46

The garrison consisted of a cohort of the remaining auxiliaries from the northern parts of the empire, the parts of the empire that were becoming more and more restless themselves, subject to inroads from barbarian hordes. The news came to her, even here in this distant land in messages from her father and her stepbrother, and from her stepson Constantine and in letters from Julia, happy now with her sister in Deva. She heard no more from Valeria and Julia didn't mention her. The tribal elders at Dinas Dinlle had suggested tutors for the boys and Branwen had interviewed and finally chosen a woman from one of the surviving colleges of the sacred studies of Britannia to progress the girls with their reading and writing. When she took them out into the woods and valleys of the great mountains, Elen sometimes went with them to study the arts of healing with the wild herbs of the countryside, their stories and their astrological attributes, for as Branwen said, even the greatest ruler should be able to direct their household with knowledge that would inspire respect.

Not greatly to her surprise, two faces had appeared from time to time at her small court in Segontium over the course of the last year or so, the two men to whom her daughters had been -promised by their father. The first, Ennodius, rode in one -summer's day at the turn of the century, laden with gifts and promises forthe future. Of senior rank in Valentinian's army, he had somehow cleverly avoided censure for any contact he might have had with Macsen's family. He was bound, it appeared, for a posting in North Africa and wished to take with him as wife the elder daughter of an emperor, even a disgraced emperor, to whom he had been promised. It didn't appear to matter to him that Macsen and his family had been disbarred, and the reason soon became apparent. He had, it seemed, met Maxima several times under her father's supervision, a secret the girl had kept close to her heart. Since their arrival at Segontium the official messengers destined to speak to the commander of the fort had on several occasions had an extra letter addressed to one of the -daughters of the former emperor and had willingly acquiesced to being part of the secret tryst. Elen had met Ennodius many times before when, as a senior officer, he had visited the court at Treverorum and then at Mediolanum before Macsen had set off on that final fatal march to Apuleia. Faced with a signed marriage contract and the pleading eyes of her elder daughter, Elen could not bring herself to refuse. Maxima was much the same age as she herself had been when she had been told she was to marry a Roman general. All she could do was give them her blessing and pray for the child's safety and happiness in a country she could only imagine, the country of brilliant skies and hot sands and strange exotic animals, that Valeria had once described for her.

With Maxima gone it was obvious that Sevira would not be far behind. She, the more forceful of the sisters, could also claim a prearranged contract, hers with the British prince Vortigern. For Elen this match was more welcome. Vortigern was someone she knew well. One of the rulers of the province, he had often appeared at their table in Gaul before Macsen had despatched him back to Britannia, the eldest son of a king, and a worthy match for the spirited Sevira. Once Sevira had gone she knew it would only be a matter of time before she left the fort with the boys. There was nothing left for her there now.

* * *

Marcus Quintus, commander of the garrison, gave a perfunctory bow and held out the letter to Elen. ‘It came this morning with the general's messenger service.' It had been opened, she noted, although her name was clear on the wrapping.

She rose from her chair in the corner of the reception room and went to the window where the sunlight fell in a narrow beam across the floor. Unfolding the parchment, she began to read. It had been written by her brother Conan and endorsed with an initial at the bottom– her father's. His hand was frail now, and the ink had spattered across the page. ‘Why did you open this?' She glanced up. ‘It is addressed to me.'

He gave a careless shrug. ‘Opened in error. Everything else in the bag was army business.'

She glared at him and went back to the letter. Conan had written this himself. She recognised his writing. Normally he used a scribe.

We hear that Stilicho, Theodosius's most powerful general, is recalling any remaining army divisions from Britain to help the defence of the empire. He is not providing any further wages to pay the garrison at Segontium and orders have been sent to the commanding officer there to pull his men out without delay.

‘So, you have obviously read this, and presumably you have received your orders to take the men overseas.'

He nodded. There was a gleam of excitement in his eyes. ‘We march out within days.'

‘And I presume Stilicho knows that I am here, in this distant land at the furthest corner of the empire? And that has made him think of it particularly. So, what will happen to your men's children? Their families in the vicus? Some of them have been based here for years.'

‘They can come with us or stay. Up to them. There will be no more money, as you see, to pay salaries. Most of the women are local peasants anyway, or slaves.' She thought he was going to spit on the floor, but he stopped himself in time. ‘They shall all have their right to freedom and to Roman citizenship, but I doubt many of them will want to come with us.'

‘And what will happen'– she was not going to give him the satisfaction of hearing her worry about herself– ‘to the fort?'

Another shrug. Someone else's problem. After a moment he relented. ‘I expect your Britunculli friends will help you. They will probably move in and take it over. King Cunedda will make this one of his bases at least for a time, to keep the pirates at bay. Many of the Hibernian tribespeople have already settled along this coast. They are no longer a threat, preferring to live at peace with their neighbours, so the danger to the western shores is not so great. The danger comes across the Mare Germanicum. The walls and fortifications here are well maintained and the vallum will hold at least for a while. You have no immediate need to leave, if Cunedda agrees.' With a salute and a click of the heels he turned and left the room, not bothering to wait for her to dismiss him.

For a long time she sat in silence, the letter in her hand, as the ray of sunlight through the narrow window moved across the floor and disappeared. Peblig found her sometime later, still staring into space. ‘Mama?' Gently he took the letter out of her hand and read it.

‘We knew it would happen,' he said at last. ‘The king of the Ordovices will help us.'

She sighed. ‘That's what the commander said.'

He grinned. ‘It will be nicer without the garrison.'

She looked up at him and suddenly she realised he was right. They had lived here for years now and they had not been happy. She missed Macsen and she missed her eldest children enormously. Her heart would always ache for little Victor, trying so hard to be the heir his father had wished. The others who had stayed with her had filled her days with joy and anxiety and exhaustion as did all children, or so she supposed. Finding -people to take care of them, to educate them, to entertain them had not been easy but she had managed it and she had loved them all dearly. Maxima had gone now to distant North -Africa, and Sevira was married to Prince Vortigern, set to become, -perhaps, high king after her father. Anwn was training as a -military architect and strategist at the court of King Cunedda, and only Owain and Peblig remained at home. Owain wanted to fight. He couldn't wait to go into the army, anybody's army. Both boys, teenagers now, had inherited their father's ambition, but also their mother's love of their land. Peblig was the gentlest of her sons, studious, anxious to look after his mother. He was intensely conscious of the fact that he had been baptised by the great Bishop Martin and already felt in some deep part of his heart a calling to prayer.

It was Peblig who suggested that they pull down what remained of the Mithraeum, wash the floors with holy water and dedicate the site to Christ. The place was shady, and sinister. There was no one there now; it was a long time since it had witnessed any of the mysterious rites that used to go on there, but Elen was sure she could smell the blood of the slaughtered bulls, hear their bellows of fear and pain. Workmen from the vicus and from Dinas Dinlle who had come to help pull it down, stared round with fear in their eyes as they approached the place with sledgehammers and set to work to demolish the already ruined walls.

‘Did my father really worship here?' Peblig approached her, covered in dust, his hands cracked and bleeding from pulling down the stones. ‘God rest his soul. I hope and pray he was forgiven.'

‘Bishop Martin heard his confession. And blessed and baptised him.' Elen looked round uncomfortably. There were still echoes of the old gods here, of Mithras and of the Sol Invictus, the unconquered sun. ‘I'm sure your father went to heaven.'

Was she sure? She looked around at the rubble that was all that was left of the temple and thought back to the time she stood almost on this exact spot and heard the singing coming from deep in the ground at her feet. She shivered. Around them the remaining men from the fort stopped work one by one and watched her nervously. It would take only one bird of ill omen flying overhead to panic them into throwing down their tools and fleeing the site. These men were not followers of the Christian faith, but they were not followers of Mithras either. They feared the soldiers' god and the bloody sacrifices that had taken place here.

Peblig stepped forward and raised his hands in prayer. He was a good-looking boy, almost a young man, she corrected herself as she watched him. His hair was fair, fairer than hers now, whereas his brothers were swarthy, dark-haired, their colouring inherited from their father. As they stood together with the men of the Ordovices tribe, watching the dust settling, a stray ray of sunlight pierced the clouds and fell across his face. ‘Pray with me, friends,' he cried. ‘Pray for a blessing on this place. I want there to be a church here, dedicated to Our Lord, Jesus Christ, and I want it to be a place for holy men to come and pray for peace and joy in this former fortress of war. Let us finish our work by burning the rest of this rubble, by cleansing it with fire.'

Elen closed her eyes. When she opened them she saw a shadow lying across the land, a shadow of high walls and crenelations, towers and battlements and she heard the shouts and screams of fighting men. She shuddered and the vision was gone as quickly as it had appeared. Was this then always to be a place of war? Surely they could stop it, bless it, make this a place of quiet contemplation.

And then she saw the sword, seeming to hang over the site, glittering in the sunlight. The special sword. Caledfwlch. She had given it back to the king of the Ordovices so many years ago, to keep it safe. But now she realised it would be Peblig who would claim it. Not to wield it, he would be a man of peace, but it would be for him to keep it hidden, here in his church. And she knew exactly where. The deep place in the heart of the Mithraeum, where the stone altar had been. Peblig would put the sword there under the stone, once it had been exorcised by fire, and blessed with holy water, and then the place would be walled up until the moment came for it to be used by a future king.

Her mood lifted and she felt her extraordinary happiness reflected slowly in the men around her. They might not be Christian, but they believed in the sacred, they believed in the triumph of good over evil. As their anxiety lifted she saw them return one by one to their work. Peblig put his arm around her shoulders and gave her a squeeze. ‘You felt it too?'

She nodded. ‘You have been blessed. Your mission here will be remembered forever.' She didn't know yet how or when his moment in history would come, but he was to play a part in the destiny of Albion. It was for him to discover how in due time.

They took Charles's car. As Cadi double-locked the front door she glanced up at the windows and whispered a prayer of protection. Meryn had taught her that. ‘Set the wards. Picture an angel at each corner of the house. They will protect it.' It was hard not to believe everything Meryn said, though her logical brain might dig her in the ribs and give a snide giggle, her heart said, Do it, what is there to lose; it will give you peace of mind . She threw her bags and her laptop into the back of the car and climbed into the front beside Charles. He put his foot flat in a good imitation of a quick getaway. There was no sign, as she glanced back over her shoulder of any other cars in the street.

‘Dai sent the police to check out my cottage.' Meryn met them in a teashop in Caernarfon. ‘They found dried bracken stacked against my back door and along under the windows. It hadn't been lit, thank God. There would have been no one to spot it if it had gone up.'

‘But Branwen saw what he was up to?'

‘She did. And scared him off. I would have given a great deal to witness that moment.' Meryn chuckled. ‘I think it best you're away from home until they locate him. I can't imagine how they saw fit to release him. Thank you.' He beamed up at the waitress who had brought them a large pot of tea, and platesof Welsh cakes and bara brith. ‘I want to show you the remains ofthe fort, and I think you should see St Peblig's church.'

Cadi stared at him. ‘I was writing about St Peblig. Peblig was one of Elen's sons. He was there as they pulled down the temple to Mithras and he vowed to build a church on the spot. But he can't have. This was too long ago, surely. Before Christianity took hold.'

‘Christianity was here in Wales almost from the beginning,' Meryn corrected her. ‘As early as the second if not the first century. A primitive form of Celtic Christianity, I believe. I've been looking up some of the stories about Elen as St Helen of Caernarfon, and she's credited by some with bringing the idea of small religious communities to Wales after her meeting with St Martin. So, this is all part of the legend, but once again it seems to be well founded in fact. The early Saxon invaders did much to damage that early tradition, as of course did the Vikings where they landed in Britain and slaughtered the churchmen. Hence the period they call the Dark Ages, a term I'm glad to say is swiftly becoming discredited and going out of fashion. The next wave of Christianity is attributed to Augustine and to the Age of the Saints, which was basically a century or so later, but Christianity was always here. And I mean here .' He waved towards the window. It looked out onto the town square and beyond it, the great castle looming over the town.

Cadi stared out. ‘She saw it,' she whispered. ‘Elen saw a vision of what was to come.'

‘The castle was long after her time. Built by Edward I towards the end of the thirteenth century.' Meryn helped himself to a Welsh cake.

‘And Excalibur. She had a vision of Excalibur. As a magical sword. Not just the weapon the elders of the tribe had inherited and hidden. That was a real sword. They planned to hide it in the church.'

‘Excalibur. As well as the holy grail. But you're right. Caernarfon is in the legends as well,' Charles spoke up at last. ‘There's lots about all this in modern guidebooks. They love these stories. Cornwall has had ownership of King Arthur for too long. Wales has just as good a claim. Better in some ways, though of course nothing can compete with Tintagel.' He grinned. ‘And then there's Merlin, of course, Merlin who faced up to King Vortigern and foresaw the battle of the red and white dragons under the floor at Castell Dinas Emrys.' He pushed the butter over towards Meryn.

‘Vortigern,' Cadi repeated. ‘Who married one of Elen's daughters.'

‘Date wise, is that possible?' Meryn asked thoughtfully. ‘Iguess so. After all, we're not sure when Vortigern lived any more than any of the other protagonists in this story.'

Cadi's phone pinged a message. They all looked at it as it sat on the table between them.

‘It's the police,' she whispered. She read the message and looked up with a rueful shrug. ‘It's OK. They've checked my house again and there's still no sign of him. Apparently they'll do a drive-by every now and then, but they advise me not to leave the house empty too long.'

‘Isn't it safer to stay here?' Charles glanced across at her.

She nodded. ‘Now I'm here, I would like to see the fort.' She was silent for a few moments, aware of their eyes on her. ‘I've been here so much in my head. Just me and Elen and a garrison of Roman soldiers.' Her smile was hesitant. ‘I'm completely torn. I don't know what to do.'

‘OK. Why don't we stay here for one night,' Charles said at last. ‘Then we can visit Segontium and the church, and we can take a drive out into the mountains this evening to see if we can locate anywhere from Elen's story that you want to see. I'll ring Chris at the mill. No.' He raised his hand as she started to -protest. ‘He asked me to. I'm going to tell him there won't be anyone in your house tonight and if he or anyone else can keep an eye on it, that would be good. Just the occasional glance down the road. We'll go back tomorrow afternoon. And you know the police will be driving by, whatever that means, so between them and Chris and probably Arwel as well, it will be safe. So, let's forget that wretched man for a while and go and immerse ourselves in ancient Gwynedd.'