The Immortal Eagle

This story is a direct sequel to “Xifote: The Eagle’s Last Cry” and contains several references to it; therefore, I recommend reading that story before this one. You can find it here: Xifote: The Eagle’s Last Cry.

Britannia, 507 A.D.

The forest was dense, and in the darkness of the night it seemed to conceal a thousand pitfalls and dangers.

The man advanced cautiously, trying to find comfort in the eyes of his companion. Yes, he was there, a few steps ahead of him.

Suddenly, a howl tore through the silence of the night. Instinctively, the man’s hand grasped the hilt of the sword hanging at his side, while his eyes searched for the invisible enemy lurking in the darkness.

There was no one, however—the howl was distant.

“We are almost there, my king,” the companion said softly, reassuring him.

Soon the vegetation disappeared, and before the two men the magnificent full Moon revealed a great mirror of water.

The man glanced at his companion, who pointed precisely at that water.

“Enter the lake, sire.”

At first astonished, the man obeyed and took a few steps forward, until his boots were soaked by the icy lake water.

That was when something extraordinary happened.

A bluish light seemed to rise from beneath the water and unnaturally illuminated all the surroundings of the lake with a soft glow.

The man froze when he saw that a human shape had materialized and was advancing toward him.

Again, instinctively, he brought his hand to his sword.

It was a woman. A slender woman, with very pale skin, made even more striking by the ancient white tunic she wore.

When she was only a few steps away, he could admire her deep brown eyes and her long chestnut hair.

“Greetings, Tribune Ambrosius Aurelianus.”

The man was deeply struck by the way the woman had addressed him.

“It has been a long time since anyone has used that name. With whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

“They once called me Urania, but now you may call me Morgana, my king.”

“Urania… the muse of astronomy. I did not think you truly existed.”

“Faiths change, my king. Empires fall. Names once famous are forgotten. You have not come here for my name, however. You have come for something else.”

The king’s steady gaze shifted away from the woman’s deep eyes and, almost shyly, moved to the surface of the lake and the surrounding vegetation, conveying a faint sense of sadness.

“I have come to ask you again about her.”

A few months earlier, everything had seemed normal when the man had returned from a usual hunting expedition. Yet there had been something unusual: someone had been waiting for him.

“Sire, we have visitors.”

“Who?”

“A messenger from Europe. He requests an audience.”

“Very well. I will receive him at once.”

Together with his hunting companions, he had crossed the city, splendid with its lively alleys, people greeting and bowing to the sovereign who humbly passed among them, among solemn constructions of white marble. He soon reached the palace and the simple throne room, where a man was waiting for him.

“Welcome to Camulodunum, messenger,” he had said, approaching and sitting on the throne. “I am told you bring news from the continent; it is always a pleasure to hear it. Please.”

The messenger bowed and began to speak.

“Your Majesty, as you know, the balance of power in Europe has been deeply shaken by the defeat of the magister militum Syagrius.”

“Syagrius was the commander-in-chief of the army of the Roman Empire—an empire that no longer exists. Should I perhaps doubt how recent your news is?”

“No, sire, but you surely also know who defeated him.”

“Perfectly—the barbarian tribe of the Franks.” The king pronounced the phrase almost with irritation, emphasizing the word barbarian. The messenger seemed slightly unsettled.

“Indeed, sire. Yet you surely know that this tribe has left behind its barbaric aspect, has established itself as a kingdom, and that the new Merovingian dynasty has become the most powerful in Europe. After their conversion, their relations with the Holy See have become excellent, and what I have come to report is that His Holiness Pope Symmachus has declared their kingdom to be blessed by Our Lord Jesus Christ, and that through them he is managing to resolve the internal conflicts affecting Italy, and the city of Rome in particular.”

The mere mention of that city stirred a powerful emotion in the king.

“I thank you for this news, messenger. I am convinced, however, that you have not traveled all this way merely to tell me of wars in Italy.”

“Your Majesty is infinitely astute. I have been sent by His Excellency Clovis I, current sovereign of the Franks. Your kingdom beyond the Channel is known, as is its Roman descent. For this reason His Excellency proposes to unite the two kingdoms, to create a formidable power capable of providing Europe with the imperial authority it has always required and which now lies vacant.”

The messenger concluded pompously, but the king appeared skeptical.

“I allow myself some doubts when I am told of a Frank who wishes to restore the Roman Empire.”

“Your doubts are entirely understandable, Majesty. But I could recount in detail how His Excellency Clovis has repeatedly stood in defense of His Holiness and of all Christendom.”

Once again, the king hesitated.

“Your proposal is worthy of our attention, but it is of such magnitude that it cannot produce an immediate decision. I ask you to remain in our quarters and rest. You will be treated honorably. As soon as I have an answer for you, you may depart and convey it to His Excellency Clovis I.”

“Your wisdom is enlightening, mighty king. I thank you infinitely.”

The days passed, but the decision did not come. The king was pensive, reflective, even in the evening when, from his bed, his gaze drifted toward the sky beyond the window.

One of those evenings, the Moon had been beautiful.

“You are still thinking about Clovis, my beloved?”

The king’s gaze left the Moon to trace the form of the woman beside him. She was no longer young, but her eyes remained the same—more beautiful than the Moon in the sky.

“Do you remember when we first met?” she said.

“As if it were yesterday.”

“But it was years and years ago. At Petrana. Do you remember what I told you?”

The man looked at her with greater curiosity.

“I told you how every barbarian people looked upon Rome with admiration, how none truly wished to destroy that immense culture.”

“Perhaps…” she continued “…you should give the Franks a chance.”

The king sighed.

“Unfortunately, my love, I am afraid. We must be honest with ourselves: our kingdom is small, it is weak, it cannot compete with that of the Franks. It is very likely we would become a vassal state of Clovis.”

“If that is so, my beloved, why have you not already refused the proposal?”

Once again the king took time before answering.

“And what if it were the right thing to do?”

“I do not understand, my beloved.”

“Being part of a strong nation would help us. It would allow us to reestablish control over the continent.”

“At what price, however, my beloved? Freedom? The submission of our people? Should we forget our dream of a united Britannia, to return to Europe?”

The king fell silent again.

“Thank you, my beloved. There is no woman wiser than you, neither on this island nor in the whole world. You are my strength, Queen Guinevere.”

“It is clear,” said a young man in splendid armor, standing like many others at the edges of an unusually round table, “that the union of the kingdom of Britannia with that of the Franks can bring nothing but joy and power. We could truly aspire to the restoration of an empire that controls all Europe, as the emperors of Constantinople are trying—and failing—to do.”

“Sir Mordred,” said someone else from another side of the table, “what you say makes sense only if our king is crowned emperor. At present, I see only a pure and simple annexation of our territories by the Frankish rulers. Who assures us that our customs will be respected? Who assures us that we will not once again be overrun by barbarism?”

“Sir Lancelot,” said yet another voice from a different side of the table—someone wearing the most modest armor of all, yet bearing a crown upon his head—“I ask you not to speak of barbarians. There are no more barbarians, just as there are no more Romans. There are Britons, Angles, Saxons. We must face reality: our league is not as strong as that of the Franks. We still have much to unite before we can equal their power. There is much road ahead, and from what I see we must continue the dream of uniting the various peoples on our island. For this reason, I have decided that we will decline Clovis’s offer and focus on internal affairs.”

The man called Mordred grew furious.

“This is madness, sire! We are showing our vulnerability. We are giving up the dream of restoring the Empire—the dream of conquering Europe!”

“It has never been our dream, Sir Mordred,” the king replied sternly. “Our dream is that of a united Britannia. Thus it has been decided, and thus it shall be done.”

The knight, irritated, threw his sword onto the round table and stormed away in anger.

“Do you not agree with my decision, my friend?” the king asked some time later, in the throne room, while another figure, hidden in a long robe, looked out from a window.

“Your decision was wise, sire.”

“Yet there is something that troubles you—I can tell. You see into the future, my friend. Tell me why.”

The man in the robe hesitated.

“My king, it is not possible to play with time; revealing the future is equivalent to changing it. I am concerned only about the great difficulties you will face. But I can assure you that your ideals will be fulfilled, my king. Your nation will prosper.”

The king’s expression was enigmatic, weary. He approached the other man and gave him a pat on the shoulder. He turned; they looked intensely into each other’s eyes.

“May I ask you one last question, my friend?”

“Your every wish is an order to me, my king.”

“Will I… will I see this dream fulfilled?”

The other man did not have time to answer, for a messenger burst hurriedly into the room.

“My king! My king!”

“What is happening?”

“The Franks… did not appreciate your response. A band of men in the South is moving against you… and one of your knights is aiding them. He is recruiting people from everywhere to support the Franks and to raise rebellion.”

“Who is this man?”

“Sir Mordred, my king.”

The king’s heart filled with regret.

“Where are these men?”

“In the South, my king. They are heading toward Londinium.”

He looked at the robed man, who did not avert his gaze from his king.

“Merlin, we need her.”

And now at last she was with him again.

The ride was long, but the king reached the tiny spectral village of Londinium. Abandoned for decades, everything was in ruins, everything devastated. The few remaining marbles of temples and circuses were broken and overgrown with plants. Evening was falling and the light was fading, but he soon found the various tents of the camp. He made his way inside without anyone stopping him. He recognized a man waiting outside his tent.

That man too was astonished to see such an important figure enter a hostile camp—without any retinue.

“Sir Mordred, what you have done is unacceptable. You have betrayed the trust of the Kingdom, the trust of the Order of Knights to which you belong. My trust. I have come to you to settle this as gentlemen. I challenge you to a duel. Here. Now. Do you accept?”

The other composed himself and promptly replied:

“I accept.”

The king dismounted. And he drew it.

Everyone knew it. Everyone feared it. Mordred swallowed when the light of the king’s sword seized the camp where the sun had already set.

“I thought the sword Caliburn was a legend.”

“It is not…” said the king “…it is the sword that will save Britannia.”

And with that he delivered a swift slash at his opponent, who was quick to evade.

“Then it should shatter, my king. The blasphemous pagan magic that animates it is proof that it is the weapon that will lead Britannia straight to Hell.”

Another slash, and Mordred tried to parry, but his sword was cleanly cut in two upon contact with the king’s luminous blade, and only by luck did he avoid being struck down.

He immediately seized another sword.

“Fate is not on your side, young Sir Mordred.”

“Do you not see what you are doing, my king? You possess the most powerful weapon in the world—you could restore the Empire alone, yet you do not! Is this not cowardice? Answer, Majesty—did you not swear loyalty to Rome? Tell me it is not true!”

And the king was flooded with memories. He remembered a distant life, a past life. A life with ideals. Unexpectedly, the light of his sword grew fainter.

Mordred seized the opportunity and struck at once; the king parried. But this time Mordred’s sword did not break.

“Perhaps, my king, you have grown timid. You have grown comfortable in Britannia and betrayed your ideals. Betrayed the Empire. Betrayed Rome. And now that you are given the chance to rebuild it… you forget it.”

Once again Mordred struck true in a duel that had become more of words than blades. The sword’s light dimmed further, and this time the young man’s speed overcame that of the old king, landing a perfect blow and piercing him in the abdomen.

The king fell to his knees as blood began to pour from his wound. He held the legendary sword firmly to support himself, as its light faded.

He remembered another battle.

A rampart.

An eagle falling.

A friend gripping his hand.

A friend to whom he had made a promise.

Mordred looked down at the kneeling king, astonished at a victory perhaps even he had not expected. He prepared to deliver the final blow.

“I… I…” the king spoke with difficulty, “I have never forgotten Rome.”

He spat blood.

“This… This is Rome.”

Suddenly, the sword lit up again, stronger than ever, until it became blinding. A wind began to swirl around it, while small bolts of lightning burst forth.

Mordred, already certain of victory, was horrified.

From the sword burst a wave of energy that raced in every direction.

A tremendous roar shook the quiet evening.

Everything around the king seemed to be destroyed—the camp, the people, Mordred—all were torn apart by that relentless energy that engulfed the ruins of Londinium. Then, everything ceased. Evening returned, tranquil.

There was no one left around him, only him.

And his wound, from which he continued to bleed.

But the man sensed he was not alone.

“And so… And so it is all over?”

“Yes, my king.”

“You… you… you made me a promise, Merlin.”

“And we are here to keep it, Ambrosius,” said a female voice, and the king saw Morgana beside him.

“You must know, my king, that this kingdom of yours will cease. Peoples will come and conquer it. But your memory will never be lost, just as the Roman culture you so carefully preserved will never be lost—it will shape future generations.”

As she spoke, the landscape changed. Night turned into day and a thousand buildings rose upon the ruins surrounding them. People began to fill the streets, and the nearby river filled with increasingly complex vessels.

“What… what am I looking at?”

“This city, my king. Londinium… or perhaps I should say London.”

“But… but… it was abandoned.”

“It will be repopulated. It will become the capital of the greatest empire the world will ever see. Its ships”—she pointed to the river, now crowded with ever larger vessels—“will sail every sea.”

The village had become a city, ever larger, where dwellings grew taller and imposing churches were built.

“The challenges it will face will be great…” she continued, as suddenly a terrible fire broke out everywhere and the city seemed once more devastated, but then new houses appeared, new monuments and marble churches “…but it will always rise again. There will be a day when it is called to its greatest challenge…” Suddenly a repeated, deafening sound filled the air, followed by countless explosions in various buildings, caused by strange objects that seemed to fall from above. The king managed to lift his gaze to see birds chasing one another swiftly in the sky, launching strange beams of light.

“…but even then your people will unite and face the enemy…” As she spoke, one of those strange birds crashed devastatingly a few steps from them, revealing incredible speed and enormous size, causing severe damage to the buildings and the street where they stood. It seemed to be made of metal, like the king’s armor. On its tail was a symbol: a swastika. “…and it will be then that this city and its people will be the beacon of hope for the entire world.”

The devastation ended, the skies cleared, and now new incredible buildings, very tall, rose in the city. They seemed to be made of glass.

And then, suddenly, everything vanished, and the ruins of Londinium returned around the king.

“Sire, this is your people. These are your folk. This is the greatness you have brought. Your name will never be forgotten. Your legend will resound strongly through the centuries and will never be eroded by the oblivion of time, King Arthur of Britannia.”

The king smiled as tears streamed from his eyes.

“Thank you. Thank you… Thank you for everything.”

And saying so, he fell. With his faithful sword, companion of a thousand adventures, beside him.

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Historical Note

Europe in the immediate aftermath of the fall of the Western Roman Empire—476 A.D.—was divided into a constellation of kingdoms formed through the interaction between barbarian peoples and Latin populations, while in the East the Roman Empire continued to survive as the Byzantine Empire. There were numerous attempts to restore the Roman Empire, beginning with the Byzantines themselves, who organized various expeditions to the West, but managed to occupy only a few possessions of the old Empire, mainly in Italy and North Africa. Certainly the most successful attempt was that of Charlemagne, who in the year 800 was proclaimed emperor of an extensive territory including what are now Germany, France, and north-central Italy, and which would become the Holy Roman Empire, the official continuation of the Roman Empire. In post-Roman Europe, political entities also began to consolidate that would form the basis of modern nations. One example is that of France, mentioned in the story: the barbarian population of the Franks quickly secured control of the territory of old Gaul, crushing any remaining Roman resistance (the magister militum Syagrius was the last true representative of the Empire officially to retain a small territory, around present-day Soissons, and he too was defeated by the Franks in 486). Thus the Merovingian dynasty was born, converting the kingdom to Christianity, courting the Popes of Rome and receiving their blessing in return.

Something similar did not occur in the ancient Roman province of Britannia, in the islands that now host the United Kingdom, divided among the various peoples of Angles, Saxons, and Britons, not to mention the Romans who remained in the territory. If in the story the legendary King Arthur proclaims himself King of Britannia, in truth his (probable, given the legendary nature of his figure) control was limited and his power reduced. As hinted by Merlin, Britannia would be invaded in the centuries that followed, and only in 1066, with the Battle of Hastings, would the Normans of William the Conqueror establish effective and lasting control over the territory. In the story, the legendary Camelot, center of Arthur’s kingdom, has been placed in the city of Camulodunum, present-day Colchester, capital of the Roman province of Britannia and certainly one of the most important cities in the region, far more so than present-day London, which was abandoned shortly after the Romans ceased to exercise their authority over it. Thanks to Merlin, Arthur is able to see the future of his people: he sees the abandoned London reborn, its expansion, the construction of its wooden buildings and the establishment of a great merchant and military fleet on the Thames; he sees it destroyed in the devastating Great Fire of 1666 only to rebuild itself soon after and face what Merlin calls its greatest challenge, namely the Battle of Britain in the Second World War, during which the Nazi Luftwaffe brought the city to its knees, though it did not surrender. Merlin states that on that occasion the British people and London would be the beacons of hope for the entire world and, indeed, it is widely considered that a possible capitulation of the city in that battle, and the consequent closure of the Western Front, would have provided a significant advantage to the Axis, likely leading to the victory of the Nazi-Fascist powers in the war. Finally, Merlin shows Arthur modern London, with its glass skyscrapers.

The story draws heavily on the legends of the Arthurian cycle and borrows many characters, such as the fairy Morgana, who in this interpretation coincides with the Lady of the Lake who returns the legendary luminous sword—Excalibur of the legend—to Arthur, Merlin, Queen Guinevere, the legendary knight Lancelot, and the archenemy Mordred, whom Arthur kills in a clash in which he himself also dies. The legend, however, does not tell that Arthur’s story ends in London, but in another place…

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A man and a woman were walking briskly at the foot of a mountain surrounded by water. In an unreal manner, a small bed followed them on its own, hovering above the ground at human height. Upon it, a sheet seemed to cover a human shape.

They arrived before a slab of polished stone. Without stopping, the woman made a gesture and the slab appeared to split apart, revealing a long corridor.

“How much longer must I wait before hearing you admit that I was right… Morgana?” the man said, almost jokingly.

“When you stop calling me by that name. Or would you prefer that I keep calling you Merlin?”

“I don’t mind, to be honest.”

The woman sighed, continuing down the corridor. Soon the two reached a vast chamber inside the mountain. Everything was strangely illuminated, and the smooth walls were covered with glass rectangles filled with a thousand glowing inscriptions.

The small bed moved to the center of the room, and the woman, without any regard, removed the veil from it and threw it to the ground, revealing the corpse it concealed. She paid it no attention, but instead took another object the bed carried: a glass sword.

She stared at it.

“This is not possible,” she said under her breath.

“What is not possible? That a Xifote can go out?” the man replied.

The woman smiled.

“Xifote? You really are obsessed with human names.” And saying this, she inserted the sword into a slot in the wall.

She looked at the various panes of glass in the room, which filled with diagrams and new symbols.

“The potentials are correct, the matter level is stable. I don’t understand.”

“Perhaps you should resign yourself to believing the legend.”

“I’ll tell you what I believe. I believe we will perform a full autopsy on this man and see exactly what happened.”

“I doubt that will be necessary,” a new voice interjected—young and bright.

The man and the woman stiffened, noticing the new presence.

“So, the man managed to control the sword at will.”

A child was looking at the corpse on the bed.

“What a fantastic turn for the Experiment. We are ever closer to the moment of the great truths.”

The child now turned his gaze to the man and the woman.

“We will conduct numerous studies on the material you have provided. We thank you, loyal agents. And welcome back to Avalon.”