The Singing Sword cc-2

by Jack Whyte

  "How did you find this place, Uncle Varrus?"

  "By accident. You like it?"

  "I've always liked it. It used to be mine." He smiled widely at my open-mouthed consternation. "I grew up here. I had my first girl there, right on that bank. And several others after."

  I felt my eyebrows go up in shock. "You did, did you? And here I thought it virgin. Not to speak of you!"

  He laughed, a great, booming sound. "I was sixteen! And before that I'd been — aware? — for six whole years. It was a soldier I wanted to be, remember, not a priest."

  "Well, then, welcome home. Again. Let's take a rest."

  We dismounted and threw ourselves on the grass. I noticed Picus looking around him as though searching for something along the small beach at the side of the pool.

  "What are you looking for?"

  "Ashes. Can't see any. It looks as though no one's been here for years."

  "No one has. Except for myself and my family. Why would you look for ashes?"

  He looked at me in surprise. "You've never fished here?"

  It was my turn to be surprised. "Fished? No, I haven't. Why should I fish? I come here to escape, not to eat."

  "Oh, Uncle Varrus." He shook his head in mock regret. "You have missed one of life's greatest pleasures. When I was a boy I would come here for whole days at a time. I pitched my leather legionary's tent here, where we're sitting. I'd have my bow and arrows, my sling, some fishhooks and a line, my salt and bread and my fire-starting box. I was totally self-sufficient. I caught my food right here and cooked it on my own fire."

  "What kind of fish?"

  "Trout. Succulent, beautiful trout."

  "Are they hard to catch?"

  "Sometimes. But they are never impossible to catch."

  "Really? What else did you catch? Fish would be a monotonous diet."

  Picus shook his head gravely and with total conviction before lying back on the grass and crossing his hands behind his head. "Not trout, Uncle Varrus! Trout is never boring. But sometimes I'd catch a rabbit, and sometimes a pheasant, or maybe a duck. But mostly rabbits."

  "You shot them how? With arrows, or with your sling?"

  "It depended on how far away they were when I found them. Arrow or stone, it all depended on distance."

  "Ever miss?"

  "Most times, at first." He laughed and sat up, remembering. "But hunger can do wonders for improving the aim."

  I lay back, flat on the grass. "I found this place one day because my horse brought me here. He seemed to know where he was going, so I just let him take me. It was a pleasant surprise."

  "Was it a grey horse? Old?"

  "Yes. Was he yours?"

  He nodded, smiling. "We came here often, he and I. His name was Cupid. Silly name for a horse. He must be dead by now."

  "Yes. Five or six years ago. During the winter. I remember, because I found him one morning dead in the paddock."

  He grunted, a note of regret in the sound. "He was an old horse even when I was a youngster. It seems a shame that horses have to die. They're often worth more than men, in terms of their nature."

  "Aye, it can seem that way sometimes, I suppose." I nodded at his own mount, which stood cropping the grass beside us. "That's a fine horse you have there. I noticed all your men were mounted well. Where do such horses come from? He must be four good hands bigger than mine, and mine is a big horse."

  He eyed Germanicus with a horseman's eyes, then looked back at his own horse. "Aye, he comes from Gaul and he has good lines — I would even say beautiful lines. The Gauls breed big horses, Germanic forest horses. They use them as draft animals on their farms. I don't think there are any bigger in the world. Of course, they're shaggy brutes, with long, rough hair that is almost impossible to groom, but they are phenomenally strong and surprisingly gentle, considering that they run wild in the forests. We're breeding horses now all over the Empire." He paused, considering a question that had obviously just occurred to him, before turning to me. "When did you start your program here in the Colony exactly?"

  I sat upright. "Exactly? I don't remember. It was about ten years ago, I think. The idea was your father's, naturally. We had been talking about the Adrianople slaughter and about Alexander's Companions, and we were always talking of the Saxon pirates. Your father thought it might be worth our while to train some men to fight the way you do, as heavy cavalry and not merely mounted bowmen. It worked, as you know."

  A wood-pigeon exploded out of the trees across from us, disturbed by something prowling below it. I looked at the sky. "Well, it looks as though the rain is going to stay away today, at least. We'd better be heading back to the villa. It's almost mid-morning."

  An hour or so later we were all assembled in the forge, examining the results of the most recent experiments in weaponry carried out by myself and Equus. Picus had picked up the very first of Equus's efforts and was swinging it around, testing its weight and balance, when he noticed some specks of rust on the blade and drew my attention to them.

  "This is unusual, Uncle Varrus. A rusty blade, here in the temple of metallic perfection?"

  I grunted. "Blame Equus. He'd rather not have to look at that one at all, let alone keep it in good condition."

  "He doesn't like it? This? Why not, in God's name?"

  "I don't know, lad. He made it. Ask him. He took a dislike to it before it was even finished and he has done nothing like it since then."

  "But it's the best of the lot! Look at it. It's versatile — cut and stab! The long blade ... I've seen nothing like it before. Uncle Varrus, this thing works!"

  "Tell that to Equus. He thinks it's a disaster."

  "But why? It's cumbersome, but it has something that none of the other spears have. This shaft is solid. Heavy. I think it's just too long. If it were shorter, so that it could clear the chest and let a man swing it across his body all the way, it would be formidable. A horseman could change hands at will, with no awkwardness. No, I like this." He turned to Equus. "Equus, I think you had a fine idea here and let yourself lose it."

  "Don't talk crazy," growled Equus. "I changed my mind because I saw how stupid the idea was. How can a rider shift his spear from hand to hand? What's he going to do with his shield in the meantime? Hang it from his bottom lip?"

  Picus, however, was not to be so easily discouraged. He held the weapon aloft and looked at it, moving it around so that the light played upon the blade. "Equus, if I could have something like this, with the weight and the balance this has, that I could use in either hand, on either side of me, I'd be tempted to throw my shield away."

  "Hah!" Equus's voice was filled with disgust. "And then where would you be? You'd get skewered like a rabbit on a spit by the first pikeman you came up against."

  "No, I don't think so. I'm serious. I would wear a heavier breastplate, and the added advantage of being able to swing this thing would offset not having a shield. Father? What do you think?" He was feinting with it as he spoke, holding it straight out at arm's length, the strength of his arm muscles making a mockery of the weight of the thing.

  Britannicus looked at it, his eye running the full length of Picus's outstretched arms and the seven-foot length of the spear. "I have no idea at all, my son. It might work, I suppose. How much of the shaft would you remove?"

  "About half the length."

  "You're both mad," Equus was growling to himself. "Cut off half the length — any of the length, for that matter — and you foul up both the balance and the weight. Weapons are designed in proportion, you know. We don't just leave an extra length on there for decoration."

  I was listening closely, although I was taking no part in the conversation, and something was beginning to tickle at the back of my mind.

  "That's a spear you're talking about," Equus went on. "Boudicca's buttocks! You're swinging it around there as if it were an axe."

  "But it almost is an axe, Equus. I think it's because of the shape and weight of the blade."

  Equus slap
ped the top of his bench in his frustration. "That's right, man! It's neither one thing nor the other. It's a bastard thing, bred in a moment of unwisdom. The weight distribution in the blade's all wrong, so you can't use it for a hard swing. All the weight is concentrated at the top, too close to the shaft. Hit anything hard with that thing and it'll crumple like a piece of parchment. Believe me, Picus."

  Picus screwed his face up in a wry expression of regret. "Well, if you really feel that strongly about it, and you designed it, I'll have to take your word for it. But it seems a shame, for no matter what you say, I know there's something about it that's right!" He looked at me. "Varrus, you're saying nothing. How do you feel about it?"

  I reached out my hand and he passed the spear to me. It was very heavy.

  "Equus is right," I said. "It's too cumbersome. You can handle it, but you're almost a giant. No ordinary soldier could use the thing the way you suggest, and I suspect it would tire even you in a short space of time if you were swinging it in a fight. The weight is wrongly distributed for that, and by shortening the shaft you'd only aggravate the imbalance." I tossed it back to him, smiling at his crestfallen look. "But you're right, there is something good about it. I just wish I could define what it is. I'll work on it."

  "Good! When you've solved the problem, I'll buy them from you by the hundred."

  The conversation moved on then to other topics, but I paid little heed to what was being said from that time on. There was something bothering me, something that had almost formed in my mind in the course of the conversation between Picus and Equus. Of course, the more I tried to pin down what it was, the more it eluded me.

  There are few things more frustrating than trying to recall a fleeting, half-formed thought. I even found myself trying to tell myself that it was not important, but I knew it had to be, or it would not have been worrying me. Eventually, however, when the others had gone and left me on my own for a while, the elusive memory I had been seeking suddenly sprang into my mind and I cursed myself for having been so intense about it. They had been talking about weight and balance and Picus had said that the spear was almost like an axe, because of the shape and the weight of the blade. And now I remembered seeing, as a young soldier, a child in some remote African village splitting wood with an ancient bronze sword that had a heavy, leaf-shaped blade. The thing had been really old and battered, and what edge it once had had been lost long in the past. But the boy was using it to split wood, and the lover of arms in me was saddened by this menial use of a weapon that must at some time have been someone's proudest possession. I tried to buy it, but the boy fled, taking his sword with him.

  So that was what had been driving me mad, and now I was irritated because I could not see the significance of it. Why should it have flashed up into my memory after more than thirty years of oblivion? What possible connection could my mind have formed between today's conversation about a spear and an axe and that encounter in a dirty north African village street so long ago? Obviously, the shape of the blade was the connection, but why? It made no sense to think of Equus's spear with a leaf-shaped blade — that would be worse than useless — so what was it? I was becoming angry at myself — I recognized the symptoms — so I forced myself to empty my mind as much as I was able to and began to walk back towards the house, nodding to those I met along the way and trying to keep my mind bare of thought. I knew the answer would come to me. I simply hated having to sit around and wait for it.

  Four of Picus's escort were squatting by a corner of the wall that surrounded the house. They saw me coming and put away the dice they had been using to pass their time, standing erect as I approached. I nodded to them in response to their salutes and asked them where their legate was. One of them, the oldest of the four, appointed himself spokesman.

  "We're waiting for him, sir. He went into the house a few minutes ago with the Proconsul and told us to wait here for him."

  "Good, then I shall wait here with you, if you have no objection." Naturally, they had none. I talked with them for about five minutes before Picus appeared. They were like soldiers everywhere, cocky, confident and proud of their elite unit, and slightly awed by the fact that a senior officer, even a retired one, would stop and talk to them as people.

  "Here comes the Legate now, sir."

  I looked up and saw Picus striding towards us through the gateway. He saw me at the same time and smiled.

  "Commander Varrus, you have a nose for secrets that always leads you to the right place. Pecula, show the Commander your sword." The youngest of the four flushed to hear his general address him by his nickname, which meant thief or pickpocket, and grinned in embarrassment as he drew his sword and offered it to me, hilt first. It was an ordinary Roman gladium, or short-sword, with one abrupt difference that I felt as soon as my fingers closed over the hilt. I immediately tightened my grip, looking the young man in the eye.

  "What is it? Where did you get it?"

  "What, sir?"

  "The covering on this hilt. What is it?"

  I was answered by Picus himself, who waved to the soldier to say nothing. "What do you think it is, Commander Varrus? Without looking at it."

  I turned to him, gripping the hilt of the sword tightly and flexing my wrist hard, testing the grip. "I have no idea what it is," I said. "But I want to know."

  "What does it feel like in your hand? Think hard."

  I concentrated on what I felt, fighting the temptation to look down and see what it was. "It feels unlike anything I've ever felt before. It's not leather — too rough for that. It's not metal, not bone, not wood. It feels like..." I squeezed my grip again, feeling the texture against my palm. "Like leather covered with fine sand."

  "You're nowhere close, and you never would be if you tried all day. Look at it."

  I looked. The hilt was covered with a material that was neither black, nor grey, nor silver, but a mixture of all of them. The texture was as rough as a file. This thing would never slip from a sweaty or a bloody palm. Whatever it was, it had been wrapped tightly around the hilt and then bound there with tightly crisscrossed metal wire.

  "I give up. What is it?"

  "It's fish skin."

  "It's what?"

  "Fish skin."

  I remembered his teasing about the joys of trout fishing earlier in the day and I looked closely at him to see if he was joking with me, but his face was serious. I returned my gaze to the young trooper, Pecula.

  "What kind of fish skin?"

  The young man shrugged, his open face apologetic. "I don't know, sir. I won it in a dice game. The man I won it from said it was fish skin. Said his father made it. Told me his father was a fisherman."

  "Who was this man?"

  "Don't know, sir. Just one of the garrison soldiers in Londinium."

  "How long ago since you got this?"

  "About a month ago, sir."

  "Have you seen the man since then? Would you know him again?"

  "Yes, sir, I'd know him, but I haven't seen him since that night."

  I looked more closely at the hilt of this sword and I knew that I was looking at a thing of great value. This was a milestone discovery. I looked again at Picus, and then back at the soldier.

  "I have never seen anything to equal this, and I am a collector of weapons. Would you be willing to part with it? For a good price? And a new sword?"

  His eyes flickered to his general and back to me. "Well, sir, I don't know. I didn't know it was valuable."

  "It's not, lad, except to me. The blade is a poor thing, nothing out of the ordinary. It's the fish skin that's valuable, but only if we can find out what kind of fish it is and whether or not we can get it here in Britain. How much is it worth to you?"

  He was looking uncomfortable, knowing he could name his own price, but hesitant to offend his general by appearing to take advantage of the general's friend. I decided to help him out.

  "I'll give you two months' wages and the pick of my own swords in exchange for this."
r />   His eyes flew wide in shock. "Done, sir."

  "Good man! Go to the house there and ask for Gallo. He's my major-domo. Tell him Commander Varrus would be pleased if he would show you to the weapons room. You'll find enough of these there to make your day. Take your pick of them. I made all of them with my own hands, so you should find something there to suit you."

  Picus spoke up at this point, unsheathing his own sword. "Commander Varrus is one of the finest sword-makers in the Empire, Pecula. He made this one for me, when I first joined the legions. Go, now, and see if you can find one better. But I don't want to see you flashing a sword that looks as though it should belong to an Emperor. Pick a plain one."

  "Yes, General!" Pecula snapped a salute and began to turn away, and then he hesitated. "Commander Varrus? You want the sheath as well?"

  I smiled. "Yes, Pecula, you'd better leave that with me, too. Your new sword will have a sheath of its own."

  He fumbled excitedly at his belt and handed me the scabbard. It was a plain, old scabbard, but well kept.

  "Thank you," I said as I took it from him. "By the way, Gallo will also give you your two months' wages, so don't forget to ask him for them."

  "Yes, Commander!" He saluted again, turned, and marched away, followed by the envious eyes of his three friends.

  I slipped the sword into its scabbard. "General Picus, I'd like a word with you. Will you walk with me?"

  As soon as we were out of earshot of the others, he spoke. "I thought that might appeal to you, Varrus, but two months' wages and a Varrus sword? Don't you think you overpaid him?"

  "Picus, you know me. I'm an enthusiast, but I never let my enthusiasm get the better of my judgment, if I can help it. If I can discover what this fish skin is, there will probably not be enough wealth in the Colony to pay for its real worth. Believe me. I want to know what this fish is. Where it comes from. If I can find that out, I'll import it all the way across the Empire if I have to. So, I need your help. Find this soldier for me, the one young Pecula won this thing from. Question him. Find out about his father — who he is, where he lives and how he discovered this skin. As soon as you do find out, assuming that he knows at all, get the word back to me. Will you do that?"