A Roman scholar of any kind (by which I mean, whether utter frauds like Publius Cornelius Tacitus or profound philosophers such as my former mentor, Marcus Gaius Sabeno) will have read Julius Caesar’s, Conquest of Tartarus. Indeed, many of us will have utilised the text as an early reader. With its simple vocabulary, plodding Latin and fear of any grammatical sentence construction other than the past perfect, it is excellently suited to such a purpose. Sapentia (the young legate I introduced to you on her arrival at Betws-y-Coed), despite her military profession, was a scholar. She too had been given Julius Caesar at a young age. For her the experience had been formative: inspired by the adventures of the Roman army in the realm of Uffen (I use the more accurate Welsh term to Caesar’s Tartarus), Sapentia discovered within her a passion for matters magical.

For reasons of high politics, I am not, myself, an expert in magic. My Roman readers will no doubt be well aware that the imperial attitude towards magic is one of hostility. What the royal family cannot control, they invariably want to destroy. Matters were different in the past and I have since discovered that in the early days of the Republic, the Sí even had representatives in the senate. Not that you would find this in the carefully edited versions of Livy that are allowed to circulate. Up until my fall from grace and my exile, I too shared the official disapproval of all matters magical. Those who broached the subject with me – including the child Sapentia – were scorned and shown the cold shoulder.[1]

When, therefore, the empress required an officer to travel with the task of enlisting a powerful sorcerer for the army, Sapentia did not hesitate to volunteer. And, of course, she obtained the mission. Most of her contemporaries considered life outside of Rome to be second rate, they abhorred the provinces, finding them dull, harmful to the palate and, above all, unfashionable. Moreover, to take such a mission would mean losing track of the political trends of the moment and this, in turn, might very well mean a subsequent loss of position. Then too, there was the risk that ever afterwards, you would be tainted by your association with the world of magic. For Sapentia, however, leaving Rome was only a hardship in one regard: very few provincial towns had libraries to match those in Rome. Other than that, Sapentia was excited by her task. Here was a chance to explore the fantastical world she had read so much about in private and — her secret daydream — an opportunity to discover if she were able to perform magic herself.

Her desire to be a magician was never likely to be fulfilled, something that Sapentia would have been well aware of. My — admittedly limited — understanding of the subject leads me to believe that the art of performing magic consists in persuading the spirits of objects and places to carry out an action on the magician’s behalf. It is an art where the ability to communicate with spirits is essential, yet that ability seems confined only to those of Sí descent. No doubt there are Romans with such a heritage. It was most unlikely, though, that Sapentia was one of them. Not only could she trace her ancestors back through eight generations of pure Roman stock, but her own physique spoke against her.

The Sí, as I have already observed, are tall, dark-haired, pale of skin and delicate of feature. Sapentia was small, stocky, brown skinned and her curly hair, normally kept short in military fashion, was light brown too. Temperamentally, too, there seems to be no connection between Sapentia’s essential honesty, not to say naivety, and the duplicitous, scheming character of the Sí.

Still, Sapentia had successfully made her way to the most magical town in the known world and, after storing her equipment in the room provided for her use, she was taking a stroll along a well-worn path on the west bank of the river Conwy. She had never been happier.

‘It’s not too bad a place, for its reputation.’ Beside her, Alerus walked with the regular pace of a Roman soldier who had travelled thousands of miles back and forth across Europe. It was a pace that was rather too fast for Sapentia’s liking, given the fascinating flowers and trees all around them, not to mention the dragonflies, rare butterflies, and other large insects that she would have liked to examine.

‘I thought they were very friendly.’

‘Too friendly, though, aye?’

‘Well, indeed. We must make sure this Arthyr is a real magician of the first calibre.’

Alerus paused and gave her a searching look.

‘Legate. You and me have gotten to know each other this mission. So I know you won’t take it amiss when I give you some advice.’

‘No indeed, not.’

‘Try to disguise your enthusiasm for magic. When we are back in civilization, I mean. It’s not your nature to lie. You can leave that to me. It’s when I’m gone I’m worried about. The aristocracy hate magic. If the empress wants a magician, it’s to do some shitty task — excuse the language — that no one else can do.’

‘I know.’

‘And when he’s done whatever he’s supposed to do, do you also know what will happen to him?’

‘No?’

Alerus drew a finger across his throat.

‘Surely not.’

‘Surely so. As sure as I’ve seen all those that rise fast come to the Potter’s Field.’[2]

‘You are a cynic, Alerus. I, on the other hand, am an Epicurean.’

‘I’m not any kind of philosopher. But I do know how the royalty works and I fear for you, I really do. Please, listen carefully to a man who may be lowly but has seen it all.’

‘I’m listening.’ And she really was paying close attention to her faithful sergeant.

‘Hide your enthusiasm for magic, treat this as a mission you carried out only out of necessity. Don’t get involved with whatever comes next. Otherwise, when he’s dispensed with, you will be too.’

It was a shame, thought, Sapentia, that good men such as Alerus thought so little of the empress and the royal family. Why then, did such disloyal soldiers fight so bravely? If not for the empress, was it for some notion of Rome? Some pride in the empire that transcended the person at the head of it? Despite all she had learned in the course of the journey, Sapentia understood that she had only a shallow insight into the thinking of the lower social orders.

‘Thank you Alerus. I appreciate your candid remarks. I’m flattered you trust me with such a treasonable opinion. What you don’t appreciate, however, is that the empress is my friend and mentor. She has given me personal guidance in my career and in my studies. And I have to say, she’s not the woman you think she is.’

‘Is that right?’ Alerus sounded sulky now and Sapentia regretted having used the potent word ‘treason’.

‘I’ve seen her addressing her opponents in the senate and always she speaks from conviction not guile.’

‘It’s not her speeches I’m worried about. It’s the quiet visit at night.’

As Sapentia struggled for a response that would convey to her sergeant an example of how, although sometimes harsh, Empress Lisia always acted within the law, she heard the laughter of children. Up ahead was a stile that allowed passage through a hedgerow of thorny bushes. And on that stile was a Sí!

‘Bugger me.’ Alerus drew his stout, iron sword.

Laughing, the Sí came down the path, tossing a silver ingot from hand to hand (one of which was bandaged). ‘What’s this? Romans!’

Behind him, a dozen human children fought to clamber over and see what was happening. When they were all across the stile, Sapentia could see that they were four teenagers, and several others even younger. Were they hostile? Or curious? It didn’t matter. All that mattered was the Sí.

‘You’re a long way from home, Romans.’ The Sí put away his piece of silver and made sweeping gestures with his arms. As he did so, his lips moved silently and his eyes — O, what stunning deep green eyes — closed.

‘Magic!’ exclaimed Alerus with anger as clusters of bulrushes, ten feet tall, reached across from the river and grasped their legs with surprising strength. Her sergeant began hacking at them with his sword.’

‘Magic,’ whispered Sapentia to herself and watched with fascination as the animate vegetation gripped her shins, knees and calves.

‘What shall we do with them?’ The Sí turned to his companions.

‘Roll them in nettles?’ suggested a young boy, prompting a rush of other ideas.

‘Drown them in the river?’

‘Turn them into salmon?’

‘Sacrifice them to Twll Du.’

Some part of her mind registered that these were uncouth threats and that her status as a legate was being insulted. Her main thought, however, focused on the issue of transformation. Could the Sí really alter her so that she could become a fish? Would it not be delightful to have the experience of swimming and breathing water?

With the rushes having now caught Alerus by his sword arm, he was unable to cut himself free and he was groaning with the strain of resisting their pull. The discomfort of her sergeant was clearly a source of amusement to these children, all of whom were grinning.

‘If you are Arthyr, you can stop this right now!’ her red-faced companion managed to shout between clenched teeth.

Of course, Arthyr. Arthyr.

The Sí muttered something and drew a pattern in the air with both his hands, causing the rushes to retreat to their proper place on the riverbank where they nodded to a gentle breeze with complete innocence.

His mouth a snarl, Alerus picked up his sword and sheathed it. ‘That’s better.’ Then he turned to Sapentia and whispered, ‘close your mouth, this is our man.’

It was true, her lips were parted in a wide O despite the hundreds of midges that danced in front of them. By Zeus, though, Sapentia had never seen anyone so beautiful. Could she earn the good opinion of this fabulous being?

‘So, Romans. What do you want with Arthyr?’

His voice was like music.

‘We need you.’ Sapentia had to shake off a sense of her own inadequacy in order to speak. She was a Roman aristocrat, educated in the city that was queen of the world. She had the authority of the immense and indestructible Roman army behind her and he was merely the barbarian. Yet, before the young Sí’s fine looks and even more so, in the face of his impressive magical powers, she felt childish and weak. ‘That is to say, the empress needs you. She desires that you serve in her army and assist against dark forces that have invaded our lands from Tartarus.’

All at once, the mockery was gone, Arthyr looked sombre, causing Sapentia to yearn for him to laugh and smile once more. It seemed as though the evening sun had gone behind a cloud. ‘And what if I refuse?’

Alerus wore his most venal expression. ‘We have a great deal of coin to offer you.’

No, Sapentia knew at once this would not do and she winced.

‘What do I need your coins for? I have all I need here, or in Uffen.’

‘We offer you adventure, travel, fame. There is more to the world than Betws-y-Coed.’ Sapentia waved, vaguely in the direction of Rome. Well, all directions led to Rome.

Surprised, Arthyr held her eyes for a moment. A shocking forest-green moment. ‘That’s better, Roman, that’s almost tempting. But I would not break my parents’ hearts.’

‘Ahh. I don’t think the decision on that point is entirely yours.’ Alerus sounded almost amused. ‘I think your head man has something to say on the subject.’

‘You mean Ithel, the druid? What is that old fool up to now?’

‘He’s had you banished, or exiled. Go see.’ Alerus stood aside from the path. With a frown, the Sí rushed past, leaving the children behind. They, it seemed, no longer had any desire to taunt the Romans and when they walked on towards the town, it was in silence. An older girl, tall and dark, perhaps seventeen, gave them a long, cool look but said nothing.

Left to themselves, Sapentia studied the rushes for any lingering sign of magic. With her nose held high, she closed her eyes in the hope of catching any unusual scents. Was that a frisson of lightning? Like the scent of the sparks from a woollen garment when rubbed vigorously? Or just her imagination? Perhaps one day this handsome young man would explain to her what he had just done and she could learn the skill.

‘He’ll do, won’t he?’ Aelrus sheathed his sword.

‘Oh, yes indeed. The empress will be pleased.’

‘Even though we don’t know for sure he’s the most powerful one?’

‘What other means can we use to judge that matter, other than the word of their druid?’

‘Right. I were just checking. So, we can leave in the morning?’

‘If he’s willing.’

[1] Roman men of the higher classes wear a toga, tied above the right shoulder. In matters such as making a gesture of greeting or farewell, or in casting a vote in the senate, it is the right hand which is superior (one is dexterous) and the left that is dubious (a left-handed person is sinister). To turn one’s uncovered left shoulder towards someone seeking your conversation is therefore very rude indeed and I am rather ashamed to admit to having done so.

[2] A field of ours to the east of the city, with repugnant open pits for refuse and the bodies of those too poor for the correct funeral rites.