Free The Circle of the Gods by Victor Canning Page A

the high bridge of his hawklike nose. His eyes were half-hooded as though burgeoning sleep sat waiting full capture of him. He wore a long tunic of fine white wool and over it an open toga of green linen, under the hem of which showed a pair of soft red sandals fastened with gold cord laces. He looked, Arturo thought, as though he had no interest in the world except to fall gently into sleep, a look which must be deceptive, otherwise in these times he would never be sitting where he was.
    The Prince, after Ricat had retired from presenting Arturo, stared at him for a while from half-closed eyes and then, taking a slow, deep idle breath, said, “You are?”
    Arturo said, for in truth Ricat had warned him of some of the Prince’s manner, “I am, my Prince, Arturo, son of Baradoc, chief of the people of the Enduring Crow.” He touched his left shoulder and went on, “And bear their tattoo mark here.”
    â€œYour father could be dead.”
    â€œThen, my Prince, I am rightful chief of my tribe and not my uncle Inbar.”
    Without any change of expression Gerontius said flatly, “Then why not thrust a knife in his gut and settle the matter?”
    For a moment or two Arturo was confused by the man’s sudden bluntness. As his face showed it the Prince chuckled slowly to himself. He rose from his chair and walked across to the table and poured himself a cup of wine. Behind Arturo’s back, he went on, “Don’t tell me that one who had the courage to escape as you did—though I gather the seamaids and the dolphins helped you and even the otters of the river provided you with fresh salmon and a fine sword—lacks the wit to use a knife in the dark?”
    As the Prince came back to the chair Arturo said, “It could easily have been done, my lord—but it would not have been fairly done, face to face. And more, my lord, if my father lives and returns it is for him to do. When there is no more hope of that and I am youth no longer then I shall do it.”
    The Prince nodded and asked, “You believe that your father still lives?”
    â€œIt is enough for me, my lord, that my mother believes it and has the word of the wanderer Merlin for it.”
    â€œAh, the words of Merlin are well known for being so cunningly shaped that whatever he prophesies comes true, though it is not always the truth that one has expected.”
    â€œMaybe so, my lord. But for my mother’s sake I pray that the words of Merlin about my father bear only one shape and one truth.”
    The Prince nodded, sipped at his wine and then said, “Well spoken. Now go to Master Ricat, who will set work for you. But for two hours each day before sunset you will come here and be tutored by the good priest Leric.” He waved a hand in dismissal and Arturo touched his forehead in homage and left the chamber.
    So began for Arturo a period of hard work and happiness that was to last until he was almost fourteen, and his eyes were lifted skyward each morning to seek the first sign of the returning swallows—the birds of his birth month—and, as he worked at the schooling of horses in the river meadows, his ears were cocked for the first notes of the cuckoo.
    Ricat and his overseers worked him hard and after a few months had grudgingly to admit that he had the true gift of the Epona-marked. When he sat a horse there were no longer man and beast, but one entity. Iron-thighed, gentle or masterly handed, he could bring the most wayward steed to obedience, and there were many horses which were so, for their bloodlines were long-mixed from the days when the first Roman cavalry units had come to the country. The old priest Leric (who worshipped horses a little less than his country’s gods, and seldom lost a wager on a horse match on fair days) explained to him (strictly in his history lessons) that the mounts of the cavalry wings of such units as the Ala Hispanorum Vettonum civium