And so they made their way to the fort. It sat at the edge of one of the cliffs, overlooking the harbor and commanding a magnificent view of the English Channel. Merlin handed Petronus one of his ingenious viewing devices, a set of lenses supported in a wooden tube. “There.” He pointed. “Your homeland, Petronus.”
The boy took the device and held it to his eye. “I can’t honestly see a great deal. It’s a pity you haven’t been able to make these any more powerful.”
“In time, Petronus. Science and knowledge tend to advance slowly.” He stumbled on a small rock and winced with pain. “Like myself.”
In a few minutes they reached the gate of the fort and knocked. A sentry admitted them and asked them to wait there.
As it turned out, Commander Larkin was away on “official business”; Merlin did not bother to inquire what that meant. They were greeted by his lieutenant, an Irish sergeant named Ewan McGovern. “Merlin. We’ve heard so much about you here. And Colin. We all know your names so well. It’s wonderful to meet you.”
Merlin introduced Petronus and explained that they needed a place to stay for the duration of the festival.
“I’m afraid we’re rather crowded in here.” Ewan smiled, apparently embarrassed. “But I think we can find you rooms. If you’ll only be patient for a few moments while we rearrange the living quarters…?”
“Of course. Please, take your time. We do not wish to be more of a burden than is avoidable.”
He vanished, then a few minutes later reappeared to install them in a suite of rooms against the back wall of the garrison. A window overlooked cliffs and the Channel; and a huge fire roared in the hearth. Then he proceeded, happily for everyone concerned, to leave them on their own.
Nimue sighed deeply. “I was afraid he’d feel obligated to entertain us. Which would have meant telling us all his soldier’s stories. You know how the Irish are.”
“Indeed. But as long as he keeps us warm, dry and well fed, I see no reason to complain.”
Petronus ignored all this. “I wonder if I might meet some nice girls here,” he chirped.
“Nice girls?” Merlin sounded incredulous. “In Dover? Like every port town everywhere, it is ridden with whores. And the ones here are notorious for leaving their clients with unexpected souvenirs of their coupling. Britomart always calls them ‘fire ships.’ She insists the men of the garrison be lectured about avoiding them once every month by a physician who is also charged with examining them.”
“The women are earning a living, Merlin.” Nimue was quite serious. “And a poor enough living, at that, I imagine. In a city this full of people, all interacting merrily, the spread of disease is inevitable. Singling out one segment of the population-”
“That is enough.” Merlin turned uncharacteristically stern. “I was not attempting to ‘single anyone out.’ I merely want to warn Petronus that the friendly girls he meets here might have ulterior motives.”
His enthusiasm punctured, Petronus sulked. “According to you, sir, everyone has ulterior motives.”
“And so they do, Petronus. So they do.”
The festival continued for two weeks. Every day more and more revelers arrived, and more and more vendors sprang up-“like toadstools,” Merlin said-to sell them food, drink, clothing and everything else conceivable. Wine and ale were everywhere. The press of the crowds in the streets was increasingly unpleasant for Merlin, and exhilarating for his young companions.
An engineer from London came and set up a mechanical roundabout, and people lined up in large numbers to take a ride. Petronus stood in line for hours and did not want to ride alone, but he was not able to convince either Merlin or Nimue to join him. “I am dizzy enough, from the crowds and the wine,” Merlin told him. “Apparently you are not.”
“You ride that mechanical lift of yours often enough.” Petronus sulked; his fun was being cramped.
“And if this contraption could help me bypass a long flight of stairs, I would ride it, too.”
Nimue complained that she was gaining weight as a result of all the food at the festival.
Merlin told her in a low voice, “Relax,
As the days passed, Merlin spent more and more time in their quarters, reading and avoiding the crowds quite pointedly.
“Come out with us,” Nimue implored him on the festival’s next-to-last day. “This will be over soon. You won’t have another chance.”
“I am quite content here, thank you. I have procured a lovely manuscript of poems by Catullus, Theocritus and Tibullus from a bookseller in town.”
“Romans and their lovers-both girls and boys.” She clucked her tongue and teased, “An important figure like you, reading such objectionable poetry?”
“Object all you like.” He smiled and sat in a stuffed chair beside the fire to enjoy his reading. “I shall be passing my time among the finest minds Rome produced.”
So Petronus and Nimue went out without their mentor, as they had been doing for days.
Petronus enjoyed passing time at the waterfront, where sailors from all over the Mediterranean could be found, drinking, wenching and spinning exotic tales of faraway lands. He was mesmerized by accounts of knights in Arabia and the djinn, demons and other spirits they encountered and frequently fought.
On that afternoon he managed to meet a group of sailors from a French ship, the Mal de Mer. One of them took a fancy to Petronus and “Colin,” and the three of them went into town to explore the delights on offer.
His name was Jean-Gaston. He was tall, olive-skinned, athletic, he was second mate on the ship, and he exuded the easy charm the French were famous for. Nimue found herself regretting her male disguise; she would have liked to meet Jean-Gaston as her true self. He spoke no English, and she had very little French, so Petronus translated. Being the center of the threesome pleased him. At one point he stammered and refused to translate something Jean-Gaston had said. “It is quite improper,” he explained. “Quite lewd.”
“Good.” She put on an impish grin. “Translate, then.”
He did so, and the two of them giggled and followed the sailor through the crowd.
Late in the day Nimue decided their new friend should meet Merlin. Petronus explained this to him and they headed back in the direction of the garrison. Just as they reached the edge of the festival, Jean-Gaston began to cough uncontrollably. They stopped; Nimue put an arm around him and asked him, through Petronus, if he needed help.
But he could not stop the coughing. His face turned bright red, and blotches of a darker red, mingled with black, began to appear on his hands, his arms, his face, on every area of exposed skin. A moment later he fell to the ground, clutching his throat. In alarm, Nimue told Petronus to run and fetch Merlin. “And make sure he brings his medical kit.”
She bent over the fallen sailor. The dark red blotches had begun to swell into large blisters; his complexion, other than the blotches, turned ghostly white. His skin was hot and feverish. Not knowing what else to do, she took his hand in hers, hoping it might calm him. He kept muttering in French, softly, almost inaudibly. Finally she saw Petronus coming back along the path, with Merlin in tow.
Merlin looked down at the man on the ground and asked, “What is the problem? What has happened?”
Nimue described the course of events.
“It happened that quickly?”
“Yes. He was fine only moments before the coughing began.”
Merlin got down on a knee and felt his wrist. “The pulse is slow and weak.” He looked up. “Very weak. Both of you, back away. Has either of you touched him?”
Nimue said that she had.
“Then quickly, find a clean cloth and wipe your hands. Wipe vigorously. Make sure every trace of him is gone from your skin.” He swabbed his own hands with the hem of his robe.
“What is wrong with him?” Petronus asked.
“I cannot be quite certain, but those reddish-black swellings on his skin… I can only think that they are buboes.” He got to his feet and wiped his hands on his robes once again. “I am afraid that this is plague.”
“No!”
“I have never seen plague before. But this must be it. It conforms to all the descriptions in the medical texts. Let us hope he recovers. Then he will be able to tell us where he might have contracted this. And where he might have spread it. Petronus, run and fetch Sergeant Ewan. Tell him to come at once. At once, do you hear? We must send men into town to learn what may be happening there. There will be other men on his ship who are also infected.”
Petronus was frozen, a look of horror on his face.
“Run, I said!”
“Yes, sir.”
A moment after the boy left, Jean-Gaston heaved a loud sigh. He coughed up a huge quantity of blood. His body shuddered, and he was still.
Merlin took a step slowly, carefully, away from his body. “So much for that hope.”
Nimue impulsively moved to the corpse, plainly wanting to do something to help.
“Do not touch him. He is dead, Colin. Nothing will do any good. We must keep our wits about us. How long were you with him?”
She explained.
“And this struck so quickly? It has all the symptoms of plague, but I have never heard of symptoms developing so rapidly. If plague is what we are actually facing-if he did not have some odd form of the pox or whatever-this may turn into a major crisis.” They both stood over the body, to warn passersby not to touch it and risk contagion. Fortunately, no one seemed to want to. There were a few curious glances, and one woman suggested consulting the local priestess of Bran, “for your sick friend.”
Petronus returned with Sergeant Ewan. Merlin explained what had happened, and what he suspected was the cause. “Have some men come and take the body away and burn it. Caution them not to touch it.”
“Should they wear armor, sir?”
“No, I do not think that will be necessary. But have them wear gloves, and warn them not to come into contact with any exposed skin. Most physicians who have known the plague think it is probably airborne, but precautions will not hurt.”
“Yes, sir. And I will send more men into town to warn everyone that there may be plague here. We cannot keep the populace in ignorance of the danger they may be facing.”
“They will panic, Ewan. That will not be good.”
“Let them. If nothing else, it will clear them all out of Dover.”
“But if some of them are already infected with plague, they will spread it to every corner of southern England. No, it would be better to cordon off the town and quarantine everyone here.”
“That would take more men than I have. There are seven major roads out of town, and any number of small footpaths.”
“You will have to find the men to staff inspection points on all of them. Erect roadblocks.”
“And you think that will not cause a panic?”
Merlin sighed. “We must take the chance, I suppose. We have never had to deal with a thing like this before. Every precaution must be taken.”
Merlin looked at the dead sailor, then back at Ewan. “We cannot be certain this is plague until… well, until it becomes a plague. But we can hardly afford to take any risks. We do not want the whole country infected. I will write a message to the king. You must send one of your men to Camelot to deliver it to him. He will instruct Britomart that we need more soldiers here.”
“And if my men panic?”
“We will have to hope they do not. England’s future may depend on what we do here. Enforce whatever discipline is necessary. Colin, here, has some experience at planning large-scale
