King Arthur and the Zen Master of Shaolin

BOOK I: BRITANNIA ET GERMANIA

CHAPTER 1: THE KING

There is no end, beginning, or middle course.
Everything is a vision or a dream.

Prajnaparamita

#

The hailstorm ended. The blue sky appeared. King Arthur aimed his sword towards the weather worn Roman fortress atop Camlann Hill and cried, “Charge!”

The cavalry galloping behind him was lean and tattered. Three years of disease had decimated the army of Camelot with an efficiency unmatched by any mortal foe. Of the twenty-six horsemen left under his command, only nine were battle-ready. The rest were either ill or inexperienced.

A dozen Saxon spears rained down from above. One struck Arthur on collarbone, but thanks to his chain mail coat drew no blood. Still, the force nearly tipped him over. A peach-sized stone hurled from a slingshot cracked Arthur’s horse between the eyes. It reared back, bucking him off, then bolted into the surrounding woodlands.

Arthur climbed to his feet, surprised to find his back unbroken. The soldiers following him had scattered, most falling back. More spears flew. He picked up his weapon and waved it. “Keep going! Follow me!”

Arthur stomped through the icy November mud, urging his troops onward. Their destination was a masonry cube three stories high, and packed with Germans. This was no grand palace with fine rugs hanging from the walls. Rather it was a granary, protecting the only significant store of wheat for hundreds of miles. If Arthur could capture it, his people might survive the winter. If the Saxons lost it, they would be the ones to starve.

Sir Gawain, Arthur’s second in command, rode up on a gaunt horse. Pus oozed from the scabby sores around his mouth. With a raspy voice he called out, “The scouts just reported a company of warriors coming this way. They should be here by dawn.”

“Which tribe? Do they have cavalry?”

“Thames River Saxons. They have some horses, but they have been eating them.”

Arthur calculated his odds for success. He had six more men in armor than did the Saxons, but the Saxons had reinforcements. With a few well-coordinated volleys, their archers could kill every last one of his equestrians. Of course, this assumed they had a good supply of arrows which so far they had not deployed.

He shouted at Gawain. “Send a couple ax men to meet me at the gate. We have to break through the door. Have the infantry give us cover. You have your orders.”

Gawain said, “Aye, Sir.” He dashed off.

Arthur ran, swerving like a snake, toward the thick chestnut doors that sealed the fort’s entrance. Wooden beams tumbled down from above. Arthur dropped to the ground, curling himself up against the fortress’s wall.

Then came the bricks, and after that clay roofing tiles. The Saxons were throwing everything they could pry loose, dismantling the building from the inside. Was this an act of desperation by men who knew they were outnumbered? Or was that just the way they wanted it to appear?

Two infantry men clad in leather breastplates rushed to Arthur’s side. One was a boy not yet sprouting whiskers, about as old as Arthur’s son would have been. The lad was so scared he had wet himself. The other was a white-haired fellow with a clubbed-foot, but at least he had an ax.

Arthur asked him, “Are you the ax man?”

“No. He got cracked in the head. They said I should give this to you.”
Arthur sheathed his sword and grabbed the ax.

Something flesh-colored and barrel-sized crashed down onto the shoulders of the boy, knocking him over. The bloody object rolled a ways, but not very far. It was the corpse of a Saxon warrior with his knees and elbows tied together. His comrades had launched him as a projectile.

Arthur said, “Go tell Gawain we need another ax man. I will take care of the lad.”
The old man bowed and limped off. A rock whizzed by his head. All he said was, “Bugger off.”

The young man’s left arm was visibly out of joint, forcing it to hang loose at an odd angle with his palm upturned. He tried to stand, then fainted.

Arthur slit the ropes binding the dead Saxon’s limbs. He laid the lifeless warrior on top of the wounded boy, turning the human weapon into a protective blanket.

Despite the thin spray of arrows soaring over his head, Arthur commenced to chop away at the door. With each swing he recalled the faces of all the hungry souls who spent their days waiting outside the walls of Camelot, hoping to see a wagonload of food. Arthur was their only hope. He could not fail them. He had to return.

Sir Gawain approached with an ax saying, “More men are....” Before he could finish, a burning sheep’s skin floated down onto the hindquarters of his stallion. It darted off in a mad panic with Gawain still on it.

Arthur heard a chipping sound coming from the foot-long slit window in the wall above him. Flecks of granite showered onto his helmet. The Saxons were chiseling at it from the inside. What did they have in there that required a larger window? A cluster of Sir Galahad’s infantry men surged forward, holding their shields above their heads. Arthur hacked away at the door.

The hole above Arthur grew so big that a man might squeeze through it. Instead, a dog sprang out: an Alsatian war bitch, howling with terror. Tied to her tail was a rope. The back end of it was looped through the arm of a woolen jacket that had been set on fire. Two other dogs launched out as well, dragging flaming wads behind them.

Horses screeched, while men scattered to avoid their crushing hooves.
Then from above came a shower of burning hay bales. A rope was reeled out the window and a white-haired Saxon slid down it. A stream of old men followed him out, tattooed and naked. Armed only with shovels, pitch forks, and garden hoes, they yodeled like berserkers, swinging at everything in sight.

Arthur recognized their war song. It was the hymn to the King of the Gods, notifying Lord Wotan to set a new table at the hall of Valhalla. One of the elderly warriors, wielding a roasting spit, sprang at Arthur. Arthur’s ax easily sliced through the German’s wrinkled neck, slashing the leathery tube that was his esophagus.

Arthur recalled how Merlin used to say that savages were ruled by love. They died for it. They killed for it. That is why these Saxon grandfathers were sacrificing themselves. They were going to make damn sure that none of the Knights of the Round Table touched their sons or grandsons. For the Germans believed that one touch was all that was needed to transmit the Briton’s deadly skin-spell.

Something slammed into Arthur’s helmet above his ear. A warm sensation flowed down to his neck. Liquid dripped onto his wrist. He reached his up and plucked out an arrow. Only the tip was red. It must have nicked him in the scalp. His vision became blurry.

A second arrow struck him in the belly, knocking the wind out of him. It lodged into his armor. His entire body shook with pain. His knees buckled and he fell onto his back. Beside him, a horse lay on its side, its rib cage full of arrows. Still in the stirrup, was a boot from which jutted out two leg bones snapped off above the ankle.

Arthur felt a throbbing pressure building in his temples as if his skull had been wrapped in leather straps. “I have to,” he said, “return.” And then he saw nothing.

#

It was dawn. Arthur sat on a hillside trying to identify the nearby trees, a skill Merlin had taught him. There was a fir of some sort, but it was a strange shade of green. A squat crooked pine grew out of a rock. Behind it was the entrance to a cave. Something was in there. It produced a noise, rather like a sneeze.

Arthur considered standing up, but was unable. Was he asleep? No, just immobile. It reminded him of when he was a boy. Sometimes at sunup, he would lie in his cot listening to the chorus of forest birds. It was a soothing experience, as if the universe was right outside the door fixing herself up for the day.

The silence was broken by a voice speaking in a strange sing-song sort of language. Arthur tried to reply, but his jaw would not move. In the trees above, there was a crash, like a high branch falling onto a sapling below. The sound of it jolted him awake. Odd that, since he had never been asleep. Then again, perhaps he was.

The orange glow of the rising sun cast a dim light into the darkened cave. An old man was sitting in there. Only his head and chest were visible. He was bald with a long white beard.

“Vale,” said Arthur, “Gutten Tag. What am I doing here?”

“Vale?” came the reply, along with a phrase spoken in Celtic. “What did you say? Who are you?”

Arthur introduced himself. “I am Arthur, King of the Britons. Who are you?”

“Oh,” said the old man, as if distracted. “You will have to forgive me. My memory is not what it used to be. Are you in Essex?”

“No. I was fighting on Mount Camlann. Have I been drugged?”

“You were hit in the head.”

“What is going on here?” Arthur rubbed his belly. His wound was no longer painful.

“Is this a dream? Am I even awake?”

“Awake?” The old man clasped onto two small sticks that hung from a string around his neck. “No,” he said. “Not yet.”

This was just the sort of cryptic reply Arthur would have expected from his long departed mentor.

“Merlin?” said Arthur. “Is that you?”

The old man chuckled. “Are you assuming that I am Merlin’s ghost? As I recall, old Merlin never put any stock in apparitional spooks. I once heard him refer to séances as forgatherings of flagrant foolery. He was a kick!”

“You knew Merlin?” said Arthur. “Are you a Buddhist? Are you Brother Tinh Tu?”

“That was just his nick-name. His real name was Hui Thang.”

“Old man,” said Arthur, “I have no time for this. I need to go home. People’s lives are at stake. Where am I?”

The old man pulled his shawl over his shoulders. “I get confused sometimes. Have you ever seen a forty-year-old camel? Their teeth get worn down to a nub. But when a man gets on in years, his teeth fall out one at a time. That is how it is with me. Whole memories simply pop out of my head.”

Arthur asked, “Are you lost? Is that what the problem is?”

“I know where I am,” said the old man. He sipped some water from a black lacquer bowl. “We will just have to let the universe sort this out.”

Arthur repositioned his legs into the lotus position. Perhaps a different line of questioning would get better results. “Who are you, sir? Do you remember that?”

“My name,” he paused, “is Da Mo.”

Arthur scanned his memory trying to recall all the names Merlin had used. There was Merlin, Merthen, Ambrosius, Lailoken, and Pig Eyes, but never Da Mo. Still, the old wizard always kept a few tricks up his sleeve.

Arthur said, “I did not ask you your name. I asked you who you were.”

Da Mo wiped his lips with a silk napkin. “There is something I ought to ask you. What was it? Do you remember?”

“How could I remember? This makes no sense.”

“I cannot dispute that.” Da Mo yawned. “I need to take a nap, now. When a body as old as mine demands sleep, not even the knights of Camelot can stop it.”

King Arthur felt his eyes close. His body demanded sleep as well.

#

Arthur’s eyelids were swollen, almost closed shut. It felt as if someone was sprinkling loose gravel onto the skin of his naked chest. It was hail. He heard the clop of hooves. Someone muttered, “Verdammt Hagel.”

A slushy pool of near-frozen blood had formed below Arthur’s rib cage where the second arrow struck him. He put his finger on it. It hurt.

The horse whinnied and his vision cleared. He realized he was in the back of a wagon. Piled on either side of him were mud-covered chain-mail coats, some stained with blood. He was too weak to sit up.

The wagon driver up front said, “Wotan in Himmel! Er ist lebedig!”
“Wasser,” said Arthur. He was thirsty. “Bitte, Wasser?”

The cart came to a halt and the driver, a blond fellow with muscular shoulders, turned around. He sported a rounded beard and long braided mustache tied around at the back of his head. Although his hair identified him as an Angle, he spoke to Arthur in Celtic saying, “They told me you were dead.”

“I need water,” said Arthur

The Angle went around to the back of the wagon, but the rhythm of his steps was uneven. Arthur quickly found out why. The Angle’s right leg was amputated at the knee. He walked with the aid of two flat-topped canes.

The Angle gave him a water bag. “Who are you?”

“My name,” said Arthur, not wanting to give his enemies any valuable intelligence, “is Ambrosius.” He took a long drink. “Am I a captive?”

“You were supposed to be a corpse. Are you still bleeding?”

Arthur touched the thinning hair at the crest of his head. It was caked with frozen blood. “I am cold.”

“What was your name again?” said the Angle.

Arthur continued with his lying. “I am Ambrosius, a Roman of Brittany. I am Commander Galahad’s secretary. I can read. Where have I been? Diem perdidi.”

“A verbis ad verbera,” said the Angle. “You should have stayed at your desk. I would give you a blanket but I only have one, and if one of us freezes, it is not going to be me.”

Arthur drank some more. “Where are the rest of your warriors?”

“Sussex.” He shook his cane. “And rest assured mein Herr, I may be lame but I can still kill a man.”

Arthur handed back the water bag.

“Keep it,” said the Angle. “Noli me tangere. You Celts are schmutzig. I am not about to have you spread your fever to my village, Verstehen Sie?”

“So, I am going to Sussex?”

“No, Your Highness.” With that the Angle jammed one of his canes into Arthur’s testicles, then punched him in the gut. Arthur let out a moan.

The Angle removed his belt. He used it to tie Arthur’s ankles together. Then he unbuckled Arthur’s belt, and lashed it around Arthur’s wrists, saying, “Everyone knows you, Koenig Arthur. Now you get to meet the widows of Essex. Nolens volens. They will cook a feast you will never forget. Your heart will be delicious. Schmecht gut!”


CHAPTER 2: THE CAPTIVE

Empty your boat and you will travel more quickly. If you lighten
the load of craving and opinions, you will reach nirvana sooner.

Dhammapada

#

A far-off rooster crowed. Arthur woke up in an oval-shaped room. Its walls were limestone. There was a groove in the floor holding a fragment of lead pipe. This was not a castle dungeon, but rather an old Roman cistern with a roof on top. If only he could remember how he got here. The blow to his braincase had knocked out bits of his memory. He could recall a German rubbing aromatic wax into his wounds. Was that yesterday?

The hatch above him opened with a screech. A woman in finely embroidered boots climbed down the ladder. Her front teeth had been worn down to nubs from a lifetime of chewing hide. Her breasts were flat and dangling, having helped nourish a generation of children and puppies. She carried a wooden bowl.

Her elaborately braided hair identified her as a Saxon, and yet in flawless Celtic she said, “Here, eat this.”

Arthur, whose arms were lashed behind his back, sat himself up.
She scooped a spoonful of mush to his lips. It was oatmeal with venison and fragments of grind stone. At least they were keeping him well fed. Perhaps they planned to ransom him.

He said to her, “I am from Cambria. We have the disease, you know.”
She gave him another bite. “I already survived it. Besides, you are a king. With all the people you have met, it would have killed you by now. It does not take everyone.”

“You speak Celtic quite well. Where am I? Are we in Colchester?”

She put down the bowl and unhitched a pair of sheep sheers from her belt. “I have to cut your hair off.”

“Why?”

“Because I do.” She gathered the locks above his forehead and in one move, sheered it off. “Was your father the wizard with the white rabbits?”

“Aye.”

“I met him once when I was a girl. King Ambrosius’s knights locked me and my cousin in a slave ship. When no one was looking, the wizard hid me under his cloak. He told me to call myself Lailoken and tossed me in the bay. I swam off.”

“Lailoken,” he said. “That was Merlin’s name when he was a little boy. He was a slave too.”

She brushed some clippings from his neck. “What ever happened to the wizard? They say a water fairy carried him off to the land of the gods.”

“No,” said Arthur. “He died. He trekked out into the woods one day and his heart gave out. I had him cremated.”

She trimmed off his gray-streaked beard.

He asked, “Who won the battle of Camlann? Was my army defeated? Did the Saxons take Camelot?”

She shrugged. “I only know what happens here.”

“Well in that case, what is Chief Aescwine going to do with me? He ought to sell me to Chief Cynric. Cynric would pay a cart of gold for me.”

“Aescwine is a king,” she said, “not a chief. Be careful what you say Welschmann.” She jabbed one of the blades into his cheek. “I am his wife.”

“His first wife?” said Arthur, feeling some of his strength coming back.

She cut off his mustache. “I am his eighth.” With that she climbed back to the surface, leaving the mostly empty bowl behind.

Arthur licked up the last morsels of his meal crouching like a pig at a trough. The stomp of feet reverberated above him. Before long, two Saxon warriors, grinning like cats, came down and siezed him. With gloved hands, they stripped him naked, neglecting to take his beaded bracelet. It was just wooden beads.

Arthur was familiar with the German mindset. For them, no sin was greater than showing fear. He cracked a smile. “Time for some fresh air?”

Without saying a word, they hauled him up and over to a courtyard. Surrounding it were round mud-walled huts, much like the one Arthur grew up in Merlin’s woodland compound. Beyond the ring of houses, a wall of sharpened logs stuck high into the air. It was a typical German village. Arthur had visited settlements like this before. Quite a few, he had reduced to cinders.

While the burley Saxons lashed him to a post, their tribesmen, young and old, gathered round. A low goat-like moan blared from a quartet of long wooden horns. Warriors in red Roman capes and Frankish armor marched forward, parting into two wings.

Through the middle of this assembly stepped King Aescwine, his bare chest etched with spiraling tattoos. He wore a twisted gold bolt around his neck and a shiny helmet propped high on his head, more like a headdress than a piece of armor. His half-dozen sons assembled behind him, all draped in capes of pure ermine.

Aescwine came to a stop a few yards away from Arthur, and with a thick German accent said, “Gutten tag, Mein Herr. I hope Jesus Brownbeard likes you. You will soon be eating Wein und Brot with Mister Christ, yes?”

Arthur replied, “When you eat my heart, Koenig Shiest Kopf, make sure to give some of it to King Clovis’s washer woman. It is only fair you should share it with the rest of his servants.”

One of Aescwine’s sons lurched forward. The more cool-headed Aescwine caught him by the arm, saying, “Nein, Sledda. Der Welschmann ist schmutsig. Sie werden krank.”

Then Aescwine shook a golden ax above his head. He cried out, “Achtung, meine Krieger!” Everyone began to yodel. It was deafening.

A warrior dragged Arthur to the center of the yard, throwing him on the ground. Arthur, still bound, had managed to get onto his knees when a group of adolescent boys with black ash on their faces circled around him. Each had a shepherd’s crook. Behind them stood their fathers, each with a painted wooden ax in one hand, and a real one in the other.

The boys edged in closer. Arthur scrambled to his feet. The first of the young men swung at him. Arthur swerved to avoid it. He noticed another lad coming his way, and kicked him in the jaw. The youth tripped backward, knocking over two of his mates.

Arthur bounded toward the breach, but to no avail. The blows between his shoulder blades sent spasms down his spine. He curled up in a ball, protecting his head as best he could. Again there was yodeling. The beating stopped. Arthur’s chin was bleeding. His elbow shook uncontrollably.

A dog collar was secured around his neck. Its six foot long leash was attached to a grinding wheel. Around him formed a ring of old women, armed with ladles and iron roasting forks. They bared their breasts and torsos, exposing the flowery spear-like tattoos that pointed to their vaginas. Someone flung a wet linen sheet over him. It stuck to the abrasions on his skin.

The women banged on their cooking utensils, slowly first, then faster. A fork hit him square in the jaw. The Saxon mothers pummeled him. “Sie töteten meinen Sohn!” they cried, some of them in tears. “ Sie töteten meinen Enkel und meinen Neffeen.”

He knew exactly what they were saying. They were listing by name all of their relatives, brothers, sons, and uncles, killed by the Knights of the Round Table.
One blow hit him in the stomach, re-opening his partially healed battle wound. The pain was paralyzing. He stumbled onto his back. Someone ripped off his blanket and everyone laughed. Two warriors gleefully pinned him to the ground, leaning their knees on his shoulders. An old hag strolled up and lifted her skirt. She commenced to urinate onto Arthur’s face.

The stench was overwhelming, but the warmth almost invigorating. With an unexpected burst of strength, he titled his face forward, clamped his teeth onto her crotch.

“Er biss mich!” she screamed. “Erhalten Sie ihn weg!”

The men holding him down tried to pull her off, but that just made her madder.
Someone gripped Arthur ears and shook his head. The rest of the crones yelled out instructions to the menfolk. Finally, one old girl had the presence of mind to reach down and squeezed Arthur’s testicles. He let go.

Four young warriors roped Arthur by the ankles, dragging him off to a hut by the bay. A bucket of freezing salt water was thrown on him, stinging his many lesions. Before him stood the same woman who fed him before. She held a thick ash wood bowl covered with runes, and full to the brim with rust colored ocher.

“You were stupid to do that,” she said. “The old lady you bit is the king’s favorite aunt.”

Arthur spit out some dust. “And if I had kissed her, would he have let me go?”

She slathered a palm-full of pigment onto his chest.

“Red,” he said. “A sacrifice to Thor. What will they do with my body after they pull out my heart?”

“Feed it to the dogs. The druids will get your skull. They make nice bowls.” She rubbed paint on his face. “You do not look like Merlin. He was blue-eyed and skinny.”

“I was adopted.”

“Who was your real father?”

“A knight. He raped my mother. Somebody killed him before I was born.”

“What kind of knight was he, Roman?”

“Half. His mother was a Saxon concubine. Who knows, I could be your cousin.” He coughed. “I need you send a message to my wife. Tell her to sail off to Brittany, and never come back.”

It began to hail. The stones pattered on the thatch roof.

“There is no way I can do that. The men will be back soon.” Then she said, “I need you to tell me something. Was Merlin my father? Was that why he saved me… because I was his daughter?”

“No, Merlin could not have children. He let you go because it was the right thing to do. He was strange that way.”

She glanced at the doorway and spun Arthur around. “My son’s keels are beached on the shore. One of them has a paddle in it.” She cut loose his bonds her shears. “You can row away.”

Arthur was almost too exhausted to move.

“Verdammtes Arschloch!” she said. “Get up.”

He staggered to his feet.

She handed him her heavy wooden bowl. “Hit me with this, then run to the dock.” She closed her eyes. “If anyone asks, tell them your name is Tammo. That was my brother’s name. They killed him when they burned our village.”

Arthur cracked her on the head, not even pausing to see if she was still breathing. Then he sprinted off, half-red with a dog leash round his neck through hail thick as locusts. Grape-sized ice-balls bounced off his nearly shaven head. He was ready to collapse.

Moored to the dock were two long dugouts, each carved from a single maple trunk in the Saxon manner. Arthur untied one and dove into it. The boat glided off a ways. When he looked back, no one was following him.

He fumbled around at his feet, trying to locate the paddle. All he found was a leather bucket and canvas tarp wrapped like an unfurled flag, nothing more. Of the two keels moored to the dock, he had stolen the wrong one.

A gust of wind pushed his little craft farther away from shore. Arthur unfolded the tarp and crawled inside. Piles of round ice began to collect by his head. He popped them into his mouth. Like any good sailor out at sea, he would not squander whatever fresh water divine mercy might provide.


CHAPTER 3: THE CASTAWAY

Someone asked the Buddha, “Life seems to be a tangle, an inner
tangle and an outer tangle. Our generation is hopelessly tangled up.”

Samyutta Nikaya

#

Atop a soft matting of pine needles, Arthur relaxed in the lotus position. He filled his lungs with cool mountain air. The rising sun illuminated the clouds in soft hues of pink and orange. Willowy spruce trees swayed in the breeze.

Da Mo, the old man in the cave called out, “Do you remember the sutra Merlin used to chant every morning? It was called the Heart of Perfect Understanding. Brother Tinh Tu taught it to him.”

Arthur was neither tied to the ground nor paralyzed, yet he could not move. “I should not be here,” he said, more as an observation than a complaint. “Is this a dream?”

Da Mo ignored the question. “The first phrase of Merlin’s chant was: The Buddha, the sage of compassion, who heard the cries of the world, while sitting deep in meditation, had a transformative insight. Then there was something about Shariputra. What was it?”

Arthur wiggled his fingers. “Have you put some kind of a spell on me? Am I drugged? What is going on?”

“I cannot explain why you are here. You just are.” Da Mo sipped his tea. “So, do you remember any of the Heart of Perfect Understanding?”

Arthur rubbed his eyes. “I suppose. Why do you care?”

“I am hoping it is still fresh in your mind. I was never quite sure I had it right.”

Arthur said, “I need to go home. I have to get back to Britannia.”

Da Mo readjusted the silk robe covering his shoulders. “Just do me one favor. Try to remember what Merlin taught you, not the words he said, more the way he lived. Even if you forget everything else, always remember that.”

#

Arthur awoke with a start. He stuck his nose out of the frost-covered canvas tarp wrapped around him. His scalp felt especially chilly now that his hair was cut off. A hazy shoreline appeared in the distance. Based on the sun’s position, it was probably was coast of Gaul. Could that be possible? Had he floated all the way across the Channel in just one night?

The morning mist burned away. The scant clouds dissipated. There would be no rain, no break in the three-year drought that had withered Britannia’s crops and turned her mosses to brown. It had all started back on that summer afternoon when it rained dirty water till dawn. They all said it was a bad omen. They were right.

His dark ruminations ended the moment he detected a spit of land off to the west and more importantly, a ship anchored not too far to the south. Perhaps his fortunes were turning. If only he had a paddle.

Arthur’s retrieved the leather bucket from the bottom of the keel. He tied it to the end of the dog leash he wore the day before, then tossed it six feet in front of the bow. Once the bucket sunk partway down, he reeled it in, thus propelling himself forward.

Arthur sang out, “Namo valo kitesh varia,” a healing invocation Merlin had learned in India. Arthur had no idea what the words meant, but he figured it was worth a try. As Merlin used to say, “You can beg God to save you, or you can chant like a man and do it for yourself.”

The ship up ahead was as large as a double mast, but it had only one sail. With any luck they would have news of Camelot. Perhaps he could get a message to his wife.
Arthur waved his arms. “Ahoy! Vale! Can anyone hear me?” A strong gust blew his keel within earshot of the ship.

“I say!” he called out. “Is anyone there? I am a Roman. Sunt Romanos. The Germans captured me.”

A sea gull flew into the air and then a second one. They circled twice, then returned to roost on the deck. Using his hands, Arthur paddled up to the hull. He banged it with his fist. There was an empty echo.

He pushed his way to the starboard side, from which hung a tangled rat’s nest of cordage and torn canvas. The collapsed rear mast teetered over the edge. Perhaps the craft was empty. Was her crew washed overboard?

In a loud voice he announced, “I am coming on board. You have nothing to fear.”

Arthur wedged his boat onto the folds of fallen sail and climbed up the jumbled rigging. He was about to poke his chin up over the railing, when the ropes underfoot gave way. He careened hind end first into the frigid sea. The fractured rear mast snapped off with an explosive crack. The long wooden timber skidded down toward him. He ducked underwater to avoid it.

In the blinding swirl of bubbles there was no way to tell which way was up. He grasped at the first thing he could reach, then heaved with all his might knowing full well that it might send him into Poseidon’s arms. Instead, he popped onto the surface.

Arthur inhaled, relieved, only to see his keel thirty feet off, silently drifting away. His options were to chase after it and possibly starve at sea, or stay put and risk being killed by belligerent sea-mad sailors.

Only one rope remained hanging from the ship. He shimmied up it, not bothering to check if it would hold. It did. In short order, he found himself standing barefoot and naked on the planks of the aft deck. A collection of seagulls erupted in caws.

Over by the bow lay two bloated corpses, a bearded mariner and a cabin boy wrapped in a blanket. The flesh on their faces and eyes had been pecked away. Another corpse, much more decayed, even mummified in places, was splayed out by the stern.
Scattered round the ship’s empty rain barrel were dead shriveled rats.

Arthur crawled into the darkened hull. It reeked of rotten flesh so badly he could hardly breathe. The toothy angular skull of the ship’s pig was visible, along with a set of human long bones. Holding his breath against stench, he retrieved two clay wine pots and half a sack of oats. If these men were starving, why was this uneaten?

Back on deck, he snatched the dagger from the bearded corpse, and cut the wool pants off its owner’s distended legs. When Arthur pulled the blanket off the cabin boy, he found the captain’s purse - which contained an iron and flint stone - tied around the lad’s neck. Arthur slit a hole in the top of the blanket and inserted his head through it like a tunic.

The partially dismembered crewman by the stern had a yellow silk kerchief. Arthur tied around his own head. He attempted to untie the sailor’s boots, but found it much more effective to pull the bone and ligaments out of them. Amidst the body parts was a bow and quiver holding just one arrow.

And then the celebrated warrior, whom knights and nobles once hailed as King of the Britons, slit open the cabin boy’s belly pulling out a length of intestines. Arthur retreated to the stern, while a cluster of gulls descended on the child’s gashed torso pecking with abandon.

Arthur readied his bow and arrow shot into the feeding frenzy. A long-winged bird tumbled squawking onto the deck. Arthur pounced on it, and with a quick twist of the wrist broke its neck. He plucked out the arrow, and pressed his lips against the wound. Its blood was warm and musky, but it was better than drinking salt water.


CHAPTER 4: THE WRETCH

Now, I say to you monks, it is the nature of all
impermanent things to decay.

Digha-nikaya

#

The sun over the Channel had been shining for a while. Arthur woke up from a poor night’s sleep punctuated with a bout of diarrhea. He opened one eye to check the coals on his makeshift fire pit, an upturned bronze cauldron lid. Broken shards of the mast served as kindling. A pewter flagon held the remnants of last night’s meal: oats and shredded seagull boiled in wine.

To get the alcohol out of the wine, Arthur had to simmer it all afternoon, but at least it gave him something to do. With each passing hour, the sky remained blue and the corpses remained dead. There was no point in scanning the shore. It would not be any closer.

A hapless gull stripped some flesh from the cabin boy’s ankles. The slit-open bodies now seemed little more than a pile of loose appendages. Arthur aimed his bow and shot the bird. He dislodged the red splattered arrow from its breast.

“Sorry,” he said. No one else to talk to.

From below, something was grinding. A vibration rumbling beneath his feet inspired him to investigate. Floating off to the port side was a rowboat piloted by two men, one gray-haired, the other young and burly.

“Vale!” he called out in Latin, waving the yellow silk scarf he stripped off the dead man. “Who are you? Can you take me to shore? Do you have any water?”

“Jumping Jupiter!” said the older fellow in Frankish Latin. He had the handlebar mustache of his pagan ancestors, but his hair was neck-length like a Roman. On his lap was carpenter’s wood auger with a half-inch drill bit. “Who the devil are you? What are you doing here?”

Not eager reveal his identity, Arthur replied, “I am Sir Tammo, secretary to Sir Gawain, King Arthur’s General. The Saxons imprisoned me in Kent but I stole a keel and got away. I boarded this ship but the crew is all dead. Can you take me to Gaul?”

“I am Bertrick,” said the Frank. “Harbormaster of Boulogne-sur-Mer. This sloop is being sunk. If you try to get on my boat, Master Hedrum here will kill you.”

Hedrum was a hugely-mustachioed swamp Frank. The back of his head was shaved, and the rest of his hair bound into two thick short braids over each ear. A throwing hatchet was tucked in his belt.

“I can read,” said Arthur. “I am sure King Clovis would benefit from the information I have about King Arthur and the Germans. Are you from Gesoriacum?”

Bertrick rested his finger against his right nostril and blew a glob from the other side. “Clovis died a while back. Clothar is the king now.”

“I know of him,” said Arthur. “One of my knights was a Frank named Lancelot. He and Clothar were squires together. Perhaps I could meet him?”

“Or perhaps not. I doubt Clothar wants to spend the day with a man from a death ship.”

Arthur said, “We suffered that pox in Carmarthen for years and it never caught me. I have been here for days, yet I am still healthy. It does not strike everyone.”

Bertrick centered the auger into the hole he had already started and cranked. “Even if you are well, your clothes have the humor. How come you are so pale?”

“My mother was a ginger Celt. How about this? I could throw a barrel over and float on it. You pull me to shore. I am too weak to swim and I have no boat.”

Hedrum the swamp Frank said, “What about the keel you stole from the Saxons?”

Arthur sighed, louder than he intended. “It floated away.”

Bertrick said, “You had a landing craft and you forgot to tether it!” He snickered. “Me, I never learned to read. But I sure know how to tie a knot.”

Hedrum interrupted. “What if we let Octavia check him out? I say we toss him a line. Go get in your barrel, Mister Tammo.”

Bertrick wrinkled his brow. “Excuse me son, but since when do you give orders?”
“Just give him the rope, you old geezer.”

Arthur found a barrel and heaved it overboard. He gave on final glance at the fragmented remains of the crew, then dove feet first into the sea.

Harbormaster Bertrick gave a final crank on the last drill hole in the hull. Bubbles were already splattering up.

Hedrum threw a rope to Arthur.

Bertrick waved a hatchet. “Come too close and you will wear this.”

Hedrum grabbed an oar. “Why do you have to be such a sourpuss?”

Bertrick sniped at him. “Your father is not as well connected as he thinks. You keep pulling stunts like this and you will never get an appointment.”

Arthur re-tied the yellow kerchief around his head. In the distance he could nearly make out the thatched roof buildings of Boulogne-sur-Mer.

Bertrick and Hedrum rowed with their backs to the land.

Arthur said, “I am in your debt Mister Bertrick. I will not forget this.”

Bertrick’s response was, “Throw your clothes in the water, all of them. I am not about to have anybody in my town die just to protect your modesty.”

Arthur recalled his own youth, sleeping in hay piles and rummaging through the trash heaps in search of old sheets. He dumped his yellow headgear into the ocean. He was naked by the time they reached the port. All he wore was his bracelet. It was beaded with Indian rosewood, a gift from Merlin.

Hedrum shouted, “What happened to your body? Are you some kind of albino? How come your eyes are dark?”

As a child, Arthur’s skin was prone to burning, and when it did, the patch that got scorched would turn white as ivory. Rather than provide his complete medical history, he responded with his standard lie: “I got scalded as a baby.” Then he asked, “Have you heard any news from Britannia? Do you know if the Saxons seized Camelot? Have you seen any Briton refugees?”

At the edge of the longest dock, a knight in a red cape was hailing them. “Ahoy! What have you got there? I thought that wreck was abandoned?”

Bertrick shouted back, “This man is a prisoner. If he runs, kill him.” To Arthur he said, “When we reach shore, Hedrum and I will disembark first. Stay knee deep in the water until Octavia checks you out. Got that?”

“Fair enough,” said Arthur. “Who is Octavia? Perhaps I know her? In my previous post I corresponded with a number of officials from the Frankish court.”

“If you met her,” said Bertick, “you would remember it.”

He and Hedrum pumped their oars through the surf. They beached themselves on the sand. The red-caped knight reappeared, armed with a crossbow. Arthur hopped into the surf, one hand covering his genitals.

A crowd of sailors and vendors gathered around, gawking and snickering. They were just like the market folk at Carmarthen Bay, where Arthur roamed as a boy. The smell was even the same; brine, smoke, and stale sweat.

Bertrick asked the knight, “Where is Ocativa? We need her.”

“She is probably still sleeping off her hangover. That old bitch drank my beer last night. What was I supposed to do, arrest her?”

A young girl cried out, “I know where she is,” and scampered off.

The knight motioned toward Arthur. “Who is he?”

Bertrick said, “A Briton. He says he clerked for King Arthur’s men. If Octavia gives him the thumbs down, we dump him back in the brine.”

The girl came back with a pack of children in toe. Everyone cleared a pathway for Octavia. Instead of seeing an elderly matron in flowing robes, Arthur saw a black dog being led by the collar. It was a mutt, with sagging nipples and a crooked arthritic pelvis.

Bertrick slapped his hand against his leg. “Here Octavia! Good girl, come here.”
The white-snouted dog plodded toward him. She licked his hand, but just once. He pointed at Arthur. She raised her lip just enough to expose her canines.

Bertrick gave Arthur a few instructions. “Just step out of the waves and let her smell you. If you are going to get sick, she will know it. She is never wrong.”

Bertrick let go of Octavia. She circled twice around Arthur, sniffed his shin, then nudged her nose close to his crotch. She whiffed his toes on last time. A wave came in and the spill-water hit her paws. She hopped away - as well as a crippled dog could - then she lay down in a patch of soft marsh grass.

Bertrick said to the knight. “Make Mister Tammo scrub himself down with lye, then throw him in the brig.”

The knight saluted.

Arthur asked, “Is there any way I could speak with an officer of court? I have important intelligence about the Saxons.”

“I will arrange that,” said Bertrick, “right after I have breakfast with the Pope.”
Octavia sprung to her feet. She barked, with shoulders hunched low and tail tucked under, inching her way to the water’s edge. The object of her animus was a piece of cloth washed up on the shore. It was the yellow kerchief Arthur had flung into the sea.


CHAPTER 5: THE PRISONER

Everyone trembles when they see a weapon.
Everyone fears death.

Dhammapada

#

The wall upon which Arthur gazed was granite, smooth with specks of gray and washed-out pink, but it was clean. Merlin had been a strong proponent of meditation, but Arthur never warmed up to it. After all, there was so much else to do. But where Arthur now sat, within this six by ten foot room, there were no such distractions. The only break in the monotony came courtesy of the prison cat, who roamed at liberty in search of mice.

Arthur’s meditation was broken by the creak of a door opening down at the base of the tower. Two sets of feet plodded up the stairs. One was light, almost childlike. The other was the familiar stomp of Captain Rickered, the guard of the keep, a bald mustachioed Frank with a blacksmith’s arms and a brewer’s gut. They stopped outside the door to Arthur’s cell.

“These are your quarters, Sir,” said Rickered to the new prisoner. “You get fed in the morning and at night. If you want lunch, save half your breakfast. We change the straw on Mondays and wash the walls once a month. If you get lice or you feel sick, tell me. Any trouble and I will send you to down to the commoner’s prison. But that will not happen, will it?”

“Oh, certainly not, my good man” said the other voice. It was high and raspy. “I am the model of discretion. May I practice my kithra?”

“As you like, Sir. Just keep the noise down. If not, I will take it away.”

“But I was informed I could keep it.”

Rickered shut the door, barring it with an oak beam. “Play quietly,” he said.
Arthur swiveled around to face the eight-by-eight inch hole through which he received his food and water. Rickered peeked into it.

Arthur hailed him. “Good evening Captain. New man in the neighborhood?”

Rickered chuckled. “You might say that.” He tossed it over a stale dinner roll.

Arthur caught it with one hand.

Rickered said, “My wife boiled up those cherry stems like you said, Sir. She said it tasted terrible. Is it supposed to be like that?”

Arthur bit into his snack. “Mix it with some honey. Is she doing any better?”
“I think so. She still has a runny nose but her fever broke. No red spots though.

You need anything, Sir?”

Arthur handed out his empty dinner bowl. “I am fine. Thank you. Who is working tonight?”

Rickered yawned. “I am. I can use the extra money. My sister’s husband wants to rebuild his loom. My mum tells me I got to chip in on it. She liked that prayer you wrote for her. She keeps it up above her bed.”

“Let us hope my prayers will do her more good than they did me.”

“You never know, Sir,” said Rickered with a wink. He shuffled back down the quiet hallway.

Arthur laid on his bedroll. He drew his blanket over his head, the top of which had lost most its hair. Three years incarceration, even in a comfortable jail, ages a man.

The new detainee across the hall called out, “I say, good fellow, who are you?”
Arthur glanced over, but did not get up. “Nobody you need to know.”

“Myself, I find it best to know everyone. I am Monika Africanus of Paris. Charmed to make your acquaintance, Mister Nobody. Or is it Lord Nobody? I understand this is the luxury suite.”

Arthur could not help but notice Monika’s unusually dark skin and broad nose.

Monika continued, “Do you mind if I strum my kithara for a spell? I am quite good. I was once Master Harpist to the court of King Syagrius.”

“Suit yourself,” said Arthur. “I am going to bed.”

Monika retreated to his cot. “Come now, my heavenly tortoise shell, become a speaking instrument.” He tuned his strings. “That is a line from Sappho. I find her intoxicating.”

Arthur rolled over. “Let us hope she lulls you to sleep. Good night.”

Monika played not just well, but astonishingly well. When Arthur was king, he would be visited by itinerant musicians hoping to receive a royal appointment. As soon as they realized how shabby Britannia was, they scurried back to Gaul.

Without stopping his tune, Monika asked, “It seems rather quiet in here. Are we the only inmates?”

“There is a Lombard Prince at the far end, but he is mad. You may hear him crying.”

“Well, that certainly is dreary. So how long have you been incarcerated? Shall I presume you are waiting for a ransom?”

“You should get some sleep. They do not like conversation after dark.”
Monika plucked one last chord. Arthur re-stuffed the hay into the pillowcase he earned writing a letter for Rickered. An April shower trickled against the side of the building. It was brief, like they all were anymore.

Rickered’s cat screeched. There was a loud thump, like a sac of grain being dropped.

A man with a Roman accent called out, “Mercurius! Where are you?”

Monika replied, “Lord Aegidus, is that you? I am up here.”

Torchlight flickered down the hallway. A clean-shaven young man poked his face into Arthur cell.

“No,” said Monika. “The other side.”

Arthur jumped up. A well-dressed fellow, no more than twenty, removed the beam securing Monika’s door.

“I have two horses,” said Aegidus. He opened the door. “Hurry.”
Arthur finally got a full view of Monika, a slight man with wide hips and tendrils of curly black hair. He wore his tunic tied high like lady’s gown.

Monika breathed heavily. He clutched his kithara. It was a strange looking harp, with three upward pointing bars instead of the usual two.

“But,” Monika stammered, “I cannot ride. I never learned how.”

Aegidus said, “What do you mean, you cannot ride!”

Arthur called out, “He can ride with me. I was the commander of the cavalry under Duke Ector of Britannia. Clovis is keeping me hostage.” He jutted his chin toward Monika. “My armor weighed more than he does. Let me out.”

Without hesitation, Monika said, “So be it,” and commenced to set Arthur free.
Arthur introduced himself. “My name is Sir Tammo of Carmarthen. Where are your horses?”

All Aegidus said was, “Quiet.” He guided the two prisoners through a dark stone passage and into the guard’s vestibule. On the floor lay Captain Rickered, face down in pool of blood that nearly covered the floor. His tomcat, stranded in the corner, gave it a lick.

Aegidus splashed through it. Monika tiptoed across it, with his kithara held high in the air. Arthur attempted to hop over it, but landed one heel in the sticky fluid.

It had been years since he had the opportunity to jump. He was terribly out of practice.

They fled into a courtyard, still wet from the brief downpour. Arthur was surprised how quickly they made it out. He had been delivered to the prison with a sack on his head, and had assumed it was at least two stories high.

Lord Aegidus checked for more guards. Over by a haystack, two horses were hitched to a tree. Aegidus mounted the smaller one and addressed Arthur. “You two take my steed. If he outpaces this pony, I will catch up.”

Arthur mounted the horse. He reached down to help Monika up. “Drop the harp. It will slow us down.”

Monika stepped back. “No,” he said. “Without it, we will all die. If you deliver me without the kithara, Lord Claudius will kill you.”

“Fine,” said Aegidus. “Give me the damn thing.”

Monika offered it up, then paused. “If anything happens to this, everything will be lost. I mean it, young man. It is our only hope. It is your only hope.”

Aegidus took it. Monika crawled up saying, “I do not like riding fast.”

Arthur cracked the reigns. Off they galloped, very fast, churning up mud from the moistened road. The castle was on a hill. They sped toward the valley.

Aegidus yelled, “Go straight till you cross a bridge. After that, ride upstream.”

Arthur twisted around with some difficulty, dismayed with how inflexible he had become. He saw two horsemen, silhouetted against the moonlit sky. He called out, “We are being followed!”

“My bow is tied to the back,” said Aegidus, “hand it to me.”

A bow hung from the side of the saddle. On the other side, a quiver of arrows.

Arthur slapped the horse’s reigns into Monika’s hands.

“What are you doing?” said Monika.

“Hold these.”

The jingle of the approaching spur came ever nearer. Arthur grabbed the bow and slid two arrows from the quiver. He put one in his mouth.

Monika whelped, “Am I doing this correctly?”

One of the galloping knights riding yelled, “You better run you bastards.”

Aegidius screamed, “Throw me the bloody bow!”

Arthur aimed his weapon off to the left, then said to Monika, “Count to three, then pull the reigns to the left.”

Monika counted, “One, two, three,” then yanked.

The horse banked to the left. Arthur’s wrist shook. His hand was not as nearly as steady as when had left Britannia. For the first time since he was a child, Arthur felt unsure of his ability to aim. Nonetheless, he released his arrow. One of the horsemen clutched his stomach and toppled backwards.

Arthur reloaded and let loose. The second arrow hit the forehead of other knight, ricocheting off his helmet. The force of the impact flung him from his saddle, but his right foot remained tangled in its stirrup. The horse dragged him forward.

Arthur threw away his bow and reached around Monika to regain control of the reigns. He charged forward aiming for the other horse, as if in a joust.
Monika cried, “Are you insane!”

Arthur gripped onto his horse’s bridle, right next to its cheek. He gave it a quick yank, and the horse leapt to the side. When it landed, its iron clad hooves crushed down onto sternum of the knight. There was an audible popping sound as the contents of a human rib cage splattered out.

Arthur’s spun his horse around.

Aegidus dismounted, snatched up the discarded bow, and climbed back onto his saddle.

Monika called out, “Is my kithara safe!”

Arthur barreled downhill, huffing air like an old man.

“Where are we going?” said Monika.

“Away from the castle. Who are you? Why are you so important?”

Aegidus caught up with them. “Follow me. I have fresh mounts in the woods.”

Arthur’s and Aegidus’s horses were covered in sweat. They pressed on into the forest.

Aegidus asked Arthur, “So you really are a knight. Why were you imprisoned?”

“I got too close to a German. Where are we? How far are we from Paris?”

“We are in the Rhine Valley, south of Strasbourg. Paris is a week to the east. Rome is two weeks south.”

“Why did you set us free?”

Monika replied, “Master Aegidus belongs to one of Gaul’s leading Roman families. King Theodoric has granted them permission to settle along the Danube. I am going with them. At least the Ostrogoths have an appreciation for culture.”

Aegidus said, “Are you Roman? We could use a good knight. You could join us.”

“No, thank you. I need to get back to Britannia. Do you know if the Saxons captured Camelot? Have you come across any Briton refugees? Is there any way I could get passage across the Channel?”

Again Monika interrupted. “Certainly,” he said, “assuming you can grow wings and fly across the entirety of Frankish Gaul. Tell me Sir Tammo, have you ever traveled on the Continent before?”

“No,” said Arthur. His lower back tightened up. He did his best to hide the pain.

“In that case, let me give you some sage advice. Those who enter the Black Forest alone have a marked tendency to find their heads situated distressingly far away from their shoulders. Young Aegidus and I may not be the ideal woodsmen, but if you are intelligent - and I sense you are - I would encourage you, most emphatically, to stick with us.”


CHAPTER 6: THE IMPOSTER

Stop thinking of yourself as an entity that really exists. If you view
the world this way, you will never be seen by the king of death

Sutta Nipata

#

Arthur awoke up at the base of a tree with Monika nestled up against his chest. Having served as a field officer, Arthur knew that soldiers who bedded down in close quarters would often wake up in a scrum, having instinctively sought out heat while sleeping. For the past five nights however, Monika always ended up beside him, and not Aegidus, even when Aegidus was much closer.

Arthur went to the woods and squatted down for a bowel movement.
Monika propped himself on one elbow, saying, “Why is your arse so ruddy? The rest of you is deathly pale.”

“I have a virulent pox. Why is your arse so black?”

“I prefer to think of it as beige. My mother’s arse was dark as ebony. My father arse was whatever color a Roman’s arse is. What would you call that, taupe?”

“Perhaps he was a German?” said Arthur.

“I think not. I am far too eloquent and I loathe pickled cabbage.” Monika cradled his kithara in his arms. “How are you doing today my sweet?”

“Where did you get that thing? Is it from the east?”

“It is my own design” He buffed its finish. “I could use a new set of strings.”
Arthur wiped himself with some leaves. “Why did they let you keep it when you were in prison?”

“What can I say? With fame comes privileges.” He nudged sleeping Aegidus. “Wake up young pup. You were supposed to rouse us at dawn. Some rooster you are.”
Aegidus yawned and stretched his arms. “You overslept, too.”
Arthur tied up his trousers, “We are getting weak. We need a decent meal.”

“I would like a comb,” said Monika.

Aegidus opened his saddlebag, retrieving three stale rolls. “We should be in Rottweil by sundown. I assure you, Lord Claudius will have provisions when we arrive.” He tilted his head. “Do you hear cart wheels?”

Monika bolted up, “Could it be Slavs?”

“Who are they?” said Arthur.
Monika said, “Squirrelly little savages with poison arrows. This forest is lousy with them.”

Aegidus shook his head. “Slavs would never use wagons this far south. Those people are probably merchants. We should hike up and see who they are.”

The three of them navigated through the trees as quietly as possible. Up ahead a rather substantial caravan was creaking toward them.

Aegidus said, “I see knights in red capes. What do you see?”

“I am too old too see that far,” said Arthur. “Are they Germans?”

“No,” said Monika. “The armor looks Byzantine. They must be Greeks.” He sauntered into the roadway and waved. “Yoo hoo! I say, are you from Constantinople? How lovely it to see you!”

Two horsemen came into view. One was an Imperial Legionnaire, fit and clean shaven with curly dark hair. His chain mail coat was free of rust. Riding next to him was an Ostrogoth guide, with a long braided mustache. His graying blond hair was tied into a single ponytail down his back. His wore fur Saxon boots and a long deerskin coat.

Monika approached them, beaming. “Vale. Guten Tag. Do either of you speak Latin or Greek? I am more fluent in Latin. My German is rather weak.”

In Latin, the Ostrogoth said, “I speak all three. Who are you? What are you doing here?”

Monika pointed to Arthur. “That is Sir Cleofus, a Celtic knight of Brittany. The lad is his clerk, Tiberius of Paris. I am Xerxes the citharoedi, Sir Cleofus’s loyal slave. Our party was attacked by bandits. There were twelve of us when we left Strasbourg.”

The Ostrogoth asked, “What happened to your clothes?”

“They stole my entire wardrobe! Then they gave me this piece of trash. Who knew Germans should be so rude.” He batted his eyes. “Present company excepted.”

Arthur and Aegidus came out from their hiding place.

The Ostrogoth said, “Are you Sir Cleofus?”

Arthur cast a crooked glance toward Monika. “Quite. We were hoping to get to Rottweil by days end and get news of our delay to King Theodoric.”

“Where are your papers?”

Monika blurted out, “Our passports were in the satchel with my new strings.” He pouted. “How am I going to play my royal debut with old strings?”

Arthur asked the Ostrogoth. “Is their any way I might present myself your Centurion? Although I am an admittedly a minor representative of King Clovis’s government, I believe it would be proper protocol. I can speak some Greek.”

The Ostrogoth said something to the soldier in Greek, too quickly for Arthur to understand it.

The soldier dismounted. “I speak some Latin. I will take you. No weapons.”

Arthur gave his sword and dagger to Aegidus. The soldier frisked him, then led him past a row of ten wagons with an archer up front. Through the din of clopping hooves, Arthur could hear Monika saying, “Your friend has such a lovely cape. How do they get it so red? Is there a special dye?”

Toward the center of the procession was a wagon with a cloth roof. Driving it was a man in a plain but well-tailored wool cloak. He face was newly shaved, save a wispy mustache, and his hair neatly trimmed. He had three rings on his fingers, one with an ambassador’s signet. It struck Arthur odd that a man of his station would be driving his own vehicle.

The solder saluted with an old-style Roman hail, and in Greek said, “Your Grace, we found this man on the road. He is a knight of King Clovis named Sir Cleofus. His party was attacked by bandits. He wishes to give you his regards.”

The ambassador did not stop his cart. In Romanian Latin he said, “I am Justinian of Illyria, Ambassador to his highness Emperor Justin. I will be meeting with King Clovis in a week or so. I will tell him of your predicament. Do you need any water or supplies?”

Arthur bowed. “Good day, Your Grace. Your Latin is excellent. Do all your men speak it?”

“No. Just me and the German up front.”

“In that case,” Arthur said in Latin, “I must inform you that I am a really a knight of Arthur King of the Britannia. I was on a mission to establish contact with the King of the Visigoths when I was imprisoned by the Franks. I have a proposal that might be of interest to your Emperor as well. Is there any way I could get a message to his court?”

“It depends. Who is King Arthur? I thought Britannia was full of Germans.”

“Not all of it. The western third, a diocese called Cambria, is still governed by Celts. It is the only place west of Gaul where ships can safely land. King Arthur was educated by a wizard from Constantinople who fought with the Legionnaires in Persia.”

“I recall hearing a poem about a king from Britannia. He had a round table.”

“Aye, that is him. Unfortunately, King Arthur has fallen out of favor with King Clothar. Arthur’s spies informed him that Clothar wishes to make peace with the Saxons of Britannia, and ultimately annex the island. Once that happens, Clothar and the Pope will have everything they need to push east into Byzantium.”

Justinian shrugged his shoulders. “Everyone knows that. You said you had a proposal. What is it?”

Arthur moved in closer. “What if Arthur were to become a vassal to your Emperor? If he had that kind of support, he could mount an attack on Clothar. Our nation may be small, but we have ships and good Roman mariners. We could sink the Frankish navy within a year. All the Saxons have are fishing keels.”

“And I suppose,” said Justin, “you were planning to ask King Theodoric to attack Gaul from the east.”

“That was the idea. The Pope has all but excommunicated him, and King Clothar would kill him in a flash if he could. If you eliminate Clothar, the Pope will wither and take the Catholics with him. I suspect the Patriarch of Constantinople would approve of that.”

Justinian shook his head dismissively. “Your scheme is unrealistic. We could never enter Gaul without first taking Italy. How could our nations coordinate from opposite sides of the Mediterranean? The logistics are impossible.”

“For a formal alliance, that would be true. But what if we take a more covert approach? All I ask is this: give me a passport to Rome. From there, I can sail back to Britannia and set the plan in motion.”

“Rome is full of Franks,” said Justin. “The Pope sent his sons to get training from Clothar’s equestrians. The Vatican might as well be a canton of Paris. If you even go close to Rome, you will be arrested.”

“What if I go to Ravenna? I understand it is an Ostrogoth city.”

Justinian yawned. “I am traveling though Gaul with a trade delegation. This is not my kingdom. Any travel papers I could issue would be worthless.”

“What if I get to Ravenna on my own? Could you send a letter to the Emperor informing him of my proposal?”

“The emperor has directed me to take this voyage to ensure that silk from Constantinople ends up wrapped around the backsides of the Parisian aristocracy. That is all he wants, that is all I intend to do.”

“I could write the letter myself.”

“Emperor Justin is a military man. He cannot read, but I will pass your message onto him.”

“And do you have any idea how soon that might be, Lord Ambassador?”

“It will be the next time he has my mother over for dinner,” said Justinian. “He is my uncle.”

Chapter 1

BOOK I: THE HERMIT

Chapter I: The Corn Moon, AD 480

Ex oriente lux.

From the east, light.

* * *

“I could kill you,” said Merthen to the black widow climbing one of the braids in his long white beard. “That would be the prudent course of action.”

When he was a red-headed child in Constantinople, Merthen played a game with poisonous spiders. He and his fellow slave boys would catch a few black widows in a cup. Each of the boys would then place one of the toxic insects on his respective foot, and stand resolute while it crawled towards the warmth of his respective crotch. The first boy to flinch lost.

“This island will be the end of you,” said Merthen to the eight-legged stranger.

Just offshore, near where Carmarthen Bay emptied into the Celtic Sea, an Iberian spice ship strained against her anchor lines. A few days earlier, this vessel had unloaded a shipment of Asian peppercorns. No doubt the spider was a stowaway from much warmer shores.

“You will not survive this evening’s frost,” said Merthen. He removed the feather writing quill tucked behind his ear, and pointed it at the tiny stranger. He inhaled, aware of the flow of his breath. “I recommend you return to your ship.”

He flicked the black widow into air. It spiraled down, landing in a puddle by the sea wall. As if on cue, a sedge warbler swooped low and snapped it up in its beak. The bird flew off to its nest in a stand of bull rushes. Three fuzzy chicks poked up their gaping mouths.

Merthen was sliding his pen back in place when he felt something strike his left buttock. Whatever connected with him was a blunt object, soft like the head of a yearling ram not yet sprouting horns. Still, it was enough of a jolt to make him lose his balance. He fumbled to hold on to his ash wood walking stick.

From behind him, Merthen heard the voice of a young boy saying, “That hurt.”

Merthen twisted backward to identify this child, and in so doing completely lost his footing. His lanky old body toppled over. The eighteen Indian rosewood beads strung around his left wrist smacked against the cobblestones, and his staff flew out of his hands.

The boy, a street urchin with shaggy brown hair and a snakelike fish in his hand, rubbed the top of his forehead, but he did not cry. Instead, he directed his hazelnut eyes at the trumpet swan carved onto the head of Merthen’s walking stick and asked, “Is that a duck?”

“No,” said Merthen, “it is a piece of wood.”

During Merthen’s fall, the four ponytails that hung down his back had wrapped around his face. He untangled them.

“Are you sure?” said the boy. He scratched at his bottom. “It looks like a duck to me.”

Merthen, still lying on his back, popped the lid off the leather cylinder tied to his belt. From it, he pulled out a small vial of ink. He checked to make sure that the glass was not cracked. He snapped at the urchin. “You should be minding your step, boy. Where are your parents?”

Out from behind a stack of wool bundles, Widow Blodwen, the fishmonger, charged forward, with a meat cleaver in her fist. “Thief,” she cried. “Stop him!” Her more than ample hips pounded across the marketplace. Her freckled face was furious red.

The boy broke into a sprint. Merthen reached over, and retrieved his walking stick. With a well-aimed flick of the wrist, he tossed it at the child’s gangly legs. The boy glanced back. With all the grace of an acrobat, he leapt into the air. The long wooden staff spiraled under the child’s dirty feet.

Widow Blodwen barreled onward.

The boy banked to the left. His shoulder bumped against a rickety table displaying used arms and cutlery. That was all it took to send a cacophony of knives and throwing hatchets scattering in all directions. The arms dealer was a wooden-shoed Frank with a huge handlebar mustache, two thick pigtails above his ears, and the back of his head shaved. He sprang from his stool and yelled, “Oh bugger!”

The boy zigzagged, first around the kettle at the tanner’s stall, then up hill towards the castle. Widow Blodwen followed, huffing all the way.

The last sword left on the table teetered on the edge before it tipped, handle-down toward the earth. It ricocheted off a cobblestone that jutted up above the rest. Merthen, his face flush to the ground, observed the old weapon slide point-first toward his eyeballs. He jerked his head upward. Just below his earlobe, the tip of the freshly-honed blade slid to a stop.

Merthen’s heart pounded against his ribcage, but not because of his brush with impalement. In his peripheral vision, he saw a dark figure, no bigger than a kitten. All the commotion had disturbed a black-eyed bilge rat, whose reaction was to scramble across the marketplace, terrified.

The rodent raced toward Merthen’s belly, then changed course, scrambling down towards his feet. Merthen felt the slither of its tale brushing against his ankles. For a brief moment he shivered like an epileptic caught in the grips of palsy. And then the rat disappeared, employing the ancient talent for retreat all vermin possess.

Merthen closed his eyes. He jiggled the rosewood beads around his wrist. In a whispered tone he chanted, “Gah-tay, gah-tay, para gah-tay, parasam gah-tay, bodhi svaha.” A bead of sweat seeped into his eyes. His body stopped shaking. His mind stopped racing. He regained control, at least for now.

The sword that nearly skewered Merthen lay still, pointing at him like Dame Fortune’s giant finger. Having been trained as a clerk, Merthen could not help but be drawn to the Latin words stamped on the weapon’s blade. He read them out loud, since he was not one of those few literati who could read silently. “Made in Calabria,” he said.

The Frankish arms dealer, who was down on his knees gathering up his knives, responded, “No, not Calabria. I bought that one from an old Roman Lady in Boulogne. Her grandfather brought it west from Constantinople. Pure wootz steel.” He picked up a hatchet, and stood. “Just what I need, more dents.”

Merthen hoisted himself up, using the weapon like a cane. He tapped his fingernail against the imprint. “I can read, Sir. According to this text, this sword was manufactured in Calabria. The style of the writing suggests it was forged by native Italians working under an Ostragoth. This is no antique. The lady misled to you.”

“Ostragoths?” The Frank slapped his own head. “Those Germans make crap!”

With one well-practiced whirl, Merthen circled the sword above his head. “I suspect it is actually laminated iron. Excellent welding, though. It should clean up fine.” He passed it over. “I am a freelance clerk, by the way. If you need any receipts, my fees are quite reasonable.”

The Frank squeezed the handle of the sword. “That uppity hag! She sold me a two-bit butter knife! How am I supposed to sell this garbage?”

Merthen shook the dust from his cloak. “I really should not be spending money right now.” He picked up his staff. “However, I might have a use for this piece. I harvest an apple orchard up in the hills. This could reach the fruit in the higher boughs. Would you be willing to part with it for fifteen denarii?”

The Frank shoved the blade back into its sheath. “Twenty denarii is as low as I can go. When my wife finds out about this, she is going to skin my testicles with a rusty razor.”

“That would be distressing,” said Merthen. He dug into his purse to gather all the cash he had, twenty denarii. “Twenty is reasonable price. Do we have a deal?”

The Frank gave him the sword and scabbard. “If any one asks, you did not buy this from me. I only sell Roman stock.”

“We never met,” said Merlin. He bowed, then felt a tug on one of his braids. The sun-burned face of the little street urchin was at the end of it.

“I dropped my kipper when you fell,” said the boy. “Did you see where it went?”

Merthen scanned the square. He could not locate Widow Blodwen, but he did find the fish. It was half submerged in a puddle next to a wine crate. “That is a dead eel. Go away.”

The boy stuck his finger up his nose. “I saw a piglet today. He had eyes like yours. Why are your eyes so blue?”

From upslope a ways, Widow Blodwen yelled, “There he is!” She jogged a few steps, leaned over and wheezed. The boy dashed off past the chandler’s booth. He rolled under a cow’s belly, and like the rat, disappeared into the maze of vendor’s carts.

Merthen strolled over to Blodwen. He secured his new purchase to his belt.

Blodwen tucked an auburn-gray tendril back into her headscarf. “Quite a show, eh?” she said. “Why did you let him go?”

“Gentlemen in their dotage do not run.” Merthen scooped up the limp fish from its puddle. He gave her a wink. “How is business, Missus B? I was hoping to purchase a baleen whale this morning, much like this specimen, but preferably more sanitary. Might you have one in stock?”

She shook her cleaver a halfheartedly. “Back in my day, I used to outrun all the lads.” She hobbled back to her fish stand. “Are you getting any work?”

“Not lately. I sold some rabbits to Missus Myfany last week.” He tossed the eel’s carcass into the bay. “Have you heard any news about our neighbors?”

She plucked up a sea bass by the gills and slapped its skull onto the nail that stuck up from on her butcher’s block. “I spoke with a skipper from Iberia this morning. He saw a couple keels crossing the channel. Saxons, I suppose.” She rubbed her thigh.

“Did you injure yourself?”

“I took a spill the other day. My bum is all sore. And here I go chasing a sneak thief.”

Merthen dug into his cloak pocket, and pulled out a strip of willow bark. “Chew on this. It should reduce the swelling. Unfortunately, I know of no poultice to protect you from thievery. I shall keep an eye out for your little crook.”

“No point to that.” She wiped some scales off her hands. “Some slaver will ship him off. I see those street orphans once, maybe twice, never three times.”

“Excuse me?” said Merthen. A drop of sweat rolled down his face.

“Are you all right?”

Merthen sat down, with his legs forward like a child. He shuddered briefly, then closed his eyes. Tears streamed down his cheeks.

Widow Blodwen stumbled onto her knees. She shook him by the shoulders. “Merthen? Mister Ambrosius? Can you hear me?”

* * *

All he could hear was the creaking of a slave ship. He opened his eyes. A single clay lamp lit the galley. He tried to move his legs, but the cage that surrounded him was too confining. A rat arched its back in the corner.

He covered his face and screamed. More rats appeared. Their claws tapped against the wooden floor.

Through a dim haze, Merthen saw the figure of a street urchin with a splint of glowing sandalwood in his dirty little hands. The boy remained silent. The sweet figgy fragrance of blossoming bo trees wafted through the air.

Merthen called out, “There is nothing I can do! Can you not see this?”

Like a troupe of dancers, the rats paired off into four sets of two. Each couple paced around in a circle, one following the tail of the other. Merthen focused on the first pair. One of the creatures was emaciated. Its cohort was fat.

The second pair emitted noises. One hissed like a snake while the other cooed like a dove. The third set consisted of one contented individual, and one who was forever dissatisfied. The last two rats were mirror images; one exuded love under all conditions, the other perpetually withheld it.

Merthen cried, “I am trapped! Save me!”

Faster and faster the rats twirled. A whirlwind spiraled up from each pair. The flame in the clay lamp flickered, then went out.

Merthen extended his arm as far as he could. With his bare hand, he grabbed for the boy’s burning incense. In so doing, Merthen snuffed out the ember, casting himself into total darkness.

“Enough,” he screamed, “enough!” Although he could no longer see the rats, he could hear them crawling ever closer. The slither of their tales brushed against his ankles. He shivered. It all seemed oddly familiar.

And then he realized that he was repeating the events that had taken place earlier in the day. What he was experiencing was not reality, but a mental formation: a half-cocked hallucination cobbled together from jumbled memories. It had been a while since he had suffered one of these episodes. He was rather hoping he had seen the last of them.

One of the rats clasped its forepaws onto the soft skin below his toenail. Merthen wanted to remain dispassionate, to observe this pain as if he was an outsider. If he could only overcome the attachment to the self, none of this would concern him. He would be free.

But instead he wept. Was it just the harsh sting of the rat’s sharpened teeth piercing the tips of his toes? Or was it the frustration that they had come back again, forcing him once more to bleed so they could lap up his warm wet blood.

His emotions swung between infantile terror and abject confusion. His thoughts were knotted together, like the rigging of a ship whose mast had been snapped off in a storm. He was unable to tell where one strand ended and the other began. When ropes get bollixed like that, all a sailor can do is find his sharpest knife and cut the lines.

Perhaps that was why there was only one thought that Merthen’s exhausted consciousness could generate. It was, “Kill the rats. Kill them all.”

* * *

Merthen’s cheeks were bitter cold. Did someone slap his face? He opened his eyes. Widow Blodwen still held the wash bucket she had just emptied onto him. His hair was sopping wet.

“Where have I been?” he asked. “What did I say?”

Blodwen hoisted him onto a keg of salt and patted his cheeks dry with her kerchief. “You were right here. You said nothing. What happened?”

“I appear to have been struck by a mania.” He took a swig from the water sack that hung from his belt. “I apologize for exposing you to my malady.”

She gasped. “Mother of God! You had a vision. Did you see an angel? Did you see a fairy?”

“No.” He massaged his temples with the flat of his hands.

Merthen put no stock in angels, fairies, or the charlatans who claimed to commune with them. Sorcerers and oracles were manipulative liars, reaping profit from broken souls desperate for answers. Even the Buddha, a man who would have gladly shared his dinner with a congress of demons, had no patience for those who, as he put it, trafficked in miracles.

“All I saw,” said Merthen, “was a boy.”

Blodwen inched closer. “What do you suppose that means?”

Merthen knew better than to affix meaning to the froth stirred up by his hallucinations. And yet, a vague concept congealed in his mind. The urchin boy he saw during his madness was holding incense like a monk. Could this boy be trained as a monastic? If that were true, then Merthen would not be the only one. Why, he might even start a monastery.

But then again, no. This was foolishness. Merthen was far too familiar with the dangers of expectation. Expectation led to craving and attachment. It enslaved the mind to the illusion that things are not impermanent. He would not tempt that, not again.

“It meant absolutely nothing,” he finally said. A young woman was eyeing the brook trout on Blodwen’s display table. “You have a customer.”

“She can wait. Like it or not, you are not an average man, Mister Merthen. I may not be as worldly as you, but I know how many beans make five. This is a sign, old boy. Anyone can see that.”

Merthen flung off his cloak. “You are far too superstitious.” His flaxen blouse and orange silk neckerchief were drenched in perspiration. “Is there some place I can hang these?”

Chapter 2

Chapter II: The Corn Moon, AD 480

Fallaces sunt rerum species.

The appearances of things are deceptive.

* * *

A savage’s life is most precarious. Most children born to Saxon mothers succumb to illness or want before they take their first step. Few Germans live to see their grandchildren, but those who do have a fair chance of reaching sixty. Some even make it to ninety, an achievement almost unheard of, even among the Romans.

The longevity of the German has much to do with his habitat. As a creature of the woodlands, he must be always alert, physically fit, and able to adapt to the vagaries of the wild. And so it was with Merthen, whose life in the forest had exposed him to nature’s harshest schooling.

Like the savages, he had learned how to survive, and did so to a very great age. Indeed, most of the merchants in Carmarthen had never seen him with anything but a crop of white hair. To them, he was like a feature on the landscape: a weathered boulder that had always just been there.

Thus, no one in the marketplace took much notice when Merthen rested on a crate by the docks. He bit into his apple and watched the clouds dissipate over Carmarthen Bay. Nearby, sandpipers dipped their oblong beaks into mudflats fringed with sea grass. If Merthen were to spend all of eternity re-living just this very moment, that would be acceptable.

* * *

And then, there was silence. A Carthaginian freighter anchored by the shoals stood still. Even its sails were motionless, like a ship in a cathedral mosaic showing Jonah being cast overboard.

Merthen observed Mister Hopcyn, the rag-and-bone-man, standing as if frozen, not even blinking. Even more unusual was the cracked frying pan Mister Hopcyn had just tossed into to his barrow. This piece of wrought iron refuse was now hanging in mid-air, not moving in any direction.

Merthen could not hear the crash of the waves, because the waves had ceased to crash. There was no wind, no motion of any stripe. As far as Merthen could tell, the only object in the universe which still possessed mobility was he himself. Was this some kind of dream?

A bird erupted in song. “Sita Ram Ram Ram,” it sang, “Jay Jay, Sita Ram Ram Ram.”

From behind the harbor master’s house, a finch-sized songbird with a pink-orange belly flew through the stillness. It was a Kashmir flycatcher from the steamy forests of the Orient. How could this tiny creature have migrated all the way to Britannia’s chilly shores? And why on earth would it want to?

The bird perched on the head of Merthen’s walking stick. She clasped her claws into the tip of the wooden swan’s beak.

“The boy,” she said, “tell me about the boy.”

Merthen did not try to shoo her away. Instead he jiggled the eighteen wooden beads on his bracelet. “Stay calm,” he muttered to himself. “All dharmas are marked with emptiness.”

She bowed, or came as close to it as her bird knees would allow. “Permit me to introduce myself, I am Lady Gopi from Lake Sambhar, haven of the pink flamingos. I have been retained as the investigator for your trial. Your defense attorney, Bright-eyed Athena, requested I compile a report regarding your relationship to the boy. I would like to ask you a few questions, Lord Wizard.”

He breathed in. He permitted his eyelids to slide shut. When he reopened them, the bird was still there. “I am not a wizard,” he said, but he did not say it to her. Rather he declared it as a kind of verbal reminder designed to keep himself on course. “And, you are not a bird. This is a hallucination.”

She hopped onto his shoulder. “Have you ever had a hallucination like this before?”

He had, but he was not about to tell her. Over the years, he had trained his mind to deal with his untrustworthy perceptions. There was no point in arguing with the beings that arose from his warped imagination. No matter how he reasoned with them, they always claimed to be real. The proper course of action was to ignore them. Eventually, they would dissolve back into nothingness.

The bird chirped, “The gods just have a few questions, Lord Wizard.”

Merthen snorted. “The gods? What rot.”

As a youth, Merthen had been taught to associate polytheism with Huns, Germans, and other smelly brutes. But once he set eyes on the deity-packed temples of the Ganges Valley, he realized just how refined a pagan could be. As years went by, the Holy Trinity and the four heads of Brahma blurred together in his mind. Regardless of their number, they all seemed callous and aloof.

Lady Gopi jumped onto a hitching post. “It shall not take long.”

“Lake Sambhar is located in India,” said Merthen. “Why are you working for a Greek goddess? And what in Beelzebub’s name are you doing here in Britannia?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” she said, batting her eyes. “You are quite fortunate. When the gods try most men, they rarely conduct such a thorough investigation. Now then, about the boy.”

Merthen scratched at his tonsure-like bald spot. “I have no idea what you are talking about. I suggest you return to that god-filled fairytale-land from which you emanate, and inform your employers that I do not care if they damn me. I should think they would wait till I was moldering in the grave before passing judgment on me.”

“Not really. From their perspective, time does not work that way.”

“Well in that case, you shall have to enlighten me. Tell me, little squab, how does time work?”

* * *

Gopi did not answer. Instead Merlin’s ears were jolted by the crash of a pan landing in Mister Hopcyn’s cart. A briny gust blew in from across the Celtic Sea, rippling the sails on the Carthaginian freighter. The hitching post upon which the talking bird had roosted, was now empty. Lady Gopi was gone.

Merthen used to feel tremendous shame that he suffered from delusions. But as he grew older, he became somewhat grateful that had survived so long despite his madness. At least he was not some senile old codger who could only see faces from his past. Given Merthen’s personal history, such an illness would be more vicious than any torture the king’s men could devise.

But these were dark thoughts, nothing but rumination. Merthen was aware that they, like the talking animals, were not to be believed. He breathed in, and compiled a mental listing of all those things for which he should be thankful: his good health, his education, the cool crisp air of his mountain home.

His positive contemplation was broken by a jovial voice.

“Well look what we have here!” it said with a Frankish accent thick as butter sauce with capers. “By Ajax’s teats, could this be the Wizard of Britannia?”

This hearty hail issued forth from a raven-haired hunchback with one gray eye and one black. The stoop-shouldered fellow wore a yard-long stocking cap of red velvet, draped off to the left. Merthen followed its tassel down past the hunchback’s twisted arm to a shriveled leg, tipped with a toeless foot.

The hunchback said, “It is none other than I, Thumbs.” He gave a deep bow, well beyond the bounds of good taste. “I say, you look well, Ambrosius. We thought you were dead, old chum, but here you are tight as a tympanum.”

Seeing Thumbs harkened Merthen back to when he performed sleight-of-hand in the squares of Paris. He recalled Lord Marcian, the proprietor of the Inn of the Fountain who had an unquenchable thirst for the ladies. And there was James, the street corner cithara player, who sang quaint little ditties laced with gems of wisdom. As Romans go, old James was a good salt. Too bad he drank so much.

“I am afraid, Sir,” said Merthen, “that you have mistaken me for another. I am Merthen the Clerk, not Ambrosius the Wizard.”

“Nice try,” said Thumbs. “You are still wearing that girlish cravat. Besides, if you did not know it was me, why did you check my gimpy leg?”

Merthen tugged on the orange kerchief around his neck. He wore it out of dedication, a reminder of the monastic life he was forced to leave. If that piece of silk cost him a certain level of anonymity, so be it.

“What are you doing here?” said Merthen. “Did you run out of purses to snatch in Gaul?”

Thumbs exhaled. “Actually, I came into a modest windfall and determined it was due time I toured your sunny island. So, what brings you to this fine market? Still captivating the crowds with your stinging bowl?”

“Nowadays, I grow apples and bunnies.” Merthen patted the bundle of rabbit pelts on his lap. “And I clerk a bit.”

Thumbs chuckled. “What a waste of talent. You should come back to the continent. Did you hear? King Syagrius sent a petition to Emperor Zeno in Byzantium. Paris is going to rejoin the Roman Empire.”

“What, again? Since when is Syagrius a king? Last I heard, he was still calling himself governor.”

“He goes back and forth. Do you recall little Morgan, the beer wench with the wicked hind end? She was always fascinated with your shows.”

“The redhead? I thought her name was Faye.”

“Aye, that was her. She has become Syagrius’s personal chambermaid, so to speak.” Thumbs elbowed him in the ribs. “You know the Romans still talk about you. Remember that trick you did with the glass? How did you burn that paper?”

Merthen felt a tap on his shoulder. It was Mister Bedwyr the clothier, with a bolt of cambric under his arm. He aimed it at Thumbs. “Is this man with you?”

Merthen bowed. “Not really, no.”

In one swift action, Bedwyr dropped the fabric and pulled out his linen shears. He pressed them against Thumb’s neck. “Give me the thread!”

Thumbs swallowed hard.

Merthen considered making up a cockamamie story that would inspire the clothier to slash Thumbs to bits. But there would be no justice in that, and far too much blood. Instead, Merthen asked, “What did he take from you, Bedwyr?”

“A spool of silk. He was chatting it up with my wife. Once he left, the thread was gone.”

Merthen motioned toward the shears with his walking stick. “Those are exceedingly sharp. I suggest you empty your pockets.”

“Oh, I see,” said Thumbs, “blame the cripple.” He tipped open his purse and emptied its contents: a dozen coins and a bent silver pin. “Is this how you treat all your visitors?” He removed his cloak and shook it. Out fell a few chunks of hard tack and a sketch of a naked woman. She was licking a sweet plum.

“The hat,” said Bedwyr. “Take it off.”

Thumbs shook his claw-like hand. “No!”

Bedwyr yanked the cap off, exposing Thumbs’s left ear, a pink oval hole with a half-inch long spike of skin above it. Bedwyr stepped back.

Through clenched teeth, the red-faced Thumbs muttered, “Satisfied?”

Merthen retrieved the hat from the ground, genuinely surprised that Thumbs had not nicked the thread. “It appears he is innocent, or at least less guilty than usual.”

Bedwyr shook his makeshift dagger and scowled. “There is a Visigoth ship leaving at sun-up. Be on it.” He rolled up his fabric and marched away.

Merthen handed over the hat. “You know they burn Hebrews here. If the knight constable learns you are a son of David, you shall find a spike up your colon before you can say Ave Maria.”

Thumbs twisted his chin around, unimpressed. “That was just my stage persona. Besides, I only claimed to be half Jewish.” He unrolled a loose flap of skin that covered where his collarbone met his hump. From underneath it, he retrieved a spool of purple thread.

Merthen snapped it out of Thumb’s’ one good hand. “I shall tell Mister Bedwyr that I found this lying about. The ship you will be boarding tomorrow is moored at Saint Catherine’s dock.”

Thumbs crouched low to gather his belongings. “You know old man, spending time with you Welschmann is making me think it might be nice to be cooped up on a ship full of Germans.” He stood up. “If it is not too much bother, could you provide me with a place to bunk tonight?”

“I live up in the hills. You are much too lame to make the trip, and I am much too feeble to carry you. Go sleep on the Visigoth’s ship.”

“A barn would do. Might you have any friends who would take in a renter?”

“A few,” said Merthen. “But if I directed you to them, they would no longer be my friends. You steal in your sleep, Thumbs.” A misty rain began to fall. Merthen slipped his hood over his head. “Now, if you were my friend, I would strongly recommend that you locate a vessel pointed west and board it. You need to go home, and so do I.”

“But you cannot just leave me here alone?”

Merthen wrapped his fingers around his walking stick. “Solitude can be an edification. I would like to say go in peace, Thumbs, but we both know you are far too lubricious for that. Instead I will simply say, find a boat and watch your back.” He walked away.

From up north there was a lone clap of thunder. Thumbs scooted off to the whitesmith’s stall. It had a roof.

Merthen plodded up the road. Above him the grey clouds glided by, until they came to a dead stop. The scant raindrops that were falling ceased to descend any further. Just as before, there was no wind, no sound, no movement.

* * *

Using her blunt black beak, Lady Gopi tugged on one of the long white hairs that sprouted from Merthen’s earlobe. Her claws clung onto his collar. “If I may ask,” she said, “when did you get so grumpy?”

Merthen rubbed his tired eyes. “Back again? I must be going potty. Did I eat a bad mushroom?”

Gopi asked, “What did the rats signify? The ones in you saw in your vision last week. Why were they in four pairs?”

“So… the talking bird wants to know about the spinning rats? How about this: you flitter off and ask the Goddess Athena about the rodents. Given her reputation for intellectual agility, I think she should be able to figure it out.”

The bird shimmied her tail. “I am not one of your visions,” she said.

“Well, in that case, let us examine your line of inquiry. If as you claim, Bright-eyed Athena is so bright-eyed, why is daughter of Zeus even bothering to pose the question? What could a simpleton such as I possibly tell the goddess of wisdom that she does not already know?”

“You raise a valid point. I will have to discuss this with my patron.” Gopi flapped her wings and took to the air. “Good day, Wizard Merlin.” She glided over the eastern highlands, deftly avoiding the glass-like drops of water that were, by all appearances, refusing to submit to the pull of Mother Earth.

Merthen pounded his staff onto the muddy turf. “Mer-then!” he cried, “My name is Mer-then, you bloody half-pint pigeon!”