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flowered words
    as a guest here, entreats that I make my men as comfortable as may be, as if
    I am here on some informal courtesy visit?” Arthur stooped to retrieve the
    offensive letter, rolled it tight, then changing his mind, shook the scroll loose,
    batting irritably at the perfectly neat script with the back of his other hand. He
    continued his pacing, the eyes of Bedwyr and Meriaun anxiously following his
    movements. “This Roman aristocrat,” Arthur glanced at the signature, “this
    Sidonius Apollinaris, then proceeds to inform me that a friend of his has been
    arrested for writing a treasonous letter against the Emperor, and he begs that I
    am to make no matter of it.” Arthur’s nostrils flared. The couched implications
    were plain enough. A sour taste spilled into his mouth. “By the gods,” he
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    roared, “were I to lay my hands on such a treasonous turd, I would have his
    balls first, then his blood!” Gods, he thought, all this way, all these weeks and
    miles, all this damned wasted time! Is Rome playing me so easily for the fool?
    The Roman officer coughed, unable to retain his pent silence any longer.
    “Arvandus, that said traitor, is arrested and on his way to Rome in chains for
    trial.” Coldly, he added, “In Rome, we deal with misdemeanours by the means
    of civilised methods.”
    Bedwyr caught Arthur’s eye, stemmed an explosive retort by saying hastily,
    “It could be a mistake.” He spread his hands wide, searching for a more appro-
    priate word. “A misunderstanding?”
    Again the Roman spoke, his tone haughty, condescending. “Rome will sort
    the matter. Punish those who are guilty.”
    Arthur stepped a pace nearer to him. “We sail, Mithras alone knows how
    many hundreds of miles, in answer to a plea from your Emperor. He begs us to
    unite with those loyal to Rome against the barbarian Euric who is seeking for
    himself a kingdom. We then sit here for bloody weeks, doing sod-all except
    scratch our arses—and I am calmly told, by a man appointed by Rome to
    govern Gaul, that a friend of his has written to Euric of the Goths, suggesting
    he does not sign the offered treaty of peace with Rome but destroys the British
    instead!” He threw the parchment a second time, kicked it at the Roman as it
    rebounded off the tent wall, strode after it, and caught hold of the officer by the
    throat. Shook him, like a dog with a rat, the reason for his anger bursting from
    him like cooked meat in over-stuffed pastry. “What bloody treaty of peace? I
    do not give a turd for this traitor or for Rome’s bloody laws—what treaty? If
    those stool-sitting arseholes in Rome have been suing for peace with Euric,
    why have I not been consulted of it? And if a peace treaty was the intention all
    along, why was I damned well brought here?”
    The officer was spluttering and choking, his face suffusing red; he had dropped
    his helmet, his fingers were grappling with Arthur’s hands, attempting to loosen
    that tight grip around his throat—and Arthur let him go, let him drop like a
    stone to the floor, discarding him, leaving him to heave and choke for breath.
    The other two men, Bedwyr and Meriaun, ignored his discomfort.
    “Rome is not likely to want a fight if it can be avoided,” Meriaun pointed
    out to Arthur. “After all, you have used the same tactics back home often
    enough to secure peace.”
    “We would not be here if it were not for treaties,” Bedwyr added, trying to
    smooth Arthur’s ruffled temper. “Britain is free, at least for a while, of any uprising
    S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 3 1
    because of various such signed scrolls of parchment.” He rose from his stool,
    strolled to a table, questioned with his eyes whether anyone wanted wine. Arthur
    accepted, Meriaun shook his head. Bedwyr ignored the Roman, a man who had
    never seen a day’s fighting in his life despite the fancy uniform, would probably
    not know which end of a spear to hold. The mental