The Camp Prefect’s dining hall had something of the character of the man himself. Its timbers were old and worn; the roof was low, creating an impression of squatness; and the furnishings were all scarred and threadbare from use. To Arthyr, the room to which he had been invited was surprisingly ordinary. And if the young magician had applied the term ‘surprisingly ordinary’ to the Prefect himself, despite the fact that he was in charge of Rome’s most important boot camp, Arthyr would have been quite right.

Present in the room, lying on their couches in the Roman fashion, were the Camp Prefect; Sapentia; a tall, elderly tribune, Calistina Metius Candida;[1] Druffus; and five slaves, one for each of the diners.

‘Welcome, legionnaire,’ said the Prefect, ‘Please take a seat.’ He pointed to the remaining free couch, which was between the two women. Hesitantly, Arthyr sat upright on the faded green upholstery, fingertips exploring the threads where they had nearly worn through to the padding. These were far finer than the wool which was spun back at home.

‘Relax!’ cried the Prefect, affecting an avuncular manner that Arthyr knew was only pretence. ‘Lie back as we do.’

‘I’d rather sit the way I’m used to,’ said Arthyr.

Both Druffus – eagerly – and Sapentia ­– anxiously – looked across at the Camp Prefect, whose gesture (one of waving away a difficulty) clearly disappointed Druffus.

‘That’s fine. We are off duty here tonight and you can sit however you please. And please, help yourself to food and drink.’ The Prefect nodded to the slave behind Arthyr’s seat, a middle-aged man, who carried a tray of small dishes which he placed on the table that was in front of Arthyr. Since all the vessels contained either meat or fish, Arthyr wasn’t interested in the food. But he did pour the contents of one bowl into another, to empty it so he could examine the pottery. There was a great deal of shadow around him, so Arthyr lifted the small, white bowl to illuminate it better with torchlight.

‘What are you looking at?’ asked the Prefect, ‘can you see something magical there?’

Arthyr laughed. ‘I cannot; not at all. I was thinking about the difference between my home and here. Your bowls have a smoother finish but somehow they are uglier than ours. You don’t decorate them.’

‘Not here, legionary; here in Aventicum you get standard issue pottery. Now if its beauty you want, you should visit one of the villas of Rome. Isn’t that right Calistina? Full of beautiful artefacts, those Roman houses.’

‘I had a villa in Rome once, and it certainly had some well made amphora in the Egyptian style. But I think there is something to be said for the designs of the people of Cambria, particularly their work in silver, which is in no way inferior to that of a Roman silversmith.’

‘Well, there we are.’ The Prefect rubbed his fleshy hands together, then helped himself to a deep draught of wine. ‘Romans and barbarians can both produce items of beauty. Now, I understand that you are to lead us to Tartarus. Can you tell us something of the hazards we will face there?’

There was a wildness in Arthyr that hated the Roman camp, hated this room, hated this meal, and hated Roman authority more generally. Although he knew he should try to contain that wildness and simply perform his duty on behalf of his people, the Prefect’s use of the word ‘barbarian’ meant that Arthyr couldn’t help but respond to this question with vigour. ‘Every spirit will hate you. Every stone will try to trip you. Every blade of grass will wish to poison you. Every drop of rain will seek to drown you. Every movement of the air will try to leave you breathless.’

‘Goodness!’ the Prefect laughed uncertainly. ‘You are a prophet I see. But seriously now, what are their armies like? What weapons do they bear? What strength is their armour? Do they have mangonels? Ballista?’

‘I was serious. Perfectly serious. You should not go there. Why would you when it will mean your deaths?’

There was no answer. Nor did anyone continue eating.

At last Druffus stirred. ‘You are one of them, aren’t you? A Sí.’

Arthyr gave a shrug. ‘By birth. But all I’ve ever known is my human family.’

‘Whom you care for?’ asked Druffus.

‘Of course.’

‘Do you understand what will happen to your human family if you betray us? What will happen to all of Cambria?’

And Arthyr did understand. The Roman army was enormous and well equipped. Betws-y-Coed was only ignored because it was too small and too remote for the Romans to care about. But Deva, to the north, and Caerwent, to the south, were powerful garrisons should the Romans ever have the desire to occupy Cambria or destroy its towns and make its inhabitants serve them.

‘I am not here because of your threats, Roman.’ Arthyr stood up. ‘I am here because my people keep their oaths.’

‘Now, now. Sit down legionnaire.’ The Prefect looked across at Arthyr and then added, ‘please.’

‘Do please, Arthyr, I am sorry for the rudeness of Druffus. But you might make allowances for the fact you broke his arm.’

During the long journey to Aventicum, Arthyr had learned that Sapentia lacked guile. Otherwise, he might have thought her words were carefully chosen both to appease his indignation and also provide a somewhat mocking check on Druffus by reminding him of Arthyr’s victory in the training ground. Certainly, that was how Druffus understood the legate and the small tribune flared up immediately.

‘Well, thank you for the meal Prefect, but I must go prepare for tomorrow’s exercise.’ To get to his feet with an arm strapped across his chest meant Druffus had to roll his legs around to the front of his couch And despite the murderous expression in the Roman’s face, Arthyr had to quell an instinct to laugh: there was something comical about the way the short man dropped to his feet.

‘Exercise?’ asked Sapentia.

The Prefect looked at her a little anxiously, ‘ah yes, the tribunes have arranged a battle for tomorrow – more of a game really – between the first five cohorts and the second five. It’s a well-established means of creating bonds of comradeship between the new recruits and the veterans.’

‘No one gets injured in such exercises I take it?’

Arthyr immediately felt more alert after Sapentia’s question. What was Druffus planning?

‘Minor injuries sometimes. The tribunes are on hand to adjudicate, there’s no actual fighting with real weapons.’

Sapentia looked thoughtful, then said, ‘I shall be one of the judges.’

Arthyr could see that the legate’s announcement was not welcomed by Druffus, if the scowl that flickered over his sullen face revealed his inner thoughts, but the Prefect attempted a tone of jollity. ‘Why certainly legate, thank you. The soldiers will exert themselves to the fullest with you watching them.’

With the briefest of salutes to the Prefect and the legate, Druffus strode out of the hall.

The Prefect gave a heavy sigh. ‘Druffus is a difficult man. He believes himself overlooked for promotion due to his … stature. But I hope you appreciate, legate, that the camp would hardly run without him.

Sapentia was looking at Arthyr and her shinning eyes suggested she had no interest at all in the departing officer. ‘Might you perform some magic for us?’

Calistina put down her wine and watched him with interest.

‘I’m not a performer.’ Arthyr was still irritated by Druffus and his threats.

‘Oh, indeed not. I didn’t mean to suggest it.’

‘And in any case, my connection with Uffen is weak here. I will probably disappoint you.’ Closing his eyes, Arthyr felt for the music of the spirit world. As ever in this camp, the presence of Uffen was diminished and dark. Certainly, there were no paths here to the other realm. There was, however, a nest in the top corner of the hall in which a pair of starlings rested. Cupping his hand, Arthyr reached out his thoughts to the birds and, hesitantly at first, the female skipped along a beam, then suddenly dived out of the shaded corner to land on the central table, where she picked among the food, finding a small, brown mussel, which she brought to Arthyr’s hand before taking off again for her nest.

‘Oh, that was rather well done,’ said Calistina. ‘I have only seen unconvincing street magic before today.’

The mussel smelled of vinegar and as he did not eat such food (like most of his people, Arthyr favoured milk and its products), Arthyr brushed it into an empty bowl and wiped his hand clean.

‘It was. It was indeed,’ the Prefect showed white teeth in his grey beard as he smiled at Arthyr.

‘Are you familiar with the writings of Cicero on starlings?’ asked Sapentia.

‘Ah, I believe so, but you might remind us.’ The Prefect seemed to be genuinely cheerful now that Arthyr had demonstrated a – very minor – example of magic.

‘Cicero believed that when large numbers of starlings swoop through the air, as they do at evening time, they are writing messages from the gods for the benefit of those wise enough to read them.’

Calistina nodded.

‘What do you think, Arthyr?’ asked Sapentia, looking at him with an earnest expression. ‘Are there messages in the flight of birds?’

This was not an easy question for the magician to answer. In the spirit world of Uffen, everything, from a pebble to a mountain, had a story. Certainly, the flight of birds was affected by the spirits around them. Many places and objects, some trees even, were not safe to land upon. And playful sprites of the air could find it entertaining to chase a bird or blow it off course. If you understood why a bird chose the exact path through the sky that it did, you would understand a great deal about the local environment and perhaps even a little of what the future held. Auguries of this sort, though, required a lot of study and conversation with the spirits of the area and therefore the question of avian behaviour was of far more interest to Merilyn than Arthyr.

Arthyr gave a shrug. ‘Sometimes, especially when they show an aversion to an area.’

‘That’s hardly the hand of a god writing in the sky though, is it?’ The Prefect snorted and took another deep drink from his goblet.

There was a red glow from the Prefect’s nose and across his cheeks that indicated he was an enthusiast for wine and as the evening continued, Arthyr witnessed the ceaseless motion of goblet to lip and the decline in the Prefect’s interest in anything else. When at last the Prefect excused himself and left the room to relieve himself, Arthyr got up and walked over to Sapentia. He leaned over her and whispered in her ear, ‘Gaius Flavius Norbanus greets you from contubernium nine-ten and says Rome is in danger.’

Curious to see if his message had any effect, Arthyr turned his attention to the young legate. She looked back at him with uneasy eyes.

[1] The same woman who wrote the scandalous, The Lives of Female Slaves in Naples During the Early Republic. While a work of fine scholarship, the unflattering descriptions of the slave-owners of Naples that the book contained generated a great deal of hatred towards the author from their descendants. Given that town’s excellence in the training of assassins, Calistina was perhaps fortunate to survive, albeit in the obscurity of a provincial training camp. As far as I’m aware, she did not attempt any further writing.