'Yes, the High King. Is he a worthy man?'

'He is; and the more I know of him, the more I feel that he is sent of God.'

'As you were.' Dafyd leaned back in his chair. The firelight playing over his features made him appear insubstantial, as if he were made of some finer, yet more ephemeral material; a momentary being. I realized he would not long remain in the world of men.

I must have been staring at him, for he said, ‘The Champion, oh yes. Why do you look at me so? Hafgan always maintained as much.'

The memory came in a rush: Hafgan standing beside this trembling boy, and calling to the Learned Brotherhood to bear witness, saying, Before you stands the one whose coming we have long awaited, the Champion who will lead the war host against the Darkness…

'Ah, Hafgan,' Dafyd was saying. 'His name has not passed my lips in many years. That man possessed a soul, Myrddin; a very great soul indeed. The discussions we had! Jesu bless him. What a reunion it will be!'

The good bishop made it sound as if he were merely going on a day's journey to visit his friend. Perhaps that was how he saw it.

'What do you know of the Champion?' I asked gently. 'What can you tell me?'

'What can I tell you about the Champion?' he continued. 'That he will be a man to save the Britons, that he will come when we most have need of him, that his will be a rule of righteousness and justice.' He paused and eyed me sharply. 'Are you suggesting that Hafgan was mistaken?'

I sighed and shook my head. 'I cannot say. Hafgan believed; it could be he saw in me what he wanted to see. Or perhaps he saw through me to another.'

'Myrddin,' Dafyd's voice was soft and comforting as a crooning mother's, 'have you lost your way?'

I pondered this. The fire crackled in the hearth as the pine knots popped and scattered sparks at our feet. Had I lost my way? Was this the source of my confusion? Until just now I had never doubted…

'No,' I answered at length, 'I have not lost my way – it is just that so many ways open before me that sometimes I hardly know which way to choose. To decide for one is to decide against another. I never imagined it would be this hard.'

'Now you know,' Dafyd said gently. 'The higher a man's call and vision, the more choices are given him. This is our work in creation: to decide. And what we decide is woven into the thread of time and being for ever. Choose wisely, then, but you must choose.'

Great Light, help me! I am blind without you.

'Well, I have said enough,' Dafyd said, settling back once more. 'You were telling me about the High King.'

'Aurelius, yes; he is High King, although he has yet to take the throne. I do not know how Vortigern received his kingship, but in elder times the chieftain would be blessed by the clan's druid, and I thought… '

'You wish me to consecrate this king as I consecrated you?' Dafyd saw the implications of this at once, and the idea delighted him. 'Myrddin, you are a far-thinking man,' he said approvingly. 'Of course, I will be your druid. Although you could do it yourself just as well. When will he come here?'

'He is going to Londinium,' I replied. 'It is where his father was crowned.'

'There is a church in Londinium, and a bishop – Urbanus, I know him well, a zealous servant of our Lord.'

'He will serve most admirably, no doubt,' I said lamely.

He read my expression. 'But as Aurelius will require the continued support of the western kings, it might help to bolster that support with well-placed pride. Tewdrig would feel better if his own bishop consecrated this new king.'

'And not Tewdrig only.'

'Yes, I see that and I agree. Very well, we will go to him and do what we can to give him a proper kingmaking. Is Aurelius a Christian?'

'He is willing.'

That is half the battle. As Jesu himself said, "He who is not against us, is for us." Eh? If Aurelius is not against us, we will go to him. And I will enjoy the journey. Urbanus will not mind my coming; he will take account of my years and yield this favour to me.'

"Thank you, Dafyd.'

He rose slowly and came to me. He placed his hands on my head. 'In my heart I have long carried you, most beloved son. But the time is soon coming when you must go your way alone. Be strong, Myrddin. Be the hope of our hope. The people will look to you, they will believe and follow you – though I fear the church will not love you for it. But remember the church is only men, and men can become jealous of another's favour. Do not hate them for it.'

He took my hands and raised me from my chair. 'Kneel,' he said, 'and let an old man give you his blessing.'

I knelt before him on the hearth, and Dafyd, Bishop of Llandaff, renewed the blessing he had given me long ago.

Londinium had changed much with the years. Never more than a wide space on the Thamesis River, a scattering of mud and wattle huts and cattle enclosures, it was nevertheless chosen by the Romans for their principal city, for the simple fact that the river was deep enough to allow their troop ships to come inland, yet shallow enough to cross without undue difficulty. For generations Londinium's greatest glory remained the enormous docks built by the Roman engineers and maintained, with greater or lesser zeal, ever since.

Though the troop ships eventually ceased, the city remained the centre of Imperial power in the island, in time acquiring not only a fortress, which was all of Londinium in the early years, but a governor's residence, a stadium, baths, temples, markets, warehouses, public buildings of various types, an arena, and a theatre – in addition to its massive docks. In later years a stone wall was put up round the whole, but by then the city was a sprawling, brawling monstrosity of crowded streets and close-built houses, inns, and tradesmen's shops.

The governor's residence became a palace, a forum was added and a basilica, and the future of Londinium was secure. Henceforth, any Briton wishing to impress Mother Rome had first to win Londinium in one way or another. In short, Londinium, to the Britons, was Rome. Certainly, it was as close to Rome as many a Celtic citizen ever came. And for this reason, if for no other, Londinium, despite the filth and noise and squalor, basked in the golden sunset that was Rome and remained ever glorious.

To Londinium Constantine had come as Emperor of the West, first High King of the Britons. Therefore, to Londinium Aurelius had come to receive the crown of his father, identifying himself with his father – and, through Constantine, with Rome.

This was wise as it was necessary: there were still many men of position and influence who considered allegiance to and membership in the Empire essential for the proper ruling of Britain. That raw circumstance had far outstripped this archaic requisite could never have occurred to these men. They were cast of an older mould: civilized, refined, urbane. That Rome itself had become little more than a provincial backwater, its once-proud residences slums, its noble Colosseum a charnal house, its stately Senate a gathering place of jackals, its imperial palace a brothel – all this made not a whisker of a difference.

As I have said, the men who believed this way were powerful men and any High King who would own the title along with the crown had to be recognized by the staunch sophisticates of Londinium – or for ever be considered a usurper, or worse, and thus be denied Londinium's considerable resources.

Aurelius understood this; Vortigern never had. More's the pity. For if Vortigern had won Londinium he might never have been forced to the awful exigency of embracing Hengist and his horde. But Vortigern was proud. He vainly supposed that he could rule without Londinium's blessing.