Flame of the West (29 page)

   Armel is a
n Amorican variant on Arthur, but sufficiently different for my grandsire to shelter under it. Here, in this quiet house of God, he recovered from his wounds and spent his old age in prayer, far away from the endless treachery of men.

   The uncertainty of Arthur’s
demise gave rise to the legend of his return: a sleeping warlord, waiting under a cave in the mountains of Avalon, surrounded by his warriors. One day, the horn shall blow, and summon them all to their duty.

   I could hardly speak as I looked upon the mortal remains of my grandsire. Taking my silence for awed reverence, the abbot continued his
story.

   “
Some three months ago, a young man came to this abbey. He pretended to be a pilgrim, but I could tell he was a fighting man. The soldier shone through, even under his soiled and ragged garb.”

   “He seemed to know all about our saint. I left him alone
here to pray awhile. Then he left. He said little, and never gave his name.”

    The abbot was taken by surprise as I started to weep, and kindly helped me kneel
before the altar. I knew the identity of his mysterious visitor.

   Arthur had come here to worship the remains of his ancestor
. It seemed strangely fitting that they should come together in such a fashion. God had granted me the knowledge of their meeting.

   I might have made my home ther
e. The brethren would have welcomed me, a sinful man come to spend his last days in fasting and prayer. But I still cherished the hope of one day finding my son, and feeling his warm embrace again.

   It was sheer vanity. I had been given all the mercy I deserved, and could not hope for more. I left the abbey, and wandered a little while longer, until God guided my faltering steps to
the Abbey of Rhuys in the south of Amorica.

   And Gildas. He took me in, the great churchman and scholar of our age, ev
en though I was of the line of Arthur, whose memory he despised.

   Here I hav
e remained, inside these blessed walls, for the best part of twenty years. I have little hope of seeing my son again, but all my prayers go to him. Let him find peace, O Lord, and trust not in the words of princes.

  
As for Caledfwlch, I trust Arthur has long since thrown it into the sea. Let the Flame of the West be doused forever. Caesar’s sword was nothing but a bane, sent by the Devil to drag all the men of my blood to ruin.

Where are the horsemen now, where the heroes gone?
Where is the jewelled city, and where the towers
of silver and gold? Where are all the joys of battle? 
Alas for the dimmed eye, the withered frame, 
The brief glory of the warrior. That time is over,
Passed into night as it had never been

Into shadow.

  
Into shadow. The long night beckons for me, and I lay down my pen.

END

AUTHOR’S NOTE

The final part of the
Caesar’s Sword
trilogy takes place during the end of Belisarius’ first campaign in Italy (537-40) and the start of the campaign led by Narses (551-554). Despite his physical weaknesses and lack of military experience, Narses proved to be a superb general, and eventually drove the Goths out of Italy. When the Franks tried to invade the country, he smashed them too, and spent his last years repairing and reorganising the war-torn Roman homeland.

Narses succeeded where Belisarius failed, largely because the Emperor Justinian gave his favourite all the support he had denied his general. Justinian’s reasons for distrusting Belisarius are unclear. He may not have been ‘the last great general of Rome’, as Lord Mahon called him, but Belisarius was unfailingly loyal and did everything his Emperor asked of him. Perhaps Justinian was all too aware of the fate of previous emperors at the hands of ambitious generals, and was tainted by envy of Belisarius’ military talents.

Thankfully, the career of Belisarius did not end with his ignominious recall from the second Italian campaign. In 559 the aged Justinian summoned him from retirement to repel an invading horde of Bulgars. With just a handful of his old Veterans and a rabble of civilian militia, Belisarius won a final victory against the odds, defeating the enemy host and driving them out of Roman territory. He died in 565, probably not blinded and in disgrace, as one old story claims, but peacefully on his estate at
Rufinianae.

Saint Armel was a real person, a holy man or ‘soldier-saint’ living in Brittany in the early to mid-6
th
century. Various writers have identified him with the historical Arthur, claiming that the tale of Arthur’s journey to the Isle of Avalon after Camlann was inspired by his retreat into exile in Brittany. However dubious historically, the story has a certain charm, so I chose to make use of it.

As for the location of Caledfwlch – known to later generations as Excalibur – and the destiny of the second Arthur, Coel’s son, these remain a mystery…