became set, his grey eyes narrowed. 'And what should we do, sir?'

'You and the others must make your choice but I must enter those woods. Speak to the men, explain to them that we are betrayed. Tell them that any who wish to flee may do so, without shame; it is no act of cowardice.'

'Then why must you ride on, sir?'

'Because Wotan will be watching and I want him to know that I do not fear his treachery - that I welcome it. I want him to understand the nature of the foe. He has conquered Belgica, Raetia and Gaul and has the Romans on bended knees before him. Britannia will not be as these others.'

Marcus rode back to the waiting men, leaving the general staring at the entrance to his own grave. Victorinus lifted the round cavalry shield from the back of his saddle and settled it on his left arm. Then looping the reins of his war-horse around the saddle- pommel, he drew his sabre and without a backward glance touched his heels to his mount and loved on. Behind him the twelve soldiers took up their shields and sabres and rode after him.

Within a clearing, just inside the line of trees, two hundred Goths drew their weapons and waited.

'You say the King is alive,' said Geminus Cato, pushing the maps across the table and rising to pour a goblet of mixed wine and water. 'But you will forgive my cynicism, I hope?'

Gwalchmai shrugged and turned from the window. 'I can offer you cnly my word, general.

But it has been considered worth respecting.'

Cato smiled and smoothed the close-cropped black beard which shone like an oiled pelt.

'Allow me to review the facts that are known. A tall man, dressed in the robes of a Christian, a.s.saulted two guards and made his way un.o.bstructed to the King's Tower. This man, you say, is the legendary Lancelot. He declared the body to be alive and used sorcery to remove it from the tower.'

'In essence that is true,' Gwalchmai admitted.

'But is he not also the King's sworn enemy? The Great Betrayer?'

'He is.'

'Then why did you believe him?'

Gwalchmai looked to Prasamaccus, who was sitting quietly at the table. The crippled Brigante cleared his throat.

'With the utmost respect, general, you never knew the Lance Lord. Put from your mind the interminable stories regarding his treachery. What did he do? He slept with a woman.

Which of us has not? He alone saved the King when the traitors slew Uther's father. He alone journeyed to the Witch Queen's castle and killed the Lord of the Undead. He is more than a warrior of legend. And his word, on this matter, I believe utterly.'

Cato shook his head. 'But you also believe the man is thousands of years old, a demi-G.o.d whose kingdom is under the great western sea.'

Prasamaccus swallowed the angry retort that welled within. Geminus Cato was more than a capable general; he was a skilled and canny soldier, respected by his men, though not loved and - with the exception of Victorinus - the only man capable of fielding a force against the Goths. But he was also of pure Roman stock, and had little understanding of the ways of the Celts or the lore of magic that formed their culture. Prasamaccus considered his next words with care.

'General, let us put aside for a moment the history of Culain lach Feragh. Wotan has tried - perhaps successfully - to a.s.sa.s.sinate the King. His next move will be to invade and when he does so he will not find himself short of allies - once it is known that Uther will not stand against them. Culain has given us time to plan. If we spread the word that the King lives - and will return - it will give the Saxons, Jutes and Angles a problem to consider.

They have heard of the might of Wotan, but they know the perils of facing the Blood King.'

Cato's dark eyes fixed on Prasamaccus and for several minutes the silence endured, then the general returned to his seat.

'Very well, Horse-Master. Tactically I accept that it is better for Uther to be alive than dead. I shall see that the story is disseminated. But I can spare no knights to seek the Sword. Every officer of worth is out scouring the countryside for volunteers and all militia- men are being recalled.' He pulled the maps towards him and pointed to the largest, the land survey commissioned by Ptolemy hundreds of years before. 'You have both travelled the land extensively. It is not difficult to imagine where Wotan will land in the south, but he has several armies. Were I in his place I would be looking for a double a.s.sault, perhaps even a triple. We do not have the numbers to cover the country. So where will he strike?'

Gwalchmai gazed down on the map of the land then called Albion. 'The Sea Wolves have always favoured the coastline here,' he said, stabbing his finger to the Humber, 'at Petvaria. If Wotan follows this course he will be below Eborac.u.m, cutting us off from our forces in the south.'

Cato nodded.'And if the Brigantes and Trinov-antes rise to support him, the whole of Britain will be sliced into three war zones: from the wall of Hadrian to Eborac.u.m, from Eborac.u.m to Petvaria - or even Durobrivae, if they sail in by the Wash -and from there to Anderita or Dubris.

'At best we can raise another ten thousand warriors, bringing our total mobile force to twenty-five thousand. Rumours tell us that Wotan can muster five times as many men, and that is not to count the Saxon rebels or the Brigante in the north. What I would not give for Victorinus to return with reliable intelligence!' He looked up from the map.

'Gwalchmai, I want you to journey to Gaius Geminus in Dubris ..."

'I cannot, general,' said Gwalchmai.

'Why?'

'I must seek the Sword.'

'This is no time for chasing shadows, seeking dreams.'

'Perhaps,' admitted the old Cantii warrior, 'yet still I must.'

'Cato leaned back and folded his brawny arms across his leather breastplate. 'And where will you seek it?'

'In Camulodunum. When the King was a boy, he loved the hills and woods around the city.

There were special places he would run to and hide from his father. I know those places.'

'And you?' said Cato, turning.

Prasamaccus smiled. 'I shall journey to the Cale-dones mountains. It was there he met his one love.'

Cato chuckled and shook his head. 'You Celts have always been a mystery to me, but I have learned never to argue with a British dreamer. I wish you luck on your quest. What will you do if you find the Blade?'

Gwalchmai shrugged and looked to Prasamaccus. The Brigante's pale eyes met the Roman's gaze. 'We will carry it to the Isle of Crystal, where the King lies.'

'And then?'

'I do not know, general.'

Cato was silent for a while, lost in thought. 'When I was a young man,' he said at last. 'I was stationed at Aquae Sulis, and often I would ride the country near the Isle. We were not allowed there, on orders from the King, but once - because it was forbidden - three officers and I took a boat across the lakes and landed by the highest hill. It was an adventure, you see, and we were young. We built a fire and sat laughing and talking. Then we slept. I had a dream there, that my father came to me and we spoke of many things. Mostly he talked of regret, for we had never been close after my mother died. It was a fine dream and we embraced; he wished me well, and spoke of his pride. The following morning I awoke refreshed. A mist was all about us, and we sailed back to where our horses were hobbled and rode to Aquae Sulis. We were immediately in trouble, for we had returned without our swords. None of us could remember removing them, and none had noticed we rode without them.'

"The Isle is an enchanted place,' whispered Prasamaccus. 'And when did your father die?'

'I think you know the answer to that, Prasamaccus. I have a son, and we are not close.' He smiled. 'Perhaps one day he will sail to the Isle.'

Prasamaccus bowed and the two Britons left the room.

'We cannot undertake this task alone,' said Gwalchmai as they emerged into the sunlight.

'There is too much ground to cover.'

'I know, my friend. But Cato is right. Against the power of Wotan he needs all his young men and only ancients like us can be spared.'

Prasamaccus stopped. 'I think that is the answer, Gwal. Ancients. You recall the day when Uther split the sky and marched out of the mist leading the Ninth?'

'Of course. Who could forget it?'

'The Legate of the Lost Legion was Severinus Albinus. Now he has a villa at Calcaria - less than half a day's ride from here.'

'The man is over sixty!' objected the Cantii.

'And how old are you?' snapped Prasamaccus.

'There is no need to ram the dagger home,' said Gwalchmai. 'But he is a rich Roman and probably fat and content.'

'I doubt it. But he will know the whereabouts of other survivors of the Ninth. They were Uther's legion, sworn to him by bonds stronger than blood. He brought them from the Vales of the Dead.'

'More than a quarter of a century ago. Most of them will have died by now.'

'But there will be some who have not. Maybe ten, maybe a hundred. We must seek them out.'

Severinus Albinus still looked every inch the Roman general he had been until a mere five years previously. His back was spear-straight, his dark eyes eagle-sharp. For him, the past twenty-five years had been like living a dream, for he and all his men of the Ninth Legion had been trapped in the h.e.l.l of the Void for centuries before the young prince, Uther Pendragon, rescued them and brought them home to a world gone mad. The might of Rome - preeminent when Severinus had marched his men into the mist - was now but a shadow, and barbarians ruled where once the laws of Rome were enforced by legions whose iron discipline made defeat unthinkable. Severinus had been honour bound to serve Uther and he had done it well, training native British troops along imperial lines, fighting in wars for a land about which he cared nothing. Now he was at peace in his villa - reading works of ancient times that, for him at least, were reminders of a yesterday that had swallowed his wife and children and all that he knew and loved. A man out of his time, Severinus Albinus was close to contentment as he sat in his garden reading the words of Plutarch.

His personal slave, Nica, a Jew from the Greek islands, approached him.

'My lord, there are two men at the gate who wish to speak with you.'

Tell them to come tomorrow. I am in no mood for business.'

'They are not city merchants, lord, but men who claim friendship.'

Severinus rolled the parchment and placed it on the marble seat beside him. 'They have names, these friends?'

'Prasamaccus and Gwalchmai.'

Severinus sighed. 'Bring them to me - and fetch wine and fruit. They will stay the night, so prepare suitable rooms.'

'Shall I heat the water, lord, for the guest baths?'

'That will not be necessary. Our guests are Britons and they rarely wash. But have two village girls hired to warm their beds.'

'Yes, lord,' answered Nica, bowing and moving away as Severinus stood and smoothed his long toga, his contentment evaporating. He turned to see the limping Prasamaccus shuffling along the paved walkway, followed by the tall, straight-backed Cantii tribesman known as the King's Hound. Both men he had always treated with respect, as the King's companions deserved, but he had hoped never to see them again. He was uncomfortable with Britons.

'Welcome to my home,' he said, bowing stiffly. 'I have ordered wine for you.' He gestured to the marble seat and Prasamaccus sank gratefully to it while Gwalchmai stood by, his powerful arms crossed at his chest. 'I take it you are here to invite me to the funeral?'

"The King is not dead,' said Prasamaccus. Severinus covered his shock well as the scene was interrupted by a servant bearing a silver tray on which were two goblets of wine and a pitcher of water. He laid it on the wide arm-rest of the seat and silently departed.

'Not dead? He lay in state for three days.'

'He is in the Isle of Crystal, recovering,' said Gwalchmai.

'I am pleased to hear it. I understand the Goths will be moving against us and the King is needed.'

'We need your help.' said Gwalchmai bluntly. 'And the men of the Ninth.'

Severinus smiled thinly. "The Ninth no longer exists. The men took up their parcels of land and are now citizens - none less than fifty years old. As you well know, the King disbanded the Ninth, allowing them a retirement well-earned. War is a challenge for young men, Gwalchmai.'

'We do not need them for war, Severinus,' said Prasamaccus. 'The Sword of Power is gone - it must be found.' ""he Brigante told the general about the attack on the King and Culain's theory of the Sword. Through it all Severinus remained motionless, his dark eyes fixed on Prasamaccus' face.

'Few men,' said Severinus, 'understood the power of the Sword. But I saw it slice the air like a curtain to free us from the Mist, and Uther once explained the riddle of how he always knew where the enemy would strike. The Sword is as valuable as the King. Yet it is all very well to seek the Ninth, but there is no time to scour the land. You talk of a site where magic is suddenly powerful. In peace-time perhaps the quest would have some meaning, but in war? There will be columns of refugees, enemy troops, hardship, pain and death. No, a random search is not the answer.'

'Then what is?' asked Gwalchmai.

'Only one man knows where the Sword was sent. We must ask him!'

'The King lies in a state close to death,' said Prasamaccus. 'He cannot speak.'

'He could not when last you saw him, Prasamaccus. But if Culain took him to the magic Isle, perhaps he is now awake?'

'What do you suggest, general?'

'I will get word to the men of the Ninth. But do not expect a large gathering; many are now dead and others returned to Italia, hoping to find some link with their pasts. And we will start our journey tomorrow to the south-west.'

'I cannot travel with you, general,' said Prasamaccus. 'I must go to the Caledones.'

Severinus nodded. 'And you, Gwalchmai?'

'I will ride with you. There is nothing for me here.'

'There is nothing for any of us here,' said Severinus. "The world is changing. New empires grow, old ones die. The affairs of a nation are like the life of a man; no man and no empire can for long resist decline.'

'You think the Goths will win?' stormed Gwalchmai.

'If not the Goths, then the Saxons or the Jutes. I urged Uther to recruit Saxon warriors for his legions, to allow them a degree of self-government. But he would not listen. In the South Saxon alone there are thirty thousand men of sword-bearing age. Proud men.

Strong men. This realm will not long survive Uther.'

'We have not suffered a defeat in twenty-five years,' said Gwalchmai.

'And what is that to history? When I was young, in the days of Claudius, Rome ruled the world. Where are the Romans now?'

'I think age has weakened your courage.'

'No, Gwalchmai, four hundred years in the Mist strengthened my wisdom. There is a guest room for each of you. Go now - we will talk later.'