As we walked across to the prefecture which was still in part kept in order, Cato was silent until, passing through the audience chamber he said, "It's strange. This hall is so fine but when we come to Isca the warriors never want to feast here. The bards can't sing here. Why is it Cadfan? Ah, when you're tired it's difficult to keep out dark thoughts - especially when you're alone. Come to my room, Cadfan. Let's talk."

We sat opposite each other over a table; I was thankfull that a hot brazier was nearby. From time to time an ember fell on the mosaic pavement below it to the discomfort, no doubt, of the ducks and fishes depicted there. As he poured out the wine, Cato said, "When I was a boy I did my best to look after these Roman things. That brazier. I'd shout at the servants, 'Cover the pavement with sand and thick stones; one day I'm going to live here like a Roman gentleman.' Ah, how Gwen would laugh at me. Once I remember her saying, 'Cato they're pulling up some really thick stones to put under the brazier. They're taking them from the baths. Aren't you going to bathe when you're a Roman gentleman?' That girl Cadfan. She could always see things more clearly than me. She called me a dreamer and I am. It's true you know." He glanced into my cup. "Drink Cadfan. Drink. I want you to talk as much as me. Drink."

I drained the cup and held it out for more. "What shall I talk about Cato?"

"Tell me in a nutshell what brings you all the way to rain swept Britain?"

"In a nutshell, to realise a dream. Do you want me to crack the nut open?"

He was brimming over with curiosity and whispered in a choked sort of way, "Tell me Cadfan. I'm to be trusted."

I hesitated before speaking. "I know that. I shall tell you willingly. Something draws me to you Cato." Our eyes met; this man, this sentimental tippler, was as susceptible as any woman; once captivated, he would be easy to handle. Moreover, he was Arthur's man as firmly as his dead father Gerontius had been. And so, without more ado, I told him I was Arthur's son, how I had found out about it and how for years I had dreamed, without ever believing such a dream could become reality, of meeting him; just to speak with him would drive the sword of my longing to its hilt. By the time I had finished, my voice coming in bursts or halting on a memory, this strong warrior was mine, so full of warmth towards me that he would have no hesitation in telling me anything I wanted.

He leaned across the table and pushed my face sideward so he could take a good look at it in profile; a presumptuous way of treating an imperial envoy, but then not a few of Rome's envoys have been treated far worse in recent times. "Yes. There was something. From the moment I came out of the hall and saw you on that horse. So proud. So fearless. I was sure there was something. But I didn't know what it was."

"You called me Arthur when you were drunk as a fish."

"Wine can open our eyes. Now, it's your turn to listen. I know what you want to hear. You're in a quandary."

"That's so. Can you get me out of it?"

"Maybe I'll make it worse. As I see it, here you are, some sort of envoy from the Emperor, but an envoy to whom? Yes. You've told us you want to see Arthur. What did you call him when you arrived? The Dux of Britain. And then you wanted to be taken to Gerontius. All of which suggests you don't know what Britain's like or what you're doing here. True?"

I pursed my lips and made him wait a little, then said, "I wonder if you've any idea what the government of the Empire is like. Or the problems of trying to re-establish order in lost provinces. Do you think it's so easy to know everything about every part of the world. Of course we realised our information might be out of date. You're lucky we've even heard of Arthur. What efforts, what proper systematic efforts have you made to keep the Emperor informed of what's going on? You who claim to be citizens. Lucky for you Rome hasn't forgotten what's hers. The absence of trivial bits of information doesn't mean that the Emperor doesn't know what he's doing."

It was clear that many thoughts had started to race about inside Cato's large head, some of them rather worrying. "The Roman Army. Is it as strong as in the old days?"

"Hah! The army in the old days couldn't have coped with today's problems. Look; our enemies are greater now, more skilled in war, better armed. Do you think time has stood still? Can you imagine a Persian army, a hundred thousand strong, with the finest weapons? And yet Rome endures. And her might is reviving."

"Then will Rome send such an army here?" I could see that Cato was thinking now of his own possessions.

"I can't speak for the Emperor on that matter. It will be a question of priorities. Whatever precedence Britain takes in the grand scheme, Rome regards the people of Britain as her citizens. You're completely in agreement with that I'm sure."

"Indeed I am. Indeed. The Emperor has only to ask and I'll answer his call."

"Cato, you don't have to say that to me. But there's one thing that puzzles Rome: Vitalis was styled Supernal Tyrant and when the lesser tyrants claimed to be kings, Ambrosius became Riotamus. Either way both were supreme. Why hasn't Arthur such a title?"

Cato stood up and paced the room. He threw some wood on the brazier and a shower of sparks soared to the blackened ceiling, some penetrating the draughty gap which had been made for the smoke to escape. "Our first night together. Do you remember what the bard sang about my father and the Battle of Llongborth?"

"Some of it. Yes."

"You remember how he spoke of Arthur - as 'Our leader', and 'Master of our toil'?"

"I remember both clearly."

"Only because you were there. When our Cornovian bards sing of Arthur they call him Emperor. That's how we see him. But you were an imperial envoy and the bard was a diplomat." Cato sat down again. "The Augustus must forgive our presumption. We have no emperor yet need one. And so in our poetry we make one of your father, the greatest warrior of our time, the true hero of Britain."

It was not easy for me to keep calm when I heard this. So Cato should not see my face I stirred the fire and poured out more wine. My father was another Achilles. Yet for Rome an Achilles was not enough; Arthur was a hero in war, but what was he in peace? That was Anastasius' interest. Was this hero someone who could patiently see to it that the cities came to life, that bales of wool were prepared for export, that currency circulated in correct measure; a man who would see that the links of commerce that bind an empire together were forged once more? I tapped the table with an air of irritation and asked, "Then what is Arthur's position? I take it he has one."

Cato must have thought me a cold fish not to have shouted some words of praise for my father, or maybe given a war whoop for he said dully, "He has a title. He's the Leader in War. And even that wasn't given him by the British leaders. Leader in War. What a title. Three years before he died, Ambrosius placed all his forces in Arthur's hands. Which meant my dear Cadfan, not an army of a hundred thousand - just one thousand warriors."

"One thousand! Supposing the Saxons attack in force? One thousand men! How could he defend Britain with so few?"

"You still don't understand how things are. You've seen some of my warriors and retainers; the rest are at Din Draithov, but they're still not numerous. Now you've also seen how things are with Cunomorus. In Dumnonia there are many lords like him, all my liegemen. When I need more men, they respond. It's their duty. Ah, yes. I see your smart eyes asking the big question. Supposing they refuse? Every tyrant in Britain has that problem and is capable of creating it for the others. So, to answer your question, Arthur depends on the tyrants' help to defend Britain. By all the gods. Who'd be the protector of Britain? No one but a fool. So tell your Augustus to send us help quickly."

"Then there's no point in calling Arthur, Emperor, as you Cornovians do. And as he isn't a tyrant himself, what's the source of his personal strength? Even a thousand men must eat - and be armed."

"I see why the Emperor's chosen you - a scholar with a pointed tongue. Arthur could be an emperor yet. Listen to me: though the Britons are tired of war, only a strong man can rein them in. The situation's complicated. The moment the tyrants feel safe, they'll start their feuds again. The only leaders Rome can rely on are Cornovian; we Cornovians have kept up Roman ideas of discipline and loyalty. Ambrosius was one of us and so's Arthur - on his mother's side. We've stuck together from of old which is why the Cornovian magnates could agree to supply Arthur and also give him land all the way up to Aquae Sulis so he'd have the resources to feed his men and strengthen Camulos. Now if he were to declare himself Emperor, with the backing of the Cornovians, we could force the other states to accept him. We could turn Britain into an empire, yes an empire. Of course our emperor would be subservient to the Augustus. Can't you persuade him to help us?"

I gave an enigmatic nod. The picture was not encouraging. The island was in as confused a state as when Rome had first taken it over. However, I must walk warily; it struck me that Cato was really negotiating for a Cornovian empire. "What does Arthur think of all this?" I asked.

In a voice bereft of enthusiasm, Cato replied, "His argument's simple and I'll tell it to you - even though I think it won't succeed. When Ambrosius died - twenty one years ago it was - Arthur knew the rulers weren't prepared for another Riotamus to lord it over them. So he stood before them in the Principia at Eburacum and said, 'Rulers of the States of Britain, my only ambition is to serve our citizens and the light of Rome. I'm already your Dux Bellorum, your agreed Leader in War. I'll be content if you'll let me continue in that office. Only grant me one thing: that none of you will ever try to take Ambrosius' place. Each of you has your state which you must rule in the name of Rome.' So great was the relief among them that he was renouncing the position Ambrosius had hoped for him, that they agreed to his request. Then I remember - I was a boy at the time standing by my father Gerontius - Arthur walked up to Bedwini, the Bishop of Eburacum, and said, 'Place in the apse there, where Ambrosius used to sit, the Chalice from which we receive the Eucharist. That shall be our Head, until we can tell Rome that Britain is restored to her.' Oh, for them it was a magical moment - the fools. My father was weeping. The bloodiest rulers were weeping. Bedwini was weeping. God knows there was plenty to weep for. The stones of the Basilica where great Constantine once sat, should have wept as far as I'm concerned."

In the silence which followed, while the wind rose outside and drops of rain came through the smoke hole, I had a new insight into my father's character. This was no Achilles, skulking with trivial pride in his tent. This was a new kind of hero; a man of rarer qualities, in particular of cunning. I asked, "And then Cato? What then?"

"Then, after Bedwini had taken the Chalice to the apse, Arthur turned to the rulers, the tyrants, the kings, or whatever other style they used, and said, 'Now. Since you've agreed that not one of you is higher than the rest and that it's only in matters of war that I'm to act for all of you, let us, when we meet, be seated in a different way. This apse, where you have been accustomed to sit, flanking Ambrosius' chair in accordance with your precedence, should no longer determine the manner of our meeting. Let us instead sit in a circle, each as an equal, in fellowship and accord, so we may plan the defense of Britain as one body, always in harmony. My Lords. Do I have your consent?' Well Cadfan, naturally it was given. For that very morning the news had come that the Angles were massing to attack over the Trent in greater strength than ever before. The threat was as dire as in the early days when Ambrosius had saved them."

I sat quite still, staring fixedly at the smoldering embers in the brazier; no yellow flames were dancing on them now, no smoke sped upwards. There was only a mass of concentrated heat, redder than ever yet for all that dying. The mass suddenly shuddered and a shower of hot bits and pieces lurched through the bars down onto the pavement. I pulled my foot back quickly. In that instant my vision of a majestic scene in an ancient basilica crowded with warriors and loud with acclamations faded. From all directions the doubts came crowding. Something about the story, if not Cato's tone, was familiar - yes, those fulsome panegyrics that the official orators declaim to the Court in Constantinople or publish, particularly in time of war. Cato had been repeating some received canon; he had been giving me the official myth, which he really believed even though he did not like it. Yet had the beautiful, the brave, the still young Arthur really stood, hand raised like a gesturing deity before that multitude of contending tyrants and genuinely made such a noble renunciation? I could not have done it. I did not think that Cato, or anyone else I knew, could have done it. Did people ever behave in such a way except in fables? I longed to know; the only person who could tell me the truth about it was Arthur himself. Yet equally it was a fact that the story had been received by Britain and held to for all these years. Thus it must have some potency and thereby a kind of truth.

Cato was gulping his drink down, hardly pausing for breath. Before long he would be getting maudlin and putting his arm around my shoulder. He was the sort of man, I had decided, who liked such drunken displays of affection with his men friends before going to bed with some woman for a quick fuck and then a sodden sleep. Beyond him on the stained wall plaster was a faded panel, bordered by festoons of leaves and garlanded slim columns, depicting Zeus as an eagle clutching Ganymede. And beyond the plaster lay the well placed bricks which, with thousands more, formed the skeleton of this dead city. How did the icon Cato had painted relate to the inner truth?

His hand slid across the table and stroked mine. "So you slipped it up young Conyn in the baptistry at Caellwic, son of Arthur," he murmured.

"Baptistry?" But you told me it was a bath house. Some priest might-"

"Baptistry, bath house, both places of purification, aren't they?"

"So, noble Cato uses hot water bearers to report hot gossip."

"Which a Roman diplomat would never do. Anyway, who cares about priests? Cadfan, I believe-" There was an inordinately long pause during which I felt like shouting, 'Get on with it.' "I believe the gods have sent you to me."

The gods at least fitted in nicely with the wall painting. "The gods Cato? Or heaven? Or God? Do you know what you believe?"

"The gods, God, heaven. It's all the same Cadfan. They've all got together. They've planned it so we can do wonders, you and me."

"Then tell me the truth brother," I said, pawing his hand and stroking his fingers. "Tell me something I want to know. Because you've been lying to me."

"Never! Lie to the son of Arthur!" His face came closer to me. His thick lips were parted. He loved the finger play so I started to maul the palm of his hand. He whispered, "We'll be comrades Cadfan. And if you want you can-"

"Tell me: if the Cornovii are so strong and could make Arthur an emperor, how is it you can't even throw the Irish out of Dumnonia?"

He tried to pull back his hand but I held it tight, put my other hand over the table and grasped him as hard as I could. He gave a great tug and freed himself. The wine jug went flying and the red embers hissed angrily but not as angrily as Cato ranted around the room. "Because the Irish are filthy swine; they creep up in their curraghs by night, they attack in the darkness. They make promises and break them. They are the destroyers of Britain. They are the ones who delivered us to the Saxons. Yes, though their ancestors were the same people as ours, even before Rome left, those leeches were fastening their bodies onto Britain and sucking her blood. And when the Saxons grew stronger, did they help us? Never. They came in greater strength. The Britons were in a vice. Irish to the west, seizing our land, the long coastland and the mountains, and the mongrel Saxons to the east. We bled Cadfan. We're still bleeding. Look at this place. The once fine capital of Dumnonia. Has it been burned? Has it been plundered? Do you see signs of battering rams? No. No. No. It's a grave, because the people have fled. How many thousands across the sea to Armorica? God in Heaven, tempt the Irish and the Saxons to some other place and let them drown in each other's blood." Cato subsided into his chair. From the floor he produced another wine jug and poured the wine straight into his mouth from its brim.

Relentlessly I went on, "So this gallant Fellowship, Arthur's circle, is a tethered bear fighting wild dogs off on all sides. Trapped in the middle. That's how it is. Isn't it Cato? Those that can't stand it, run, fly over the seas. And those left behind live in the earth forts their ancestors sheltered in before Rome was ever heard of. Tell the truth Cato. Your proud meeting in the Basilica is nothing but a dream. You make up stories. You dream dreams because the truth's too terrible to contemplate. And the thinkers among you; do they plan how the light might be restored? No. They become men of God, like poor Theophilus, dreaming of salvation and a better life to come." I threw up my arms in despair. "Ah poor Britain. Neither its soldiers nor its thinkers dare face reality."

"What sort of man are you Cadfan? Has Caesar sent you just to mock us?"

"No Cato. To find out the truth. To find out if there are really men of worth among you. Then he will know what to do."

Cato drew himself up proudly. His drunkenness fell away from him like a dirty garment. "Then wait until you see Arthur. Until you've learned how that tethered bear fights in the east and in the west; yes, and against the traitor Ceretic in the south. Wait until you've witnessed how he holds us together for love of him. How even the vilest northern prince hasn't dared to break the Fellowship they swore to hold. When you've seen all this, then you can tell your Caesar such a tale of war. Yes, it's true. Britain has been battered by years of strife, yet we fight when other provinces have fallen. We no longer live like Roman gentlemen but we don't live as slaves. And if some of my own land is still held by the enemy, it's because Arthur has taught us that first things must come first. How else should a beleaguered bear survive?" Cato's passionate outburst was at an end. He poured wine for us both again and smiled across at me. "Yes. You're the son of Arthur; it's clear. You're a cunning devil. Clever man that Anastasius. Right. Let's get blind."