The Skystone

by Jack Whyte

  “What do you think of this?”

  I took it and examined it. It was not a good weapon, in spite of the jewellery and inlay work on the hilt. The blade was plain and ill balanced. I hefted it and weighed it in my hand.

  “Well?” He clearly wanted me to evaluate it and I did not want to hurt his feelings.

  “Where did you get this, Commander?”

  “Never mind, for the moment. Would you buy it?”

  I looked him straight in the eye. “No, Commander, I would not. The blade is ill weighted, the metal won’t hold an edge for any length of time, and the tang is starting to work loose inside the hilt.”

  “Hmmm! There was no looseness inside the hilt when I bought it last year. What would cause that?”

  “It was probably made by a slave.” I couldn’t resist the jibe. “No self-respecting armourer would allow such a shoddy piece of work to leave his hands. I would venture to guess that it was bought cheap by a jeweller, who made it look fancy and sold it for its decorative value rather than its usefulness.”

  He shook his head ruefully at my candour and took the offending weapon back, slipping it into its ornate scabbard. “Do you have any swords for sale?”

  I shook my head. “No. Not that I would have such a ceremonial piece for sale at any time. These things are made to order. I do have one sword, but it’s an experimental type that I’ve been working on for some months. It’s not been proven yet.”

  “May I see it?”

  I went and fetched the sword for him. He ran his eyes over the lines of it and hefted it for balance, transferring his gaze immediately to the hilt.

  “How have you done this? It’s bronze, isn’t it?” I nodded. “But it’s solid! No seams. How?”

  “A new technique, or rather, an adaptation of a very old technique. I think it’s going to work very well. The entire hilt is poured in one piece and bonded to the iron of the tang.”

  He swung it in a series of sharp, jabbing cuts. “Will you make me one like this?”

  “Happily. I’d give you that one, but I’m still not satisfied with the weight and balance of it. I’ll make you one that will be perfect. Not fancy, Commander, but as close to a perfect weight for you as I can achieve.”

  He placed the sword flat on the bench. “Do so, my friend, and name your price.”

  As we walked back out into the sunlight, I was half smiling at the thought of charging Gaius Britannicus for using one of my swords.

  His horse was cropping the grass growing between the flagstones of the yard, and he stopped With his hand on its neck. “Varrus, have you ever heard of the Bagaudae?”

  I thought for a moment. “Weren’t they the rebels in Gaul who turned bandit about a hundred years ago? Stirred up a hornet’s nest of trouble for the administration over there for a long time, if I remember correctly. What about them?”

  He was stroking his horse’s muzzle gently. The big white animal whickered softly and pushed its muzzle against his shoulder.

  “You have a good memory, my friend. That’s exactly who they are. I’d hardly call them bandits, but they are nominally rebels. They are still active, and the legions over there do nothing about them. Fascinating people, Varrus. They’ve held virtual rule over a major part of southern Gaul for almost a hundred years.”

  I stared at him. “What do you mean, rule?” He simply shrugged his shoulders. “You mean they govern the province? And the legions let them? I find that hard to believe. Why haven’t we heard more about them? Why haven’t they been stamped out?”

  He shrugged slightly again. “Cowardice, Varrus. Sheer cowardice.”

  “On whose part? The legions’?”

  “No. The Empire’s.”

  I could feel myself frowning. “Commander, you’re not making sense.”

  “Oh yes I am, Varrus. I’m making absolute sense.”

  “Not to me, you’re not.”

  “That’s because you were born and bred here, Varrus, sheltered by the army and by the seas around this island. The real bureaucracy of the Empire never really established its stranglehold here in Britain the way it has everywhere else. Take yourself, for example. Do you know that neither you nor your grandfather would have been allowed to live and work the way you’ve always done if you’d lived in any other part of the Empire? The regulations and restrictions would have killed you.”

  “You mean the guild rules? Yes, I’ve encountered those.”

  His eyebrow went up again. “You have, have you? And what was the result?”

  “I’m still here, and I will not join the guild.”

  “Good for you. I should have known. It’s not just smiths they affect, you know, the guild rules. They’re everywhere. They’re killing trade throughout the Empire. Britain is about the only place where there have always been ways of getting around their regulations — of staying free, in the sense of a merchant being free to conduct his own affairs without interference. But you know all this, don’t you?”

  “Some of it. Most of it. What are you getting at, Commander?” I was utterly confused.

  “This, Varrus: the Bagaudae in Gaul rebelled, a hundred years ago, but they are not bandits. They are ordinary but courageous people who decided they could not continue to live under the Empire’s rules, even then.”

  I frowned. “For example?”

  “Examples? Try crippling taxes, unjust and self-serving laws, constant inflation, corrupt officials, restrictive regulations governing the way they lived their lives and constant government interference.”

  I had nothing to say to this, so he continued. “They walked away — out of the Empire. Away from their homes, from their businesses, from their employment. Away from the taxes and the duties and the burdens. They walked away to the hills and the forests and they refused to go back. They built huts and they lived on whatever they could grow and hunt for themselves.” His voice was almost a monotone. “It started as a trickle at the end of the third century and it grew into a flood. We’re now at the end of the fourth century and it’s still going on. For over a hundred years now these Bagaudae have paid no taxes, obeyed no Roman laws and spared the lives of no Roman soldiers who came after them. Most of them live communally on huge villa farms and settlements. Each man contributes to the life of the commune with his own skills and abilities. They have no use for money; they barter. And among their numbers are physicians, magistrates, architects, lawyers, administrators and a large number of professional soldiers.”

  “That’s incredible,” I said. “And the Empire does nothing?”

  He spread his hands wide in a gesture that was purely Gallic. “What can the Empire do? The bureaucrats are afraid that the story will spread. The official policy is to do nothing that will attract attention to the problem. To ignore it, in the hope that it will go away. Rome leaves the Bagaudae in peace, because the alternative might stir up a furore that could breed an Empire full of Bagaudae.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  He smiled at me. “I read, and I talk, and I ask lots of questions of lots of people. How would you like to come and be the smith in my Bagaudae community?”

  The unexpectedness of the question made me laugh aloud, but he cut me off before I could make any reply.

  “There’s not a slave in the place, Varrus.”

  He was serious, I could see, but I had no idea of what he was getting at. I know my incomprehension was showing on my face.

  He continued, in a low voice, “Think on it, Varrus. I am very serious. You would be a great asset to my plans for the years ahead. I want you with me.”

  I shook my head. “What plans, Commander? I have no idea what you’re talking about. Your farm is where? By Aquae Sulis? That’s over a hundred miles from here. Why would I want to close down my business and move out there, other than just to be closer to you? What purpose would it serve? I’m known here. My work is here, and it’s going well. I may never be wealthy, but as long as I have my health I’ll never lack for anything.”
r />   “Is your mind closed on the matter?”

  “No, of course not! But I wish I knew what you are driving at!”

  The wide smile I knew so well flashed again. “Some day, Varrus, I’ll explain myself completely. In the meantime, I should be getting back to the fort. Will you come now?”

  I glanced behind me to where Equus was still working away on his own. “No, Commander, I still have a few things to attend to here, and after that I shall go home and change into something that will get me past the guards at the gate. I’ll meet you at the bath house in about two hours.”

  “So be it. I’ll have my man ready with some finery for you. As a hero of the legions, you should look as good as we can make you, although with that face of yours…” He punched me on the arm. “So be it, my friend, till later. It’s good to see you again.”

  I stood and watched him as he vaulted onto his horse and cantered out of the yard, a vision of military splendour in scarlet and gold. A hero of the legions, he had called me. I wondered what I had done to deserve that? Mind you, I’d had my leg carved up and had survived, which was unusual in itself. Perhaps that did qualify me for junior hero status. I laughed at my folly and went about my business.

  X

  The dinner that night was a typical officers’ formal banquet, very masculine, in spite of the fact that there were more girls there than I had seen in one place at one time for years. Plautus was there, officially supervising the guard and surreptitiously eyeing the girls.

  Theodosius was present, of course. He pretended to know who I was when Britannicus brought me to his attention, but I could tell that he had absolutely no memory of me, or who or what I was, and he cared even less. I didn’t let his bad manners upset me; he had always been a horse’s arse and he was consistent in this behaviour at all times.

  I had no doubt, however, that the Legate Primus Seneca recognized me. We came face to face with him shortly after entering the banquet hall, before I’d had time to adjust to the finery of the garments the Commander’s servant had provided me with. He turned away, ignoring Britannicus completely, but not before he had swept me from head to toe with the iciest, most venomous glance anyone had ever thrown in my direction. I looked at my host, my eyebrows raised in a query, but he merely smiled a small smile and continued towards the centre of the room as if we were the only two people present.

  We accepted two goblets of wine from a passing legionary and stood in companionable silence for a few moments, taking stock of the other people in the large and crowded room. One of the brightly caparisoned officers looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place him in my mind. Britannicus must have seen me watching him and read the slight frown on my face correctly.

  “Umnax,” he said. “Tribune in the Forty-second. Seneca’s factotum. Known as ‘The Smiler’ because he never does.”

  “Hmmm,” I grunted. “He’s an ugly son of a whore, isn’t he? I remember him now. I’m surprised it took me so long.” I glanced at Britannicus before returning my eyes to Umnax. “Did you know they were going to be here tonight, General? Seneca and his people?”

  “Yes, of course. Why?”

  “Oh, no reason in particular.” I cleared my throat. “Have your paths crossed recently?”

  He smiled. “Frequently. I have been able to do several things to cross him in his planning. The man is a spider, Varrus. A malevolent, scheming spider, constantly spinning webs.”

  “How do you mean, sir?”

  “I think it’s about time you stopped calling me sir. My name is Caius, and we have been friends long enough for you to use it.” I felt a wave of discomfort sweep over me, but he kept on talking. “Seneca and his family seem to have no other purpose in life but to extend their wealth, which, as I am sure you know, is already fabulous. They are totally unscrupulous about doing it, too. Last month I was able to use my influence to thwart his latest plan to grow fat from the armies. His cousin, Quinctilius Nesca, tried to take over as Quartermaster of the armies — do you know him?”

  “No.” I shook my head, hoping he would not notice I was unable to call him by his name.

  “A toad. Fat, greasy, greedy and non-human. A disgusting creature.” He broke off to smile at a beautiful young woman who had approached us, declining to sample the array of sweets in the tray she offered. They looked wonderful, and I helped myself to a tiny pear made of the paste of almonds. As the girl moved away, he continued. “Primus almost managed to have Nesca win the contract, too. Can you imagine? Quartermaster General! That would have meant that everything supplied to the armies would have passed through his sweaty hands, and suffered thereby, while he and his family grew richer. Luckily I found out in time and was able to avert it. Our dear Seneca has been most unhappy ever since.”

  I grinned and glanced at Seneca himself, to find his baleful glare full on me. He knew we were talking about him. From that point onwards, whenever I encountered Primus Seneca’s gaze, his cold eyes were fixed on either me or Britannicus, and each time he saw me look at him he directed his eyes elsewhere. There was no doubt in my mind that Primus Seneca had broadened his detestation of Caius Britannicus to embrace Publius Varrus.

  The evening progressed, however, and I forgot about Seneca as the proceedings grew noisier and more abandoned. There were wrestlers and gladiators and dancing girls from all over the Empire. The wine was plentiful and the food was impressive, and as both of these made their mark on the diners, everyone relaxed and a mood of conviviality quickly developed. I enjoyed myself hugely.

  Several of the junior officers became involved in trials of strength with the wrestlers, and one brash young man even challenged a gladiator to combat. Wooden training swords were produced and the two of them went at it in a space that had been quickly cleared in the middle of the room. The young officer did remarkably well. He was no fool with a sword and there were times when he seemed to have the professional gladiator working hard to protect himself. The betting grew fast and urgent as the odds swayed to favour first one and then the other of the contestants in this ritual Roman combat.

  Eventually, however, the professionalism and experience of the gladiator began to tell, and the young officer grew visibly tired. It was clearly costing him more and more of an effort to keep his sword arm extended. Those who had bet against him were already counting their winnings when suddenly, and quite brilliantly I thought, he released his shield and threw himself forward in a rolling dive to the floor, catching the gladiator by surprise and whipping his feet from under him with a sweeping kick. The man went down and the officer’s sword was at his throat in the blink of an eye. The place went wild as winners and losers screamed praise and abuse at the young victor. Arguments on orthodoxy sprang into life instantly; there was haggling everywhere as some tried to get out of their wagers because of the way the fight had ended.

  The gladiator, in the meantime, was watching closely as his conqueror showed him how he had got the better of him. It was clear that he was impressed with the move and intended to keep it in mind for future reference.

  There was a trumpet blast from the head table and silence fell instantly throughout the room. Theodosius stood, arms outstretched.

  “My friends! Let us bear in mind that we are here this evening to comport ourselves in dignity and fellowship. I myself have lost a wager in this event, and I like to lose as little as anyone. But the objective of armed conflict, any armed conflict, is victory — personal survival and the overthrow of one’s opponent. That is what we have seen here. I declare Tribune Drusus the winner and declare all wagers in his favour valid.”

  There was a renewed chorus of cheers and jeers, but it was short-lived. For my part, I was pleasantly surprised that Theodosius had taken the decisive step he did, and I had to admire him for it, considering that he could have won his own wager by declaring Drusus’ move a foul.

  Later in the evening, Britannicus introduced me to three men, two of whose names have long since gone the way of the majority of casual introductio
ns. The name of the third man, however, I do remember. He became one of my closest, lifelong friends. His name was Alaric and he was — and still is — a Christian bishop.

  I had never heard the name Alaric before that night, but nowadays, as I write this forty years later, it ranks among the foremost names in the world. Another Alaric, a warrior and leader of the people called the Visigoths, threatens today to ring the final knell of Rome and write satis to the legend of the Empire invincible.

  Bishop Alaric’s two companions that night were also bishops, and it was their triple presence more than anything else that was keeping the whole evening from degenerating into an absolute saturnalia.

  I liked Bishop Alaric immediately. He was dressed simply, in a white, toga-like robe, and he carried himself like a soldier. He spoke with a total simplicity and clarity that seemed to me like a different language — no rhetoric, no exaggeration, no flowery phrases. The man considered what he wanted to say, and then he said it in an absolute minimum of words. The strange thing about this was that it made you listen very carefully. I know, because we talked together for a long time. Britannicus had been commandeered by someone else as soon as he had introduced us, and we were left alone together.

  At first, knowing that this man was a churchman, I thought it was going to be difficult to make conversation, but nothing could have been further from the truth. I found him fascinating. He talked about the problems he and his people were having in carrying the Word of Christ to the barbarians, and to the ordinary people of Britain, who were still predominantly pagan. From there, he went into an analysis of the reasons underlying the recent surge in pagan and idolatrous worship in Britain during the past thirty to forty years, and of the disastrous effect this was having on the faith of the Christians who still had to live with it. He told me honestly that there simply were not enough priests available to fight this renaissance of paganism effectively. The peasants were the ones who seemed most taken up with reversion to the old ways, he said. Their counterparts in the towns and cities, seemingly more sophisticated or at least more enlightened, were far less impressionable and far more orthodox in their adherence to Christianity.