We pestered Merlin about our visit to the strange temple and it's guardian as we left Camlann and rode towards Viroconium.
'Christianity is not as rooted in our beliefs as the priests and bishops would have you believe.' Merlin told us. 'In the countryside the old beliefs still live. Even in the Christian families, many of them will go to the old priestesses for healing potions. It's just that the damned Christians call them witches now instead of priestesses, and heretics of course. Dunk them for a witch and burn them as a heretic.' He said it with a wolfish amusement.
'You think they have magic then?' I asked, picking up on his words about potions.
'Don't be absurd.' Merlin snapped at me. 'I thought I had taught you better than that.' He continued to admonish me before explaining and I confess I felt disappointed that there were no priestesses of the old gods with magic. 'The Christians think all they have to do to heal the sick is pray over them. What nonsense! As if that would help anyone! But the priestesses of the old gods just known how to use herbs and how to make other remedies to heal ailments and injuries. I can make them myself. All you need to know is what the healing qualities of the different potions are and have a reasonable understanding of the body. Am I magic?' I said nothing, just exchanged a glance with Owain. I almost wanted to say yes. Merlin's intelligence and abilities almost seemed magic, and there were a great many people who believed he was a wizard.
'But how did she know who we were?' I persisted.
'I have failed as a teacher.' Merlin cried aloud. 'The whole country knows that you two have been exiled to court. Of course she knew who you were!'
I felt silly now, and another exchange of glances with Owain proved that he was feeling sheepish too. No doubt he was thinking of the expensive tribute we had left. We had argued about what we were supposed to leave. I had insisted she meant money, like an offering at a Christian shrine that would go towards the upkeep of the shrine. Owain had insisted in the old legends had required throwing something of value into the waters. Unable to agree, I had left some coins by the door and Owain had thrown his knife into the dark blue waters of the lake.
Why had we bothered?
Could I have bought more from her with those coins, I wondered, remembering the beauty of the girl.
But thoughts of the old in Avalon were quickly thrust aside as we came towards the new. Finally, as we came from behind a hill, there was Viroconium: the heart of post-Roman Britain.
As large as Londinium, it was the capital of the kingdom of Powys and thus country of Britain. It was tactically placed by the Romans, with a direct link to Londinium by the Watling Street road, and also the River Severn, the two most important lines of communication through Britain.
Near the river, it sprawled across open green fields; still essentially Roman, with tightly packed brick buildings inside the surrounding walls, mostly stone but in other places vertical wooden logs with sharpened tops. Tall towers were spread out along the walls, though some had collapsed and been rebuilt up with wood instead of stone, as the skill to build such structures had left Britain with the Romans. Along the top of the wall patrolled men in the Roman style armour, carrying oval shields.
I was excited to see such soldiers, the cream of British strength and led by the greatest man in Britain. Everything I saw on the approach to Viroconium filled me with such enthusiasm that I just grinned happily at the bored looking guards as we passed through the gates.
Then I was hit by the stink and nearly gagged.
It was the first time I had been to a city, and despite the fact Viroconium boasted baths and a well-built sewage system, the compact press of humanity stank, so that it felt I could smell each individual person. Rats ran in the street, dogs barked and cats seemed to be everywhere. Men by market stalls called to us to try their wares as we three well dressed, obviously rich men passed by them, and by the brothels the whores called to us to try them and my eyes widened in delight as the whores, spying two innocent youths pulled down their bodices or lifted their skirts to give us an eyeful of temptation. One particular girl, a blonde haired beauty of no more than seventeen, showed no extra flesh, but gave me a saucy wink that melted my heart, and when she called for me to come with her for no cost I nearly left but Merlin gave me a slap in the back of the head as I slowed my horse and Owain grinned at me. I blushed and made to follow them.
Merlin was not the only one to punish temptation. Priests prowled the streets, calling out to the masses, threatening them with eternal damnation and warning of the coming of Christ at the approaching half millennia.
I did not know where we were going, though the safe bet seemed to be towards the higher ground where a series of villas had been put together to make what I presumed was the palace, though I had no idea why we two mere boys were being brought to the palace.
It was indeed the palace we were being brought to and upon on our arrival Owain and I were both forced to surrender our weapons. Merlin was, as always, armed with nothing but his razor sharp wit, something no one could take from him and, so disarmed, we went forwards to meet the saviour of Britain.
Ambrosius.
He was like everything I imagined him to be and nothing at all.
We had entered the palace using Enniaun's name. It was a big room, with many benches for petitioners to call upon the High King and his council. Soldiers lined the room, and many crowded the benches, some waiting to petition, others just using the trials as entertainment.
At that time a petition was ongoing. I forget what it was about, for I was paying no attention to what it was, instead my attention was fixed upon the men being petitioned.
There were a handful of smaller chairs in a line where different councillors, but in the middle was the throne, a chair no different than those of the councillor's though set atop sets so higher than the others with a commanding position across the room.
Sitting on it was the High King Ambrosius, and my first impression of the High King of the British was that he looked bored.
He sat back in his throne, slouched with his right elbow on the armrest, and his face resting on the palm of his hand as he listened.
He was a very slim man, dressed in a white toga. Beneath it you could see underneath it that despite his advancing age his body was still strong and firm, with white tufts of hair on his chest.
He was a handsome man, with high cheekbones, his hair more white than black, but combed back behind his ears and his white beard was neatly trimmed. His eyes were a soft brown, but there was a hard set to his brows, and as he straightened to give his verdict on those petitioning him I saw his jaw was square and strong.
He stood to give his verdict, dismissed the two petitioners, and then he spied Merlin.
'Merlin.' He called out, and his voice was deep and strong. 'You will sing for us?'
Merlin, never needing much invitation to sing to the best of times, did indeed launch into song. His voice was loud and clear and true, seeming to ring out to every part of the chambers. Merlin sang of Ambrosius, of his heroism, and I recognised the tune that he had been humming over our journey to the capital, and realised that he had composed this song just for this occasion.
Ambrosius loved it. He was a great man, perhaps the greatest I have ever known after Owain himself, but he was Roman at heart, and he had that Roman vanity that loved hearing his name immortalised in song. Though perhaps that is simply a human vanity.
As Merlin's famous voice rang its last hauntingly beautiful note, the remainder of the room stood to applaud him and Ambrosius led that applause. 'Ask anything of me.' Ambrosius instructed him warmly.
'I ask to introduce my companions.' Merlin's voice rang out, rich and clear. 'Culhwch: son of Gerient.' I was pushed forwards awkwardly. "And Owain: son of Uther Pendragon."
Silence.
Everyone knew of Enniaun Girt, the Terrible Head Dragon, Uther Pendragon, in his terrifying ferocity. Chief of the Votadini migrants, steward of Gwynedd and scourge of the Saxons. He, like Ambrosius, was one of the heroes of Britain. Ambrosius though, unlike most of the court, knew how Enniaun had no love for his youngest son, and for him to be at court meant something important.
He nodded at his herald, who called out that there would be no more petitions tonight. Grumbling erupted but much of it was half hearted, for although the common folk who had come today would now have to try and return, they had heard the vaulted Merlin Myriddian sing.
Soon enough, the room was all but empty, for Ambrosius had dismissed his councillors as well, and soon there was no one but the guards and Ambrosius himself waiting upon Merlin, Owain and myself, except that Merlin had moved over to Owain and was talking to him quietly so that neither Owain nor I could hear what was being said.
Eventually, Ambrosius walked over to us. We solemnly went down on one knee before the high king but Ambrosius, smiling with amusement, lifted us up. 'I know pretences must be kept when others are around.' He told us. 'When it is simply us, please use my name.' He looked across at me. 'I knew your father, though not as well as I would have liked.' He said to me. 'I am honoured to meet his son.' I beamed.
He turned to Owain. 'Of course I know your father, and I know for you it has been difficult, but I am honoured to meet you too.' It was an extraordinary thing to say, and I was shocked for the High King of Britain might have simply said to Owain that he knew his father hated him, but when Ambrosius told you he was honoured to meet you, you believed it, and Owain looked pleased.
'I understand you are both to join my household.' He said. That was news to us. Owain and I exchanged glances, and I felt a grin starting to spread across my face.
But it was true, Ambrosius, High King of all the kingdoms of Britain, took us into his household, and our lives were changed forever.