‘Stay,’ said the sylph, her arm outstretched, a smile on her lips.

Arthyr pushed himself up to a kneeling position, drawing his cloak about his shoulders. Tempted as he was to return to the gentle arms of the spirit there was a weight in his thoughts, a discolouration that made the green of the oakleaf enclosure surrounding them feel like a darkened cave and not a delightful canopy. ‘My apologies, lover. I am not free to do as I wish. I am under a kind of geas and must return to the Romans.’

Not that the Romans could have made him leave the sylph. Arthyr didn’t care in the slightest for their rules and their officers. No, the heaviness that drew him back towards his duty sprang from his imagination and in particular, how he imagined his family and the wider community of Betws-y-Coed. They required Arthyr to discharge an obligation their king had incurred towards the Romans. And they had a sense of honour that was as powerful as any geas.

As though aware of his thoughts, the sylph sat up, the folds of her thin dress swaying like the tips of branches. ‘And what do you owe the Romans, sap-of-my-heart? You are a prince of the Sí, who can even talk the mountains into parting for him, should he wish it.’

Arthyr sighed. ‘I must bring four Roman legions to Uffen.’

A look of horror replaced the tenderness on the sylph’s face. ‘You must not.’

‘I will be free once I have discharged that duty.’

She turned her emerald eyes to his, then took Arthyr’s hand and placed his fingers carefully against the trunk of the oak tree as though caressing the rough bark. ‘When I was young, this oak was part of a vast forest that covered all of lower Helvetia. On moonlit nights, fifty or sixty sylphs would gather to sing and dance and find lovers from among our Sí visitors.

‘Then Julius Caesar came with his army; he cut down thousands of trees. Dozens of sylphs died, Arthyr. And the forest has only recovered slowly. Would you destroy it again? Would you witness me die?’

‘I would not,’ said Arthyr. And he meant it. This beautiful, seductive and harmless spirit was the joy of the forest. She must not be harmed. And yet he could see it: Roman soldiers with saws and shovels and pickaxes, clearing roads through the forest, creating forts. Sylphs would die, not because the Romans hunted them (although men like Druffus surely would) but because the Romans did not care.

He took his hand back and resting his head in his hands, closed his eyes to really think.

Whatever the expectations of his family and the people of his home town, however the druid Ithel might pour scorn on Arthyr’s failures, Arthyr could suddenly visualise clearly something that he had always known but had avoided thinking about: the Romans were the enemy. It wasn’t so much that they had many cruel individuals, it was their way of life.

The Romans knew that it was their army which gave them control over other lands and other people. Theirs was a brutal philosophy that valued strength above tenderness, military victories above artistic achievements. But the Romans surely also knew that magic in Uffen ran too wild and too deep for them to ever have control of that realm? A Roman army in Uffen was a ship at sea in a gale, hardly able to keep on course, let alone rule the vast, heaving depths beneath it.

Sometimes a thick mist flowed down the valleys of Betws-y-Coed, when all you could see were the shadows of the nearest trees, or bushes with heavy drops of moisture clinging to their leaves; on such days it was easy to become lost. Arthyr felt that his thoughts were shrouded in just such a mist. Why did the Romans want to invade Uffen? Pride? Overconfidence in their iron swords? A failure to understand how immensely powerful spirits would rise up against them?

Despite the difficulties of understanding the Romans, the sylph had at least shown him one path that ran true: one Arthyr could walk with unshakeable confidence that it was taking him in the right direction. He would not help the Romans cross into Uffen.

Beyond that, he needed a better understanding of why the Romans thought they could rule even one castle in Uffen. Experiencing a sudden urgency to make good his mistaken alignment with the Romans, Arthyr looked up at the sylph.

‘You are right. I will not help the Romans. But I fear they are determined to cross and that you are in danger. I must talk to my friends. We’ll come here and try to help.’

The sylph leaned forward as though to caress his face with her gentle touch. Then she twisted his ear hard, so that pain flushed across the side of his head. ‘Mortals speak promises they cannot keep more often than a magpie caws. Leave me now young Sí, for my sisters and I have to talk.’

With that she was running swiftly through the trees and her absence felt to Arthyr like the sun had gone down behind the forest. All was shadow. She did, at least, glance over her shoulder and smile before disappearing like a mote leaving a sunbeam.

***

Avoiding officers as much as possible and marching boldly as if he had a duty to perform when it was not, Arthyr made his way through the camp and to the hut in which Merilyn had her bed. There, he sent one of her mess mates to fetch her.

A most peculiar feeling of something having gone terribly wrong came over Arthyr as his friend stepped out of the wooden door frame in her Roman armour. There she was, half Sí, all Welsh, looking like a Roman from her sandals to her heavy shoulders of overlapping leather pieces.

‘Arthyr! What’s the matter?’

He came close enough to whisper, ‘I’ve changed my mind. We must not help the Romans invade Uffen.’

A blink, a glance behind at the open door, and then Merilyn replied quietly. ‘But our people count on us to honour the oath of King Ulwen.’

‘Not in this way. Whatever Ulwen meant, he cannot have meant this. We have older, deeper obligations to the Sí than we do to the Romans. This is wrong.’ Arthyr found that his voice was rising and he strove to return it to a whisper. ‘You know what the Romans will do. They will cut down forests; burn Sí homes; steal everything of value.’

‘That’s not our fault.’

‘It will be if we help them cross.’

For a while Merilyn said nothing, her dark eyes on his, reflecting two nearby lanterns. Then she sighed.

‘Do we escape the camp then and make for home?’

‘Perhaps.’ It was with relief that Arthyr realised his friend was no longer resisting him. She seemed to have accepted his decision not to help the Romans. ‘But I think we should go to Uffen and be there to help the Sí if that proves necessary.’

‘Help? You mean fight the Romans?’

‘I’m not much of a fighter and you are even less so. Nor is Gawain. Netanya might hold her own against one Roman. But our efforts in that regard would be in vain. I mean slow them down with magic. Discourage them. Make them want to leave.’

‘We might be able to do that.’ Merilyn took Arthyr by the arm and led him away from the light before halting. ‘Let me think about this. And whether we return home immediately or help the Sí, we should decide on a date when the four of us will escape together.’

‘Tonight.’

‘Tonight!’ repeated Merilyn, aghast.

‘I just can’t stand to be here any longer.’

‘But we need to plan this.’

‘Why?’ Arthyr looked into the shadows between the camp huts. ‘We can take some food and cross to Uffen. What else needs planning?’

‘Our route. How we can cross the sea. How to throw search parties off our trail. What allies we have nearby in Uffen. There is so much to consider.’

Arthyr shook his head. There were times when – begrudgingly – he acknowledged that Merilyn’s careful and thorough approach to life achieved more than his own impulsive actions. But this was not a time for caution. If the rumours were right, there was only a matter of a week or so before the Roman army marched on Uffen. By then, Arthyr, Merilyn, Gawain and Netanya needed to be well ahead of them, ready to warn the Sí. And the longer Arthyr remained in the Roman camp, the more likely his fundamental disloyalty to the army would become evident. He could see himself, pinned up on an X-frame as a traitor.

Perhaps this sense of urgency showed on his face, for Merilyn suddenly sat down and rested her head on her knees, her expression thoughtful.

‘Curse you, Arthyr, you always do this to me. Make me feel rushed and at a loss.’ Her tone was not angry and Arthyr felt relieved. Like the way that moths and butterflies emerged from their cocoons as utterly different creatures to the caterpillar, so he could sense that already a new way of looking at their situation was unfolding its wings inside her thoughts.

Merilyn blinked once, twice. Then took a deep breath. ‘Very well Arthyr. Let us find Netanya and Gawain and leave the Romans. But as for what we will do next, I think our friends have a right to a say on that.’

When she lifted her eyes to look at his, Arthyr felt a surge of gratitude and relief. ‘Thank you, Merilyn. I’m sorry that this is so sudden, I should have realised a lot earlier than I did that it would be a mistake to assist the Romans in any way.’

‘That’s not your fault. If anyone is at fault, it is our parents. They made this task seem like it was our duty. But now you have made the issue clear, I think as you do: the Romans in Uffen will bring only death and robbery. It is not our duty to assist with that and even Ithel will understand.’

Within the hour the four friends were sitting on a grassy slope in the deep shadow of a mountain. The sun disappeared early here, behind the high peaks to the west. And although the sky above them was blue, Arthyr felt the approach of nightfall in the spread of the mountain shadows across the land. Nearby, a yew tree was swaying in a light breeze and as the tips of its branches sometimes dipped into Uffen; it would be very easy for them to cross here simply by concentrating on the motion of the tree.

‘I wanted to go to the theatre in Rome,’ said Gawain disconsolately.

‘We still could.’ Netanya did not look up from where she was decorating a leather pouch with the point of a short knife.

Gawain grunted. ‘I believe you were wide awake and standing next to me on the parade ground when the centurion read out that the penalty for desertion was death.’

‘I wasn’t paying attention; the Romans have too many rules. In any case, they would have to catch us first.’

‘Don’t go to Rome,’ said Arthyr. ‘Come with me to Uffen and help prevent the Romans from destroying that realm.’

Standing and facing the smoke-covered town of Aventicum, Merilyn spoke in a low voice. ‘What is it that the Romans want? I don’t understand them. They cannot hope to make the spirits of Uffen serve them.’

‘My contubernium says that the desire of the emperor to prove himself a better general than Julius Caesar is what pulls them to Tartarus, as they call it. And since Rome has run out of places on Earth to conquer, they must cross to Tartarus.’ Netanya looked up from her work and around them all. ‘They are eager to go; none seem afraid, and all were looking forward to the spoils of conquest. The Sí, they say, live in castles of gold and silver, which have rooms filled with jewels far more valuable than any from Earth.’

‘Fools,’ Arthyr shook his head. Although deep down he was experiencing a welling up of happiness, deriving from the fact he was free of the Roman training camp, the words of the sylph had disturbed him greatly and he knew he could not simply leave for home. He had to stay for the Roman invasion of Uffen and once it began, do all he could to force the Romans to retreat.

‘You want to help the Sí, Arthyr,’ said Gawain, ‘but you don’t know any of them. Nor are we much use as soldiers. No Roman veteran would have any trouble killing me.’

‘I do know the spirits of the trees and streams, of the stones and the slopes. And if the Romans come to Uffen, they will try to cut down the forests, divert the streams, quarry the stones, farm the wilds. You adore Uffen, Gawain, do you not? For the same reasons as I: its mystery, the richness and animation of life there, the wildness of every spirit. If Uffen is to stay free, then the Romans must fail.’

Worked up now by his own words, Arthyr’s arms were waving. It might have been that he had picked up a gesture or two from his time in Aventicum, because somewhat in imitation of Gaius, he now slapped his right fist into his left palm. ‘The Romans must fail, Arthyr repeated, ‘and we can help cause them to fail not by being soldiers but with magic.

‘I have come to like some of the individual Roman soldiers, especially those of my contubernium. So my idea is not to fight them but slow them with magic and protect the trees and streams. We can make life in Uffen unbearable for the Roman army and force them to turn about and leave.

‘Very good,’ said Netanya, ‘I’m game.’

‘The centurion also explained the difference between a desertor and a transfuga,’ said Gawain.

‘You really were paying attention weren’t you!’ Netanya laughed.

‘The transfuga is even worse than the deserter, for not only do they break their oaths and abandon the army, but they assist the enemy.’

Still chuckling, Netanya shrugged. ‘If it’s the death penalty for both, what does that matter?’[1]

Gawain caught Arthyr’s eye. ‘I believe you are right Arthyr. But I’m not sure I can help much.’

‘If the three of you had not come with me on this journey, I would be lonely and lost. Just by being here and being my friend, you are a great help. And as we all know, the spirits of Uffen are unpredictable. It might be that you are the one who matters in a particular crisis.’

‘True,’ Netanya stood up now, abandoning her leatherwork. ‘But if you want Gawain to come with us, just tell him that there are no wishes to be had from returning home but who knows what the rewards might be for aiding the Sí.’

‘What might the reward be?’ asked Gawain.

‘Wishes,’ answered Netanya and Arthyr at the same.

‘I’ll come,’ Gawain was grinning, demonstrating that he was perfectly aware his friends were only teasing him.

‘And you, Merliyn?’ asked Arthyr.

‘I seek no reward but to be able to practice magic and that means defending the realm that produces it.’

It seemed to Arthyr the air was purer and the scent of the nearby snowdrops sweeter than when they had settled down at this spot, almost as though the land itself were listening and approved of their resolution. ‘We are agreed then. We will wait and see if the Romans can march into Uffen without us and if they can, we will thwart them in the hope of making them abandon their invasion.’

[1] While Netanya’s point was more or less valid, anyone experienced in Roman law and – even more importantly – someone with the right connections among the legal profession, could in fact exploit the difference between the two crimes to sway the authorities to introduce a much less severe punishment for a desertor than a transfuga. Deserters might even escape with their lives, if not their wealth and property. Even in the case of both being issued with the death penalty, the guilty party might rather be given poison than be tied to an X-shaped wooden frame to expire of thirst.