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clapping his hands and calling to the kitchen servants to attend him at once. Arthur sat down on the couch and stretched his long legs before him. He did not feel like relaxing—the opposite, in fact. No doubt he could persuade Turms to take a walk with him in the vineyards and olive groves later. After weeks aboard ship, it was a little light exercise he wanted.
    The voyage from England had not been easy. The weather had been against them almost from the start, and the conditions aboard ship were primitive, to say the least. It was not his preferred mode of travel, to be sure, but the other way—ley travel—was out of the question at the moment. The dangers were just too great. Indeed, he had pressed it as far as he dared just to get here.
    “Arturos! Stand up and let me see you!”
    Arthur glanced up to see Turms in the doorway: a tall, imposing figure, almost gaunt beneath his ceremonial robe, his once-smooth face showing lines of age. His hair, greying at the temples, hung straight to his shoulders, his forehead shaven in the manner of the priestly caste. Turms removed his ceremonial hat and unbelted the golden sash, then turned to receive his friend.
    Arthur rose to his feet and was gathered into a firm and friendly embrace. “My heart soars at the sight of you,” said the king, kissing him on the cheek.
    “Mine too,” replied Arthur happily. “Indeed, my soul has been singing since I set foot on Tyrrhenian soil this very morning.” He spoke with greater ease and confidence as his former skills, like birds returning from migration, came winging back to him across the years. “How long has it been since I was here?” he wondered. “Five years? Six?”
    “Over twenty, I fear,” said Turms, shaking his head slightly. “Too long, my friend.”
    “Ah, me,” sighed Arthur. “I had hoped to return much sooner. But events overtook me and it was not possible.”
    “Still, you are here now.” The king turned away suddenly and called, “Pacha! Bring wine and sweetmeats! We must welcome our guest.”
    He turned back and, taking Arthur by the arm, led him to the couch. “I was made aware of your coming,” he said, taking his place beside his guest. “Just this morning I received an omen foretelling your arrival. I did not know it would be you, of course—only that I would receive a foreign visitor before day’s end.” Turms smiled. “And here you are.”
    “Indeed, I am,” said Arthur. “And I could not be happier.”
    “I will have a house prepared for you—a new one this time—”
    “The old one will be more than satisfactory,” said Arthur quickly. “If it is available?”
    “No, no, I will not hear it. That house is too far away. I want you close by so that distance will not impede our lessons.”
    “Your generosity, O King, is as wide as your wisdom,” said Arthur, bowing his head in assent. “But you may change your mind when I tell you that I did not come alone this time.” He leaned forward. “I have a wife.”
    “You are married!”
    “I am.”
    “But where is she?”
    “Still aboard the ship—”
    “What!” exclaimed Turms. “You keep her waiting like a bundle of cargo on the deck of a stinking ship? What a thoughtless, uncaring husband you are!”
    “Please, Turms, I meant no disrespect to either yourself or my dear wife. In truth, I was uncertain of my reception.”
    “I hope you know you can trust our friendship,” said Turms. “My regard for you has never altered.”
    “It was not you or your friendship I doubted,” replied Arthur. “Believe me, that thought never entered my mind.”
    “But?”
    “I wanted to see how things stood here.”
    “Ah!” Turms nodded with appreciation. “Very wise. Yes, I remember now—at the time of your last leaving the Latins were threatening our borders. You might have returned to a very different place than you last visited.” He made a laudatory gesture in the air with his hand. “I commend your caution.”
    Pacha