3 - ERC

There was no wind and the sea water in the estuary was calm. The day was sunny. Had they not been at war, it would have been a perfect day for hunting.

The ships were anchored in a shallow bay, while they had camped on the shore, waiting for news from the Rock of Alt Clut. Neiton map Guipno had promised Lord Áedán that he would let him know soon if the election had ended well for him.

Erc was taking a walk along the shore, to try and relax: he needed that, sometimes, and this was one of the rare moments he could do it. Lord Áedán was busy speaking with Prince Morcant map Tutgual and he didn't need his presence. Erc couldn't understand why Lord Áedán was taking such a risk engaging with Morcant, even knowing that they were brothers-in-law: saving him from sure death, curing him and striking a deal with him, all of this against King Conall's orders. He had even bothered to move Morcant to the ships with a stretcher, and then again from the ship to the new camp on the shore, while the seriously injured Dalriatan soldiers had been left behind in the camp close to the Rock, exposed to a potential retaliation by the Britons. Lord Áedán had sent voice around that the injured man on the stretcher was one of his most important officials and he didn't want to lose him, but Erc heard the soldiers questioning that voice, and stories were going around and around about who that man might really be.

Meanwhile, walking near the shore he reached the last tent of the camp. He carried on, he wanted to stroll far from other people, for a little while at least.

After a few feet, he stopped: a man had appeared in the distance, walking at a fast pace towards his direction. Instinctively, Erc walked back. When he was safely within the limits of the camp, he turned and looked again at the person who was getting closer. A few soldiers saw the man too, and they prepared their swords, just in case.

Now, even though the man was still at some distance, Erc thought he could recognise him. After a moment he had no doubt: he was one of the informers Áedán had left in Alt Clut. When he was close, the informer recognised him too: "Lord Erc, I bring news from Neiton map Guipno, would you deliver them to Lord Áedán?", he said, out of breath for the fast stride.

"No, you can come with me and deliver the news yourself to him", Erc answered, "after you have quenched your thirst".

The informer drank some water from the barrel in the soldiers' pantry, then they walked together towards Lord Áedán's tent. The man was short and lean, overall unimpressive: the perfect type for a spy. Erc tried to ask him what were the news, but he only answered that Lord Áedán had to be the first one to know. Erc thought that the informer reacted in that way after he had told him to deliver himself the news to Áedán...

When they entered through the open flap of the tent, they found a massive soldier inside, guarding the entrance.

"Erc, here you are", Áedán exclaimed from the opposite corner. He was sitting on his stool with a cup in his hand, and next to him, on a comfortable camping bed, was lying Morcant, still partly bandaged.

When the huge soldier stood aside and let them pass, Lord Áedán saw the informer: "Ailbe, you are here! Come, come!", he exclaimed. He looked tipsy. "So, what are the news from Alt Clut?".

The informer named Ailbe looked around suspiciously and asked him: "M'lord, am I allowed to speak in their presence?".

"If I don't tell you otherwise, of course you are allowed!", the Dalriatan leader reproached him.

"Well", Ailbe answered, clearing his voice, "Neiton map Guipno has been proclaimed as the new King of Alt Clut. He told me to communicate to you his commitment to keep his part of the agreement, if our warband will pull back to Dál Riata".

"Yes, yes. Anything else?", replied Lord Áedán, visibly annoyed.

"Nothing from him, no. But strange things happened during his proclamation: an old druid officiated the rite and a human sacrifice was performed, like in the old times. The sacrificial victims were the widow and the two orphans of Morcant map Tutgual. The executioner slit their throats in front of the crowd that was gathered there...".

In that very moment, Morcant erupted with a piercing scream: "No! Noo! You are lying!!". The Briton prince managed to stand up on his feet and, showing unexpected energy, he jumped on the astounded informer and he hit him on the face. They both fell on the ground, Morcant tightening his hands around the informer's neck until his strenght faded away and the latter easily managed to move him away. Morcant, panting exhausted on the ground, looked on the verge of passing out.

"What the...?", grunted the informer standing up, dumbfounded.

Lord Áedán had stood up from his stool, staggering and still holding his cup. "This is very bad", he muttered darkly. And, like speaking to himself, he added: "I think... that this will change many things". He sounded almost scared.

"No", wheezed Morcant from the floor, "nothing must change...".

Everyone in the room was staring at him, now.

Morcant, struggling, pulled himself up on his elbows. With painful effort, he teared off the bandage which still covered his face, showing disfigured features, that made him look like a demon. A stench coming from his wound filled the space.

"Enough with waiting, enough with hiding. This is the new me now", he said. Even his voice was distorted, due to the wound on his mouth. "My family is no more. I knew that was going to happen... The old Morcant map Tutgual died with it, fighting against the aggressors". His voice seemed to break, but then he spoke again, shuddering with rage: "The plan must be carried out. The aggressors will be exterminated".

Then, after a short pause, he added, with a mad tone in his voice: "I will overcome all the enemies and I will enter Alt Clut as its legitimate ruler. Vengeance will be my path! Forget Prince Morcant... From today... I am no longer him. My life will no longer be the same as before... I have no family. I have a new face... and I will have a new name: from now on, you all call me just Morken".

An ominous silence fell among them. Morken was a bad name: even in Dál Riata people knew about some Briton legends of evil madmen named Morken.

Everyone stared at him: his deformed face and horrifying glare, and his sudden unexpected energy, fitted even too well that name. A sense of fear and uneasiness pervaded each one of them, inside the tent.

2 - NEITON

For days Neiton had told his brother Gwrast not to call him King until he had been elected by the clans convened from all the kingdom. Now that he had finally been proclaimed as the new Guletic of Alt Clut, Neiton was ready to speak. But it had not been easy to arrive to this point.

Once the news of Guletic Tutgual Tutclyd's death had spread outside the Rock, scouts from some of the clans around the kingdom had come to check the situation. Luckily nobody besides the conspirators knew that the Cruthin aggressors had been helped by Neiton's clan. Even the widows of Tutgual's sons were unaware of that, and Neiton had given instruction that they were treated with deference, as long as they were kept under surveillance.

Since he was the deceased king's oldest kin that had survived the attack, Neiton had welcomed the scouts and he had assured them that he was in control of the situation and that the aggressors had already agreed on terms: they had taken their spoils and very soon they would have left Alt Clut.

In the following days, one by one, the chieftains of all the clans of Alt Clut had come from every corner of the kingdom, each with their full retinue, according to the tradition, to pay homage to the late king and to gather for the proclamation of a new one. Keeping his word, just before the Briton clans started flocking to the Rock, Áedán had sailed his ships downstream, at some distance, in order to avoid any unnecessary clash. He had left his spies in Alt Clut, but that didn't bother Neiton, on the contrary: he needed someone to communicate to Áedán the outcome of the royal election.

Riderch, with Neiton's great relief, had not shown up, but Tutgual's nephews Nudd and Mordaf had. Mordaf, grief-stricken, had wanted to know how his father had died. Neiton had reassured him that Serwan had fought bravely at the king's side and that he had died sword in hand. Neiton had a vested interest in showing himself sympathetic, at least until he had been proclaimed as the new Guletic.

Then, the funeral rite had taken place. Many notable people in Alt Clut didn't sympathise with Christianity, and Neiton had not heard protests from the other clans about the Christian monks being banned from Alt Clut. Even Tutgual's family was still attached to the old traditions, so Neiton had no trouble agreeing with the widows of Tutgual's sons and with Mordaf that the funeral rite would have followed the ancient Brittonic tradition.

Through some merchant's contacts, they had even found a druid. Neiton had no idea where he came from, but he knew that some clans were still sticking with the old ways.

The druid was a gnarled, hoary old man, quite different from the image of the fearsome druids of the past, but eventually he had officiated the rite with a certain mystic aura around him, and that was all for the best. The bodies of the king, his brother and his sons had been laid down next to each other on a circular space at the top of the Rock, for everyone to see. It was not a good sight, some of the bodies were disfigured beyond recognition, especially Morcant's. But at least the gods had been benevolent with the living: the weather had been mostly sunny for a few days.

Neiton had never witnessed a royal burial, since Tutgual had ruled during all his quite young life. Neiton's father was not king anymore when he had died, and in any case Neiton at that time was too young to remember. As far as he knew, usually the mourning period for a guletic lasted several days, during which time the body was exposed in plain view, covered by a veil, waiting for the royal mound to be ready and filled with precious objects and ornaments to be buried with the body, for the travel to the Otherworld, while the family and friends were mourning the deceased with a ritual feast. Especially after what had happened, many people were shaken and had been expecting a glorious celebration which could bring at least some relief, and let the souls of the dead reach peacefully the Otherworld, assisted by the prayers of their loved ones.

But Neiton could not waste time: too much was at stake. So he had talked with many chieftains, reminding them that the Cruthin enemy was still on their lands: in that unprecedented and dangerous situation, Alt Clut needed immediately a new king. Almost all the chiefs had fully agreed on that. Only a few of them, including Nudd and Mordaf, had argued that they should have waited for Riderch to attend. But others had pointed out that if he had not showed up days after his father's and brothers' death, while all the other clans were there already, he had to be either dead or a traitor.

So, while the dead bodies were still displayed for the public mourning, the chieftains had gathered in the great hall.

If Morcant had still been alive, there would have been no contest, he'd have easily been proclaimed king and carried on the deleterious rule of his father. That danger had been avoided thanks to the risky but successful plan of the conspirators.

Since Morcant and his brothers Culfulch and Ardderchddrud had died, and Riderch, maybe fearing for his own life, had not showed up, the contest was therefore open.

The chiefs presenting themselves as candidates for holding the rod of power, seven in total, had stepped forward one by one. Mordaf, apparently too grief-stricken, had baled out of it and he had given his cousin Nudd his support. Nudd had presented himself as Tutgual's nephew and great supporter of the former king's family.

Other candidates had less appeal. Among the claimants there had been also a woman chief: she was a descendant of Guletic Dumnagual Hen by her mother's side.

But Neiton had the upper hand: he had boasted that his father Guipno and his grandfather Dumnagual Hen had reigned over Alt Clut, that he was a cousin of the lamented Tutgual, and that he had fought strenuously against the Cruthin invaders during the attack, having sustained severe injuries. He had showed them a bloody cut on his chest, which he had caused to himself with his own knife, planning to show it as a proof of a battle injury. Then he had bashed the aggressors and promised that he would have avenged Tutgual and the other members of the royal clan killed in the attack, and that he would have brought Alt Clut back to its prosperity.

Eventually, his only serious contender had been Nudd, who had received support from the clans more colluded with the former king, including those ones that would have liked to wait for Riderch to attend the election. But at the same time, Nudd was hated by many clans of the forest of Selcovia to the south, who saw him as a threat for holding too much power in their region, over which he had taken control making somewhat of a sub-kingdom out of it. The woman chief was at the head of one of those complaining clans.

Neiton already knew that, and before the election he had approached some of those chieftains, promising them that, if he had been elected, he would have restored balance in the power of the kingdom helping them out against Nudd's threat.

Thanks to their support, and of course thanks to the votes of the chiefs who had helped him plot Tutgual's downfall, and of their allies (who were unaware of the plot, but were traditionally aligned with the conspirators), Neiton had eventually been elected and proclaimed as the new Guletic of Alt Clut.

Now he was finally standing in front of a crowd of fellow inhabitants of Alt Clut, high-ranking people and peasants alike, who were watching at him in a state of anticipation. Not everyone was there. Nudd and Mordaf, grim-faced, had left with their retinue after the election, and some other clans had gone too. But Neiton didn't care: he finally could show himself as the new Guletic in front of the people of Alt Clut, already surrounded by guards who were there to protect him as their newly appointed king. And he was determined not to make the same mistake his father had made: after being in power only for a few moons, his father had let Tutgual's father come back and take his place. Neiton would have prevented Riderch from coming back to Alt Clut by any means.

"My fellow people", he addressed them. "I stand in front of you as your new Guletic in a tragic moment: many of our people have died or have been injured, many houses destroyed. Our lamented Guletic Tutgual and his brother and sons have died fighting for Alt Clut. But I will not hide my thoughts: it's also because of their mistakes that unfortunately we have come to this tragedy. In any case, that doesn't matter anymore. Now we have to fend off the Cruthin invaders!". The crowd roared at those words. Áedán would have not been happy with that, but Neiton had no intention of breaking the thin agreement he had with King Conall of Dál Riata: he only needed to show his subjects a common enemy in order to unite them under his command.

"Preserving Alt Clut and our traditions will be my main aim", he continued. "Many of us gathered here were born during Tutgual's long reign, or have very few memories of what happened before. During all these years, our ancient traditions have been slowly withering away. It's time to revive them!". The crowd murmured its approval.

"That's why", Neiton carried on, "I have summoned a Druid, who is amongst the few last ones still living on our ancient lands. I will now let him speak to you".

The hoary old druid spoke with a croaky voice: "People of Alt Clut, the Gods are watching us all, and they led us to this sacred moment". He was wearing a bronze crown and a plain withish tunic tied around his waist by a belt, and his face was covered in ceremonial paint, in the fashion of the druids of the past.

"Our deceased Guletic", he continued, "is waiting for the doors of the Underworld to open for him and his family. His actions, neglecting our traditional rituals and beliefs and letting Christianity spread through Alt Clut, led to the tragedy that has befallen us. The Gods have already repaid the bad deeds with his family's death as well as his own. But according to our ancient beliefs, in the face of the Gods his actions must also be cleansed through his remaining kin. So, before investing Guletic Neiton map Guipno with the rod of power, there is one last thing left to do in order to cleanse Guletic Tutgual map Clinoch of his mistakes and to let him and his family be welcomed by the God Araun in the Underworld. And that will also be a way for us to plead with our Goddess Clota to grant us her benevolence and protection once again".

Neiton observed the crowd: the people were listening in silence but from their expressions it was quite clear that they didn't deeply understand what exactly the druid was speaking about. Too much time had passed since the last time a druid had set foot on the Rock. It was kind of risky to wager that the people of Alt Clut would accept again the old religion, but Neiton thought it was worth it: first of all because his mother used to tell him that his father and grandfather were still supporters of the old traditions, and also because that was a way of distancing himself from Tutgual's reign.

Meanwhile, the old druid spoke to the guards: "Bring them here".

Morcant's widow and her two sons moved forward. Their hands were tied. They looked like they had been drugged, as was the common way in the old tradition, in order not to let them feel fear and pain. The two kids must have been less than ten years old. Neiton was grateful not to have children himself, otherwise he might not have borne what was going to happen. In fact, he had actually tried to convince the druid that Culfulch's and Ardderchddrud's widows, and their two daughters, should have taken part in the rite too. But the druid had been inflexible and he had asserted that only the family of the king's firstborn was essential for the positive outcome of the rite.

While some torches were being lit around them, the druid drew a blade from his belt and he held it over his head with both hands, looking at the sky: "Oh Clota, we beg you for your forgiveness", he exclaimed. "Please, Clota, grant your people once again your protection and benevolence! We perform this ritual as a gesture of goodwill, as we promise to help our new Guletic to bring Alt Clut back to the right path!".

Then, murmuring words that Neiton couldn't hear, the druid turned around facing Morcant's widow and with a solemn movement he slit her throat. The woman was so heavily drugged that she fell without a moan. Some assistants catched her before she fell in her own blood on the ground, and dragged her away.

Standing behind them, Neiton could not see the two children's faces. But he saw the expressions on the faces of the people who were watching the ritual: some of them were horrified, some were open-mouthed. Only a few white-haired men were watching with some kind of solemn approval. But even they changed their expression when the druid slit the children's throats, one after the other.

Someone in the crowd screamed, many turned away, someone fainted. Neiton perceived signs of disapproval on the face of some chieftain present in the crowd. Had the druid and himself gone too far?

The druid didn't seem to care, though. After passing the blade to one of his assistants, he faced the crowd, lifting his hands, and he spoke loudly: "The Gods have witnessed our plea! Alt Clut can count on Clota's protection once again!".

While the druid was carrying on with his sermon, Neiton couldn't help but notice that the crowd was listening to him but wasn't charmed by his words.

Had the people of Alt Clut really changed so much since their grandparents' times?

Neiton had succeeded in seizing the power for himself, against all odds, but now he suddenly understood that gaining popularity among his people would have been a hard job. Maybe restoring the old religion in Alt Clut would prove to be very difficult, and in that case Neiton had to find other ways to consolidate his newly acquired power: he was very determined, in any case, to never ever surrender it to Riderch.

And he started realising that the fight for power was not done, it was just the beginning.

1 - MORCANT

His strength was slowly coming back to him. He could see and hear better, day by day. But the pain on his face was sharper now, and burning. And he still couldn't manage to sit for more than a little while, or he would feel like fainting. A Cruthin healer came every now and then to clean his wounds with some healing poultice, and that burnt even more. Morcant would have shouted at him, if he had strength enough. Instead, injured as he was, all he could do was to let the damn Cruthin healer do his job, hoping that he was really curing him and not poisoning him.

Morcant didn't know where he was exactly. Injured soldiers were lying around him, inside a ragged tent which didn't even protect them from the chilly winds outside. Sometimes some of them talked, in the Cruthin language, the language of his brother-in-law.

It was still very confusing, being among Cruthins and hearing that Alt Clut had been sacked and his father the Guletic had been killed. The gods only knew what had happened to the rest of his family. A pounding headache hit him whenever he thought about that.

Áedán himself had visited him once and had told him that his wife and children were held as hostages by his father's cousin, Neiton. Morcant didn't know what to make of that. It was true that his father had confided to him his suspicions about a conspiracy plotted by Neiton and his cohorts. But this situation was much worse: Morcant was living a real nightmare.

An injured soldier lying at some distance from him said some words in Cruthin, watching at him. Morcant could understand some of the Cruthin language, but he was too weak and tired to try and understand what that soldier was telling him, so he just let himself doze off.

Just a little while later, he suddenly woke up: some soldiers had entered the ragged tent, carrying a stretcher. They were quick. They came to him and they moved him on the stretcher. What was happening? He tried to oppose them but he was too weak, and even when he muttered "Stop!" probably they didn't even hear him, so feeble was his voice.

They carried him outside, walking fast. The cool air lashed Morcant's face: it was a pain and a relief at the same time. Now he could recognise where they were, it was the swampland behind the Rock. Very soon he saw where they were bringing him. It's his tent, he thought.

They passed through the open flap and they went inside the tent. There, the soldiers laid the stretcher down on the floor.

Lifting his head, Morcant saw Áedán mac Gabráin sitting in front of him. "All of you, go out", he said with a gloomy voice in the Cruthin language. Some soldier tried to reply, but Áedán raised his voice: "Out, I said! Erc will stay with me, I won't need anyone else!".

When all the soldiers had gone, Áedán turned his head and spoke to a woman who was silently tidying up in a corner, probably a slave or a servant: "I said everyone out, you also. I will call you later". The woman meekly ran out.

Then, the Cruthin commander spoke, in Brittonic this time: "In different circumstances, King Morcant, I would have let you more time to recover. But today... I received very bad news. My eldest son, Artúr, has been kidnapped by your brother Riderch's men".

Morcant got very confused by those words: "My... I thought my brothers were killed...", he said with a quivering voice.

"Culfulch and Ardderchddrud, yes. But Riderch and his family were not seen in Alt Clut, and now it looks like they are somewhere down in Rheged", Áedán answered, darkly.

His brother-in-law was speaking a fairly decent Brittonic, but that didn't help Morcant to understand what was going on.

"Listen," continued Áedán, "I will be straightforward. If we want to collaborate, I need to know if you were aware that Riderch, with his wife and his children, were not in Alt Clut, and why. I smell something fishy here. Since my wife is your sister, I would rather be on the same side, but if it turns out that your brother planned this all along on purpose, I cannot let that go".

Listening to the confirmation that Culfulch and Ardderchddrud had died was a hard blow for Morcant, but he tried to gather his thoughts quickly, and he cleared his voice: "I don't know anything of Riderch's plans. We have never been close", he said, gloomy. Then, after a moment of pause, he continued this time more resolute and trying to let his voice be audible: "But it is very strange, at the least, that even his wife and children were with him, far from Alt Clut... It has hardly ever happened. It is actually suspicious. He... he has always been an idiot, worried only about his belly and his dick. He never ever cared about our family, our clan...".

"I don't really care about that", answered Áedán. His voice was trembling with controlled rage: "He abducted my son!". He stopped for a moment. "And maybe you will be more interested than me", he added in a dismissive tone, "in knowing that Riderch might have your family's ancestral sword: Neiton swears that it was missing when his soldiers searched your father's abode, and he's convinced that it must be with Riderch because it hasn't been found anywhere".

Morcant was hit once again by a stabbing pain on his face. Caledbulch? That bastard has stolen Caledbulch?? For what purpose?... What's his purpose?...

A fire was starting to burn inside him, now: "Prince Áedán... If what you tell me is true, it appears to me that my brother has a plan in mind. I don't know what plan, but if it involves stealing my family's ancestral sword and watching Alt Clut burning from far away, saving only himself, his wife and his children... Then... then it's a plan... a plan against my own family... Against myself as the new Guletic of Alt Clut". Morcant couldn't believe that his own voice was saying that in front of the Cruthin commander who had just ravaged the Rock, but the words came out easily, almost unsolicited. His heart was pounding and he didn't feel pain anymore.

"It looks like we share a common foe, Guletic Morcant", Áedán said looking at him. "So, what are we going to do about it?".

Morcant heaved a sigh: "I owe you my life, Prince Áedán, and that is a lifetime debt. I will help you deal with Riderch, as soon as I recover, and I count on standing on my feet soon. My own requests are simple: to save my wife and my two sons, and to kill Neiton and all the conspirators".

"And once you will be back in power, what will happen then?", Áedán asked him, softly and slowly.

Morcant gathered what strenght was left in him, in order to answer: "It's up to the two of us to deal a long lasting alliance which will benefit both our powers. I will support your claim as the future High King of Dál Riata. After all, in that way my sister would become a queen".

Áedán looked pleased: "My spies are already in place inside Alt Clut and we can organise how to rescue your wife and children. As for the other part, we must proceed cautiously: I will give you a list of the conspirators, those ones that I am aware of". He made a pause, then he said: "But first, King Morcant, you have to regain your strenght. If we want to proceed that way, we will need all the strenght we can master".

"You can count on that, Prince Áedán", replied Morcant. "And regarding what my brother Riderch is planning behind my back, I can assure you that I want to get to the bottom of that, whatever it takes. My sons are held as captives, as your son Artúr is. We are in a similar situation in this regard, and I promise you that I won't find peace until my sons and your son, who is my nephew after all, will be freed".

Áedán stood up, came close to Morcant and stroke both his shoulders. Surprisingly, Morcant didn't feel pain, he just felt his blood flowing more strongly in his veins.

PROLOGUE (second book)

When the city was in sight, Artúr could not believe his eyes. He had never seen something like that. It wasn't perched on the top of a hill, as he would have expected. A high stone wall stood in front of them in a square shape, just there in plain view on the flatlands. There were some timber houses in the open space outside the stone walls, and they looked different than any building of Dál Riata. Everything here was so strange.

The town itself was enclosed inside the walls. When they finally got close, from the cart Artúr could admire a great arched gate.

Just in that moment, he saw a group of people walking out through the gate. They were all well-dressed and some soldiers were also with them. The soldiers were wearing some kind of leather armors in a similar fashion to the guards who were escorting Artúr and the monks.

Caimir, the boss of their escorting guards, rode ahead of them and joined the well-dressed people just outside the gate. The other guards, and the same cart where Artúr and the three monks were sitting, followed Caimir. 

Only then, when he saw all those strangers, Artúr suddenly missed his mother. Until that moment, he had been excited about the new adventure. He knew that they were bringing him to his uncle, and in his heart he had thought that if his uncle was waiting for him, then his mother must have been there too. But now, watching at each and all the faces of the women and men in front of him, it was crystal clear that Mother and Father were not amongst them. He felt a sudden urge to cry.

Brother Serf, the oldest monk, grabbed his arm: "See that man with a dark blue cloak and the fine lady next to him? Those are your uncle Prince Riderch and your aunt Princess Languoreth. Do you remember that you have met them before?".

"No, if it happened I don't remember", Artúr answered.

"And that impressive big man next to your uncle, that is the King of Rheged, Urbgen Pendragon, together with Queen Modron", the monk carried on, as if Artúr had not spoken.

They got off the cart, the four of them, the three monks and Artúr, who could now hardly keep from shaking.

When they were close enough to the group of well-dressed people, it was the huge bearded man who spoke first: "The town council of Cair Ligualid and I, King Urbgen Pendragon of Rheged, welcome all of you!".

The monks answered some greetings in return, but Artúr remained quiet: nobody had told him what to say. What were they expecting for him to say or to do? He was only eight years old after all, he didn't have a clue!

He was feeling on the verge of tears. In that moment, the man with the dark blue cloak and his lady got closer. Next to them was Caimir, the boss of the escorting guards.

"You have grown Artúr, since the last time I saw you", said the man. Artúr could not figure out if he was friendly or not. "Do you remember me?", he added.

In that same moment, Artúr looked at the blonde lady next to the man, and he realised that he had seen the lady's beautiful and sad eyes before.

"Oh, I think you remember more your aunt Languoreth!", smiled the man. "And I'm your uncle Riderch, we met maybe four of five years ago. It seems like a long time ago, now", he said with a pensive tone.

"Artúr, you have become a little man", intervened his aunt, empathically.

Artúr already liked her, and for a moment he even wondered if his mother was maybe sister to Languoreth rather than to Riderch!

But then he finally decided that he had to answer: "Lord Uncle, Lady Aunt, I am happy to come and visit you. I bring you the greetings of Father and Mother".

Riderch sneered, while Languoreth's expression looked kind of sad, but they both simultaneously answered: "Thank you".

In the meantime, the big King Urbgen had walked to them, and he spoke: "I am sure all of you must be tired from the travel. Let's go inside, everyone deserves a rest, and we will have things to talk about", he said staring at the monks.

Once they had walked through the huge arched gate, the guards left their horses at the stable, and all of them, including the king, walked through the town.

Artúr was mesmerized by what he saw: squared stone houses, people dressed in strange fashion and colors, paved streets. He noticed that some of those squared houses hosted workshops: here a bakery, there a butchery... Everything was so different from his homeland!

His aunt Languoreth was walking next to him. "Artúr", she told him, smiling, "when we arrive at the house you can rest and then you will meet your cousins Custennin, Gwladus and Acgarat. Custennin is a boy about your age, while Gwladus and Acgarat are his younger sisters. You will spend a lot of time with them, you will have fun!".

Artúr was feeling strange. For the first time since he had left Abbot Colmcille's abbey, he found himself wondering why they had brought him here. His father had sent him to study at the abbey, and now some strangers had carried him along to this strange town. And Father and Mother were not here.

Who was this King of Rheged? The only nice person was Aunt Languoreth. What those people wanted from him? Why was he there?

Among all those people, the only person Artúr had seen before, at the abbey, was the olive-skinned monk. Artúr remembered that his name was Leo or something like that. Despite being a foreigner, he was the only link with the place where Artúr had studied in the past year. He wanted to talk to him and ask him why they had come there.

But when they arrived in front of a big, majestic squared building, their ways parted: the monks followed the king with his uncle and the soldiers, while Artúr had to follow his aunt, together with other ladies. Only two guards walked with them, through a separate entrance into the building. 

Inside it was darker, and now, suddenly, he couldn't keep from feeling scared by those guards: maybe they were there not to protect him, but to watch him closely. Were Languoreth and Riderch even his aunt and uncle, or were they just pretenders?

Maybe he had been taken as a prisoner or hostage! Or maybe... they wanted to sell him as a slave?!

Artúr started shaking. The darkness in that unusually narrow and long corridor was a very bad omen to begin with.

15 - LEO

More than one year had passed since when Leo had arrived by ship at the Abbey of Ioua. Now he was again on a ship, going south both literally and figuratively. He was feeling that the plan organised by Cassiodorus had unravelled: in the original plan, after one or two years Leo and his companion Brother Lucius were supposed to embark again on a ship, but in order to go back to Italia, bringing lots of parchments with them. Thinking about that, Leo was not even sure that Cassiodorus was still alive: he was eighty years old and the last time Leo had heard from him was some months earlier, when they had received an epistle in which Cassiodorus was asking them how the plan in Hibernia was proceeding. But that epistle had left the Vivarium during the previous year.

Moreover, Leo had failed in his collaboration with Brother Lucius. He had lied to him about himself during one and a half year. Lucius' reaction was predictable: he had trusted Leo, only to find out that he was no priest, and on top of that even a nonbeliever.

Where was he going now? Why had he requested, out of the blue, to leave Ioua and come with these foreign strangers, these Briton monks and soldiers? He himself didn't really know. Actually, deep inside he knew. For a long time in his life he had been a wanderer: after having left the abbey of Father Benedictus when he was still half a kid, he had never stayed in one place for more than a year until he found a stable life at the Vivarium. And now once again he had jumped at the chance of leaving Ioua, the same as he used to do when he was younger. He had barely got the time to collect his few belongings, and there he was gone, with people he didn't know at all. Like a jump into darkness.

He was leaning against the port beam of a small boat, sprays of sea water wetting his face, traveling with seven soldiers, two monks, a boy, and the helmsman, all of them strangers and speaking a foreign language. The boat was so small that Leo was wondering how it could face the open stretch of water they were venturing into. Luckily, the weather was good and the sea was calm, for the moment. The summer sunlight in these regions was not even remotely as strong as in Italia, so it was pleasant to feel it on his bare head, without covering himself with his hood.

He didn't have a clue of where they were going to, besides understanding that they were directed to a Brittonic town and that those people were likely getting deep into a fight with the abducted boy's father and clan. The destination was not close: the previous day, after leaving Ioua, they had sailed for many hours before stopping for the night, crowded into a tiny hovel on the coast. They had left at first light and they were sailing for a few hours already.

"Here, Brother Leo, over there". The monk called Serf caught his attention. He was sitting behind him. Leo turned his head and saw that Serf was pointing at the coast, on their left-hand side: "Do you see those boats sailing in and out of that bay? There's a village there, and across the bay a small stone church, called Candida Casa".

"Candida Casa, in Latin? As in 'white house'?", Leo asked, surprised. It was rarer and rarer for him to hear or speak the Latin language, his mother tongue. Recently, traveling inland with some monks from Ioua, he had been told that even the Brittonic language would come useful in case he met Briton monks, as he was now eventually experiencing  personally. Thus, Leo had started to learn that difficult language but he had still a scarce understanding of it and especially he could barely speak it. Luckily this Brother Serf was also quite fluent in the Dalriatan language, which Leo could at least decently speak, after one and a half year of practice.

"Yes, exactly", answered Serf. "In Candida Casa, many years ago, I trained as a novice. They say it's the oldest Christian settlement in northern Albion". Serf paused, then he asked him: "And you, Brother Leo, you said that you are a Roman from Italia... Where did you train as a novice? In Roma? I once planned to go to Roma, but God eventually had other plans for me".

Here we go again, Leo thought. "No, not in Roma", he answered, "I was a puer oblatus at an abbey founded by the severe Father Benedictus of Nursia, who, I've heard just few years ago, is now venerated as a holy man by his disciples". He stopped there, he didn't want to get to the point of recounting all his own life.

After a silence, Brother Serf spoke: "And how a monk from Italia has come to these shores, so far from your native land?". Leo noticed that Serf had not insisted on asking him about his novitiate, showing some tact at least.

"Christianity is universal, isn't it?", answered Leo, "and Roman culture too, it expanded from Roma up to these lands, and on the opposite side down to Aegyptus".

Serf smiled: "How true, how true. Then, let me ask you this: why did you leave Ioua and come with us?".

"Honesty, Brother Serf, I am not sure. I feel like I've learnt all what I could from my experience in Ioua, and I am keen to see other Christian settlements. You are the first Briton people I meet, and I just thought to have a chance of traveling through Brittania... or how do you call it? Albion?".

"Yes, Albion, right", answered Serf pensively and looking not persuaded.

"I, too, wish to ask you something, Brother Serf", replied Leo, hoping to change the subject: "What did happen at the abbey yesterday? Why did your soldiers take the boy unbeknownst to his family?". Leo had listened to the explanation from Father Colmcille's perspective, when the abbot had dictated the text in Latin to Brother Lucius, but he wanted to hear Brother Serf's perspective, taking advantage of the fact that the soldiers clearly couldn't understand the Dalriatan language. He had not dared to go on that subject until then, but now he had the chance.

Serf looked around, then he spoke with a soft voice: "I think Brother Mungo is the one whom you should ask".

The monk called Mungo was sitting next to Serf, and clearly he must have followed their conversation.

Leo stared at him, until eventually Brother Mungo spoke softly: "Brother Leo, I will answer only because these soldiers don't understand the Dalriatan language, and Artúr is at the other side of the boat and he cannot hear. I will speak to you as a priest to another priest. You see, what happened few days ago is something disastrous, even for these turbulent times: the citadel of an important Brittonic kingdom, one of the biggest in Brittania, has been conquered, and its ruling dynasty exterminated. The conqueror is at the same time cousin by blood and son-in-law of the king he has killed! And he's a leader of a foreign kingdom, not a Brittonic one: the kingdom of Dál Riata has different people, different language, different customs... Different religion. I don't know why this Áedán sent his oldest son to the Abbey of Ioua, but Dál Riata is a pagan kingdom and, now that the Cruthin have conquered Alt Clut, all the Christians are banished from their own motherland. Brother Serf and I have witnessed that. All these circumstances are very, very bad. War on a large scale is behind the corner between the Britons and the Cruthin, as we derogatorily call the people from Hibernia and Dál Riata. Though most of the Cruthin people of Hibernia are Christians while the majority of the Cruthin of Dál Riata are not, they share common language and society, and they have often joined together in war".

Brother Mungo looked circumspectly around, before continuing ever more softly: "The other day in Cair Ligualid, the town where we are headed to, I met a prince of Alt Clut, apparently the only son alive of the deceased king. He pushed me to perform this action... to abduct Áedán's son. Initially of course I opposed the idea. But then, I realised that it might be actually the right move in order to avoid a bloody war. The boy will be held as a ward by Prince Riderch, who is his maternal uncle, thus appeasing for the moment the Briton leaders until a new agreement about the status of Alt Clut is to be found. I doubt that Áedán mac Gabráin will be tempted to wage war on the Britons, knowing that Riderch holds his oldest son. They will be forced to find a peaceful agreement".

But Leo in the last year had come to learn a bit of the Dalriatan politics, so he replied: "What if the king of Dál Riata, King Conall, orders the Dalriatan forces to attack the Britons disregarding Áedán's worries?".

"What are you monks speaking about?", someone asked in the Brittonic language, behind them. It was the soldiers' captain, a big and muscular bloke. And with that interruption, their conversation was over.

Leo covered his head with his hood and after a while, cradled by the monotonous rolling of the sea, he dozed off.

He got woken up by a chilly wind and he felt his body numb for staying in the same position for too long. When he opened his eyes, he noticed that the sky was cloudy and threatening rain. The boat was now moving along the coast. He got confused by the fact that the shore was on their right-hand side now, then he realised that they were entering a wide bay. He took off his hood and he looked around. He saw a ruined stone fortification standing on a cliff that rose steeply from the shore. It looked somehow familiar, as if it was a Roman building. "What is that?", he asked Serf, pointing at it.

"That", answered the old monk, smiling, "is what remains of a big fort built by your ancestors. Yes, Brother Leo, the Romans built that, although a very long time ago. In fact, such a long time ago that nobody really knows when and by whom exactly. All what is left are impressive ruins and many stories".

"Maybe that will surprise you, Brother Serf, but I have seen similar ruins even in Italia", replied Leo.

"Mundus transit", Serf sighed. "You will see, Brother Leo, many are the vestiges left by the Romans in this area. There is even an old fortified stone wall which runs trough the region, though it's quite in ruins. Some people say that it runs all the way up to the eastern sea, but I have no idea if that is true".

"Enough about that. What do you think will happen when we will arrive at the town where we are headed to?", asked Leo.

"Once we arrive at Cair Ligualid, provided that the upcoming storm doesn't smash us against the shore, Artúr will be received by Riderch and most probably by King Urbgen Pendragon. It will be up to them to decide what they will do in this new situation. I really hope that with this action we are preventing a war, and that we are not leading into one".

14 - CAIMIR

"I am running out of patience, priest", threatened Caimir.

But that Colmkille, or whatever his name was, stared back at him with not a hint of fear in his eyes: "I said we are going to proceed once my scribe will be here", he answered with his thick Cruthin accent.

"Why do we need to write down what is happening here? I showed you already the message with Guletic Riderch's seal, you already read our terms and you just need to agree or not. We don't need scribes".

The monk only shook his head and said nothing.

They had been discussing for a long time. Caimir must end the matter quickly, they were not safe on that island. Riderch had entrusted him with this risky expedition and he intended to get things done. But even arriving there had not been easy.

They had travelled on a small boat without banners, sailed by a boatman from Cair Ligualid who knew these shores: he had required a conspicuous payment, insisting that these places were very dangerous for Briton soldiers. After having embarked on a long sailing and having stopped halfway to spend a night in a hut on the coast in Alt Clut territories, they had managed to arrive on that remote island without meeting Cruthin ships, but Caimir was not at ease: they were on Dalriatan territories after all, and he had with him only six of his trusted guards, while the others had stayed in Cair Ligualid with Riderch. Seven armed men were more than enough against a group of priests, but they might not have been enough if it came to face a band of Cruthin soldiers.

One thing was sure, Caimir was very determined to carry on Riderch's plan. At the moment it was the only hope for him in order to be able to know what had happened to his wife and children in Alt Clut.

And he was also yearning to avenge the murder of Atoc, his guard stabbed in the borderlands by the false messenger sent by the conspirators. He had died after one day of agony.

Caimir had been relieved when he had not seen Cruthin soldiers on the island. But he had now to face the stubbornness of these monks, who wouldn't let go one of their pupils. Caimir could have easily acted by force, but he had received orders to try and avoid violence if possible: as if the situation wasn't enough complicated, the boy's mother was Riderch's sister, wed to Áedán of Dál Riata, and Riderch wanted this business not to become uglier than it was already. So Caimir was stuck in discussions and the monks were greatly testing his patience.

"Father Colmcille", spoke the monk known as Mungo, who had come with Caimir from Cair Ligualid, "we come here in a diplomatic effort. The boy Artúr is Guletic Riderch's nephew, and Riderch's intention is to raise him as his ward. No harm will be done to him...".

"I didn't know until now", interrupted Colmkille in an indignant tone, "that Christian monks in Albion are servants of the Briton rulers".

"Dear Father Colmcille", said an old bearded monk. Caimir was told he was the monk called Serf, who had fled Alt Clut at the same time as Mungo. "What Brother Mungo means, is that we have been spending our lives, and some of us have even given theirs, following the teachings of our Lord Jesus in our mission on converting to the true faith the pagan people: the same that you have done in your lands. In our efforts, we contributed to prevent wars, persuading many Briton rulers that there's a Lord greater than any of us, Whom they will have to answer to, in the afterlife. I am not servant of that Riderch, much as I am not of any Dalriatan chief. But I have seen with my own eyes many poor dead people only few days ago, and I know that vengeance will be as bloody as the first stroke and it will hit the same poor innocent people. Unless, unless there is a way to divert this vengeance. If taking away the boy will prevent Riderch from waging war, I say it's worth it. It's true, the boy's father will want to take his son back by force, but after having already attacked the Britons and destroyed one of their main citadels, I think this time he will be obligated to negotiate, if he doesn't want to face all the Britons united against him. And after all, Riderch and his allies, as far as I know, are supporters of the Christian faith, while the new occupying forces in Alt Clut have banished not only us monks, but all the Christians from their kingdom: the way I look at it, I think that Riderch's party may help us saving the endangered lives of the innocent Christian people, and if the boy will be with him, he will fight on the side of our faith, while his father is now allied with the heathens who are currently in power over Alt Clut".

Besides all the blabbering about faith, Caimir was impressed by that old monk's speech. Riderch had been right when he had told Caimir to let Mungo and Serf speak. Caimir didn't know if Riderch had instructed Mungo to tell Serf what to say, but that didn't matter.

What mattered was that Colmkille looked struck too: even if he was a Cruthin, he was discussing with them in the Brittonic language and by the look on his face he had understood everything of what Serf had said. "I've heard stories", said Colmkille, "that you too, Brother Serf, were born into a family of rulers, and now that I hear you speaking like that I can easily believe those stories. Yours is not common people's mind...".

In that same moment, someone arrived at the hut's entrance. It was the monk who had gone to call the scribe, accompanied by two other monks. Who was to be the supposed scribe?

Colmkille pointed at a small desk and said something in a language Caimir could not understand, but that sounded like Latin. The youngest among the three monks came forward and sat at the desk, which was equipped with quill and parchment. That was the scribe then? He was so young he could've been Caimir's son!

When the young monk was ready with the quill, Colmkille started speaking, and this time Caimir was pretty sure it was Latin. The scribe was writing down from dictation. Caimir couldn't understand Latin language, he only recognised the sound of some names, as Ioua, Riderch, Artúr and Áedán. But he didn't really care, the written words were not in the slightest as dangerous as the spoken words.

After endless time, Colmkille stopped dictating and scowled at Caimir, speaking in the Brittonic language, though not fluently: "Brother Lukius has written down, from my dictation, the content of your guletic's message and also what Brother Serf said a few moments ago. Everyone in this room is witness: what has been written on that parchment will remain as testimony to what happens here today", he said peremptorily. Caimir had enough of listening to speeches and he was ready to act. But that hard nut Colmkille, after a moment of silence, resumed his talk: "I cannot and I will not resist you, but God is witness of what is happening and of what Brother Serf assured with his words, which have been put in writing".

Colmkille waited for a moment, as if he was expecting to hear Serf's defence. But the old monk kept quiet.

Then, Colmkille spoke in Cruthin to the same monk who had been sent earlier to call the scribe. Once again, the monk answered Colmkille's orders and left the hut.

None in the room uttered a word. Colmkille stood there immobile and scowling, the other monks lowered their eyes, while Caimir's guards were keeping an eye on everyone. Caimir just wished that this business ended soon. That place was not safe for them and he was feeling the urge to leave the island as soon as possible.

After a while the monk was back, with Áedán's son. He was a blond little boy, apparently of around ten years of age. Same age as my youngest son, thought Caimir.

Artúr, that was his name, opened his eyes wide, amazed by the armed guards.

Colmkille came close to the boy and spoke to him, with a grumpy look but a surprisingly gentle voice: "My dear Artúr, today your education at the Abbey of Hy ends. For now, at least. I will leave you to the good hands of Brother Serf and Brother Mungo. These guards will escort you safely". Caimir was surprised: the abbot had talked in the Brittonic language and the boy had understood, judging by the expression on his face. That was for the best, it would be easy to speak to him, then.

Serf smiled to the child: "You know, Artúr, I used to know your mother, when she was still living in Alt Clut. We are going to one of her brothers, your uncle Riderch, to continue your training. He's staying at the great court of Urbgen Pendragon, you will like it there".

The boy's eyes shone with awe, as he asked: "My father ordered that?".

The boy had spoken in Brittonic! But Caimir let quickly go his surprise and hastened to intervene: "Yes, your father wants the best for you. He couldn't be here because... he is busy elsewhere. But your uncle Riderch, who is my lord, will take you with him for a while". Caimir could feel the monks' embarassment in the face of that half-truth, but the boy looked persuaded, and that was what mattered.

After that, Colmkille dictated some other stuff in Latin to his scribe, before they could be finally free to go.

Arthmail, one of Caimir's guards, was already stationed outside the hut. Now all of them walked towards the exit, two guards first, then Mungo and Serf with Artúr, and lastly Caimir and the last three guards.

Just when Caimir started towards the threshold, he heard a monk speaking, in a very horrible version of the Brittonic language: "Father Colmcille, I ask permission joining Brothers Serf and Mungo, if I may?". Caimir turned his face to see who had spoken: it was the monk who had arrived last together with the scribe. He looked like a foreigner, olive-skinned and with his beard trimmed-down in a strange fashion.

Colmkille stared at him for a moment, then he turned to Caimir: "If the soldiers agree, I have no objections... Brother Leo".

Caimir didn't know what to make of that and he could have easily refused. But then he thought that maybe it was good to have with them one more monk contributing to their cause, in such difficult circumstances. So he just grunted: "Fine to me". The monk called Leo was searched by the guards, who didn't find any potential weapon on him. After that, they could finally leave the damn hut.

The last thing Caimir saw before crossing the threshold was the young scribe, still sitting at the small desk: he was staring at the monk called Leo with a wild-eyed gaze.

13 - BROTHER LUCIUS

Focused on copying the Confessio of the venerated Bishop Patricius, Brother Lucius dipped once again his quill in the inkhorn, then he held his hand in mid air, thinking. How different from the Vivarium was this place. They used quills and parchment here, instead of the reed pens and papyrus that were used in Italia. It required a different technique in writing, since the quill was of course more flexible than the reed pen and the parchment had a different texture than the papyrus. But Brother Lucius was getting used to it.

Among these monks, even the writing style was very peculiar: sometimes they used to decorate the initial letter of a text in the shape of a drawing, in bigger size than the other letters. They employed edged quills rather than pointed ones, and they held them at a flat angle to produce thick downstrokes and thin horizontals. Brother Lucius was trying to practice that particular writing style, though he was still far from mastering it.

What an unexpected turn had life reserved for him. He, who used to love and be attached to his region of Bruttii, had come here to the end of the known world, on a cold and windy island. Nevertheless, he felt that he was gradually achieving his aspiration of being an experienced scribe. At his young age, Brother Lucius was already the personal scribe of an abbot whose wisdom and knowledge he had never seen before. Of course, Cassiodorus was a great erudite man too, but Lucius had never worked side by side with him, as he was doing now with Father Colmcille. He was also amazed by the fact that, even if this abbey had been founded only a few years earlier, its library was so well furnished.

These were the main reasons that had eventually led Brother Lucius to decide to spend one or two years there, instead than at the Monastery of Beannchor.

Brother Leo had decided to stay too, though for different reasons: he had ventured several times inland with other monks, with the aim of converting the pagan people who inhabited those regions. And the mission was bearing fruit, since more and more people from the mainland seemed to be attracted by the monks' missionary work. Some notables of that region were sending their children to Ioua, to be educated at the abbey. Brother Lucius had been nominated tutor to four of them. It was not easy task, since they lacked in any decent education and most of them didn't seem particularly clever. One exception was that Artúr son of Áedán: after only one year of tutoring, the little boy could understand and speak Latin, and had started learning how to read and write. He wouldn't become a monk, since he belonged to a prominent family of that region and therefore he was destined to become a leader or a warrior, but brother Lucius was pleased with his progress.

Someone at the entrance called his name, interrupting his thoughts. Brother Lucius answered, "Yes, who's there?", and immediately after that he exclaimed: "I'll be blowed!", when he saw Brother Leo crossing the threshold. His older travel companion was back! "I thought you were still on mission!" he greeted him, and the two of them shook each other's arms.

Brother Leo smiled: "I just came back, but I decided to visit you before going to my cell. May I seat for a moment?". His voice was tired and his face showed more wrinkles than what Brother Lucius remembered.

"Of course, take this seat!". It was the only stool in there, anyway. "How was the mission?".

"It was long, tiring, and especially very... instructive, I would say", answered Brother Leo when he was seated.

"Instructive? I've heard that those are harsh lands and the people are heathens whose language is unintelligible".

"Well, about the language I quite agree", said Brother Leo smiling, "but about the rest, you would be surprised. Those lands are a wilderness, but a beautiful wilderness. And those people, they are so different from us but they themselves have their own social organisation, they have chiefs and tribes and hillforts, and they have a division of labour among them. The other monks call them Picti, because they supposedly paint their bodies, though I didn't notice any of them painted. Anyways, in the end, they also share with us the same human instinct and emotions". His voice had a strange enthralled tone while saying that.

"But... They are heathens", replied Brother Lucius leaning against his desk, perplexed.

Brother Leo displayed one of his placid smiles and answered: "Brother Lucius, even though we have shared a long travel together, I realise we have never talked to each other about ourselves".

"About ourselves? What do you mean?".

Brother Leo grew serious now, it seemed like suddenly he didn't like the direction the talk was taking. Then, after a pause, he sighed: "Very well, then", he said with a tired voice, half closing his eyes. "During this past year and a half we got to know each other better and better, and I really esteem you. So I feel it's time I confess something to you. Where can I start from?... Well, let's start from the beginning. I was born in a poor, semi abandoned village, which had once been a prosperous town, but had then suffered the devastation caused by the barbarian incursions. My family wasn't Christian, same as the other families in that village. Our life was full of struggle, we were just poor farmers and artisans. If nothing particular had happened, I would have carried on living forever like that or died in some war, like the one I somewhat glimpsed when Baduila himself came with his army through our lands. But something happened. Abbot Benedictus of Nursia and his monks came to our village and founded an abbey on the top of the mountain, where until then the people still used to venerate the pagan gods".

Why is he telling me all this?, Brother Lucius thought, but he continued to listen to him.

"Since we were ten siblings", Brother Leo was saying, "and our parents couldn't feed all of us, they sent two of my brothers and me, the youngest ones, to the abbey. We were accepted as pueri oblati, we had to respect and obey the abbot and the monks, to learn how to pray to God and to behave as Christians. It was good for us because we were regularly fed, since the monks had their own vegetable garden and their chickens and goats, and there was food for everyone. But unlike my brothers, I couldn't bring myself to like that place, that life. Father Benedictus had written a Rule for all the monks living there. Even we, the pueri oblati, were expected to abide by the Rule, or at least by part of it. I was still a young boy and I didn't want to spend my days only praying and helping in the works of the monks. So I started complaining and eventually Father Benedictus told me that I was free to go, if I really wanted to".

"Did you really leave?", asked Brother Lucius, who was now getting intrigued.

"Yes. I was persuaded that my family would have never accepted me back, and at that time I thought that after the experience at the abbey I was ready to live on my own. So I left and I wandered around at the woods' edge, living on berries and root vegetables alone. I think I got close to starving to death. Then I started working in some villages in exchange for shelter and food. Soon I liked my independence, moving to live from a place to another. Year by year, I visited many regions in Italia and in each place I learnt new things and new tasks. The more I learnt, the more I wanted to learn. When I arrived at the Vivarium, I was already a grown man. In that place I found something that I had never seen anywhere else: infinite knowledge, contained in all the scrolls the monks were copying. I decided to stay there and learn to read and to write. I didn't take vows, and Cassiodorus didn't required that from me. After all, Cassiodorus isn't a monk either, even though everyone calls him 'Abbot' at the Vivarium. After a while, they started calling me Brother Leo, even if I have never been a monk or a priest".

Brother Lucius couldn't believe his ears: "I know about Cassiodorus but... Have you never been either? Do you mean... that you still aren't?!".

"That's right", simply answered Brother Leo, or just Leo at this point. "When I arrived at the Vivarium, others were not monks and at that time no one really cared about that. The Vivarium was recently founded and Cassiodorus' aim was to copy old scrolls in order to preserve their content, whether they were Christian texts or not".

"I know all of that", replied Brother Lucius, who was getting heated, "but the others at the Vivarium eventually took vows... Why didn't you? During this long trip together I have seen that you behave like a true Christian".

Leo smiled and answered, looking a bit ill at ease: "I thank you, dear Brother Lucius, for your kind words. You see... I decided to stay at the Vivarium because I got enthralled by the pleasure of knowledge. Cassiodorus allowed me to stay even after I told him that... Well, the same thing I concerned myself with telling Abbot Colmcille once I arrived here. That I don't really believe in God. Which didn't prevented me from behaving, as you just told me, in a Christian way, if you will".

Brother Lucius didn't grasp immediately the meaning, but when he did, he couldn't listen to any other word. Leo was carrying on speaking, while Brother Lucius started shivering. Then he abruptly interrupted his interlocutor: "Are you speaking seriously? Are your words for real? You... Don't you really believe in Our Lord?!".

"I know how much what I just said disturbs you, Brother Lucius, but...".

"Don't call me 'brother'! If what you say it's true, we are not brothers!".

In that same moment he heard a voice coming from the entrance and, startled, he span around.

"Brother Lukius". It was just Brother Camgann peeking out from the threshold, short-winded and with a worried expression on his face: "Brother Lukius, the abbot summons you quickly", he said in his uncertain Latin, all in one breath. Then he looked at Leo and he added: "Brother Leo... I think better you come too... The more we are, the better".

"What's going on, Brother Camgann?", Leo asked him.

Brother Lucius wanted to punch him on the face just there and then, but he came to his senses when he heard Brother Camgall answering: "There's an armed irruption in the Abbey. Father Colmcille needs us immediately".