leaves or drifts of dust were permitted to gather on Ambrosius’s floor. As he raised his eyes, he saw that the room was long, rectangular and naturally inclined to be dark, for no apertures permitted cold air to bring discomfort to the imperator. Ambrosius had ordered that oil lamps, sconces, a circular fire-pit and numeroustorches be lit so that mellow, golden light bounced off the reflective surfaces of the guardsmen’s armour and the goblet of rare glass held in the hands of a slim lad who stood beside two large hunting dogs. A sweet, almost floral scent perfumed the air from the oil lamps and softened the undecorated severity of the room.
‘Are these the men who are your latest find, brother?’ A tenor voice spoke in very pure Latin. ‘Bring them into the light, for you’ve piqued my curiosity.’
Myrddion moved forward with Cadoc and Praxiteles a little behind. Without examining his new master, the healer knelt gracefully before abasing himself in the Celtic fashion.
‘Rise!’ the voice ordered imperiously in Celt. ‘I can’t judge your worth if I can’t see your faces.’
Myrddion obeyed, surveying the figure that sat on an opulent, fur-covered Roman stool before him. Ambrosius needed no throne or dais to demonstrate his power and his authority. Mere appearance was sufficient to impress.
Myrddion could now gauge the similarities, and the differences, between these two extraordinary brothers. Uther was the taller of the two and was almost a giant, even by northern standards, but his brother was more compact and animated. Ambrosius’s body seemed to crackle with invisible fires and the force of a powerful intellect that could not be hidden by flesh, muscle or bone. His long-fingered, expressive hands were moving, tapping and stroking the arm of his chair, while his feet, in their simple Roman sandals, seemed to be invested with lives of their own.
‘Brother, the young man who stands before you is a healer of significant skill. He saved my arm six years ago, as you know, for all that he hails from the barbaric wilds of Gwynedd. His name is Myrddion Emrys or Merlinus, and he has latterly returned from the Middle Sea. He is my birthday gift to you.’
A flicker of distastechased itself across the broad cheekbones and forehead of the man who sat on the Roman stool.
‘Really, Uther! You can’t treat men like birth gifts, as he’s hardly yours to give.’
‘Yes, he is! I bargained with him, and I believe he’ll fulfil his side of the agreement. He’s now yours to keep.’
‘You must forgive my brother, Myrddion Merlinus. He has laboured for many years to keep our borders safe from the invaders, so his manners have been neglected in many ways. To what lands did you travel in your journey to the Middle Sea?’
The imperator’s face showed a flush of excitement and Myrddion was reminded that Ambrosius had been forced to wander through many lands during his own youth as he fled from the wrath of Vortigern. Ambrosius’s hair was the same reddish blond as his brother’s, but he kept his curls under control by cutting them ruthlessly short in the Roman military style. Below a pair of thick, well-shaped eyebrows, two eyes of a vivid shade of blue surveyed Myrddion eagerly from head to toe.
So blue! Barbarian eyes! Then Myrddion amended his snap decision when he saw a flash of controlled intelligence in their seemingly hollow depths. No. They were Roman eyes.
‘From Gesoriacum, we travelled extensively through the lands of the Franks and the Visigoths,’ Myrddion replied in equally pure Latin, causing Ambrosius to raise one inquisitive eyebrow in surprise. ‘From Massilia, we journeyed to Rome, the north of Italia, Ravenna and thence to Constantinople.’
‘Then you have travelled far,’ Ambrosius replied, his face carefully neutral, although his hands and feet were in constant motion as if they mirrored his furious mental activity. ‘You will have seen the world as it is.’
‘Aye, lord
‘Are these the men who are your latest find, brother?’ A tenor voice spoke in very pure Latin. ‘Bring them into the light, for you’ve piqued my curiosity.’
Myrddion moved forward with Cadoc and Praxiteles a little behind. Without examining his new master, the healer knelt gracefully before abasing himself in the Celtic fashion.
‘Rise!’ the voice ordered imperiously in Celt. ‘I can’t judge your worth if I can’t see your faces.’
Myrddion obeyed, surveying the figure that sat on an opulent, fur-covered Roman stool before him. Ambrosius needed no throne or dais to demonstrate his power and his authority. Mere appearance was sufficient to impress.
Myrddion could now gauge the similarities, and the differences, between these two extraordinary brothers. Uther was the taller of the two and was almost a giant, even by northern standards, but his brother was more compact and animated. Ambrosius’s body seemed to crackle with invisible fires and the force of a powerful intellect that could not be hidden by flesh, muscle or bone. His long-fingered, expressive hands were moving, tapping and stroking the arm of his chair, while his feet, in their simple Roman sandals, seemed to be invested with lives of their own.
‘Brother, the young man who stands before you is a healer of significant skill. He saved my arm six years ago, as you know, for all that he hails from the barbaric wilds of Gwynedd. His name is Myrddion Emrys or Merlinus, and he has latterly returned from the Middle Sea. He is my birthday gift to you.’
A flicker of distastechased itself across the broad cheekbones and forehead of the man who sat on the Roman stool.
‘Really, Uther! You can’t treat men like birth gifts, as he’s hardly yours to give.’
‘Yes, he is! I bargained with him, and I believe he’ll fulfil his side of the agreement. He’s now yours to keep.’
‘You must forgive my brother, Myrddion Merlinus. He has laboured for many years to keep our borders safe from the invaders, so his manners have been neglected in many ways. To what lands did you travel in your journey to the Middle Sea?’
The imperator’s face showed a flush of excitement and Myrddion was reminded that Ambrosius had been forced to wander through many lands during his own youth as he fled from the wrath of Vortigern. Ambrosius’s hair was the same reddish blond as his brother’s, but he kept his curls under control by cutting them ruthlessly short in the Roman military style. Below a pair of thick, well-shaped eyebrows, two eyes of a vivid shade of blue surveyed Myrddion eagerly from head to toe.
So blue! Barbarian eyes! Then Myrddion amended his snap decision when he saw a flash of controlled intelligence in their seemingly hollow depths. No. They were Roman eyes.
‘From Gesoriacum, we travelled extensively through the lands of the Franks and the Visigoths,’ Myrddion replied in equally pure Latin, causing Ambrosius to raise one inquisitive eyebrow in surprise. ‘From Massilia, we journeyed to Rome, the north of Italia, Ravenna and thence to Constantinople.’
‘Then you have travelled far,’ Ambrosius replied, his face carefully neutral, although his hands and feet were in constant motion as if they mirrored his furious mental activity. ‘You will have seen the world as it is.’
‘Aye, lord
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