The Skystone

by Jack Whyte

  I asked him what he saw as the solution to the problem, and he assured me that paganism could not hold out against the slow, patient instruction and enlightenment offered by the Church. Listening to the quiet confidence and conviction in his voice, I had no difficulty in believing him to be right.

  I asked him if he had ever had much trouble with the Druids. Weren’t they the priests of the old religion? He was amused by my question and told me that he had great hope for the Druids. They were a gentle people, he said, far removed from their bloody and brutal origins. They still existed in the mountainous areas of Britain, but they were followers of Light, easily convertible to the teachings of the gentle Christ.

  From that point, the conversation drifted naturally to the various customs of the tribes he had encountered earlier in his priesthood on his travels throughout the Empire. He mentioned that he had spent a number of years in Gaul, and I immediately asked him if he had had any dealings with the Bagaudae. From the way he looked me in the eye and smiled, I knew that I had asked the right question of the right man, and for the next quarter of an hour he explained to me why he thought that the communal farm system favoured by these remarkable people — that’s what he called them — was destined to become the rural social unit of the future. Of course, as he talked about it, I could see that such a unit would provide the perfect vehicle for the propagation and survival of the Christian faith, but a lot of what he said emphasized and supported what Britannicus had been saying earlier in the afternoon. I was surprisingly disappointed when one of his fellow bishops came over to remind him that they had to leave.

  As soon as the three Churchmen were off the premises, and after Theodosius, Cicero and the other senior officers had withdrawn to their apartments, the decorum of the evening degenerated quickly. I would have been happy to stay and sample the wares of some of the outrageously beautiful dancing girls who seemed to be preparing to get down to the serious business of the evening, but I left with Britannicus, who, apart from being a senior officer and therefore persona non grata at this stage of the night, was always fastidious to the point of fanaticism concerning women. He came home alone with me, having dismissed his escort, and we sat talking long into the night. It was during this long conversation that I casually produced the skystone dagger in its case.

  “What do you think of that?” I handed him the box and, like me, he could not immediately figure out how to open it. I let him work it out for himself and he had it in a few minutes. When he saw what it contained, he made no sound and gave no sign of emotion. He took the knife from its bed and laid the box on a nearby table, and for the next two minutes he said nothing. Then, “Did you make this, Varrus?”

  “No. My grandfather again. Do you remember the story of the skystone?” He nodded, not taking his eyes from the dagger. “That was made from the last of the metal from that skystone. He used it as it was. Didn’t want to pollute it with ordinary iron as he had the sword he made for my father. It will shave the hair from your arm.”

  “Varrus,” he whispered, “this is incredibly beautiful. It is enough to make a man believe in magic. I have never seen a blade so pure, so exquisite. Nor a hilt so flawless, though flawless is a word usually reserved for blades. This makes the sword of Theodosius seem tawdry.” He replaced it reverently in its box, shaking his head in awe and leaving the lid off so that he could continue to look at it. “That is a weapon fit for an Emperor.” He looked at me and grinned. “Sad that there has never been an Emperor fit for such a weapon. What makes the blade so silvery?” He held it up so that it reflected the flame of the lamps.

  I stared at it, shaking my head. “I don’t know, General, but I think there’s another metal in there besides iron.”

  He glanced at me sharply, his interest caught at once. “What kind of metal? What is it?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know, General. I have no idea.”

  He took the knife from its case again, holding it with its point towards me, a puzzled frown on his face. “You must have some kind of an idea! Can’t you even make a guess?”

  I smiled, more for myself than him. “General, if I had any way of knowing that, I’d be a very rich man.”

  “Publius, in the name of all the Caesars, there aren’t that many metals, are there? You should be able to pinpoint one of them!”

  I shrugged my shoulders and gave voice to a thought that had lain unspoken in my mind for some time now. “Yes, you’d think so, and I’d have to agree with you if I were convinced that there aren’t that many metals. But I’m not convinced. I believe that there could be hundreds of metals that we simply have not yet discovered.”

  “Hundreds?”

  I shrugged. “Well, perhaps not hundreds, but dozens. We know of gold and silver, lead and zinc, copper and tin, and iron. Perhaps a few others.”

  “What about bronze and brass?”

  I was surprised at the naivety of the question. “Those are alloys, Commander, mixtures of the metals I’ve just named.”

  “Oh, yes, of course they are. I knew that. Can you name no more?”

  “Not offhand, no. Iron is the most recently discovered of these.”

  “Iron? It’s been known for centuries.”

  “Yes, it has. But we’re still only learning how to work with it. It is the hardest of all metals, of course. Or all the ones that we know.”

  His face was creased in a slight frown. “I’m not sure I know what you are talking about, Publius.”

  I smiled. “Neither am I, Commander, but I have a half-formed theory on the hardness of metals. The harder they are in themselves, the harder they are to find. Harder to smelt, in the first place.”

  “Smelt? Like melt?”

  “Same thing. Except smelt means to melt out of the raw rock.”

  “Fascinating! Tell me more about iron, Publius.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Everything.”

  I laughed aloud while the lamp on the table between us flickered, indicating that more oil was needed. It had been full when we sat down. I nodded towards the guttering flame.

  “Some other time, I fear, General. It’s very late, and I would have a lot to tell you. Didn’t you say you are leaving at first light? You’ll have no sleep tonight.”

  “That will be nothing new. I really would like to hear about your theories on the hardness of metal, iron in particular.”

  “Very well, then,” I said. “On your own head be it. But first I have to replenish the lamp.”

  I was marshalling my thoughts as I brought oil for the lamp and fresh wine for ourselves, and by the time I sat down again, I knew what I wanted to say. I nodded towards the skystone dagger lying on the table.

  “Let’s suppose that what I postulate is true. Whatever that stuff is — the metal in that blade — it’s not iron. ‘Fine, then,’ we say, ‘it’s something else — but what?’” I squinted at him, then leaned forward to stir the coals in the brazier. “Do you understand what I mean?”

  He blinked at me. “No.”

  “What do we call it, if it isn’t iron?”

  “I’m sorry, Publius. I don’t understand.”

  “Then I’ll show you. Wait here, please. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  I came back several minutes later, lugging a heavy wooden box. He watched me, wordlessly, as I spread its contents — three roughly uniform iron bars as long as my forearm and as thick as a finger, and one plain sword blade — on top of the table by his side.

  “What do you see?” I asked him, resuming my seat.

  “Three iron bars and a sword blade.”

  “You see any differences between the bars?”

  “No, they all look the same.”

  “Right, now watch this.” I picked up the first bar and bent it easily in my hands until it was almost the shape of a horseshoe. I dropped it on the table top, picked up the second bar, and bent it, too, but not as easily, and not as far as the first. Britannicus watched closely, saying nothing. To b
end the third bar, I had to place it on the edge of the table and push down, hard, with both arms. The sword blade flexed slightly and would not bend at all.

  “They’re all iron, but they’re all different. The first is what we call wrought iron. It’s pure iron — recently smelted and unworked — soft, as you saw, and malleable. The second one’s been heated and beaten a couple of times. The third has been in the fire and under the hammer more often. And the sword blade’s been heated in an air-fed, charcoal forge and beaten into shape, then edged, then reheated and quenched in water while it was red hot. It’s the hardest of all. That sword will be worn by one of the garrison soldiers, when it’s finished. Now watch.”

  I picked up the sword blade and used its point to gouge marks in the three bars. As before, the resistance varied from bar to bar. Then I used the bars to try to make an impression on the iron of the sword blade. None of them even scratched it.

  “Now do you see my point?”

  “I think so.” He still looked bemused. I picked up the sword blade again.

  “This metal, this blade, is the hardest iron I can make, Commander, and I don’t know anyone who can do better. In all the world, to the best of my knowledge, you’ll find no harder iron. Except in the sword of Theodosius, and in this.” I picked up the skystone knife with my right hand and laid the sword blade between us with my left.

  “Hold that end firmly. Don’t let it move.” I then bent over the blade, bracing my fist and the end of the skystone knife against my shoulder, and dragged its point down the length of the sword blade. It cut deeply, even curling a shaving of iron. I straightened and held the knife’s point out for Britannicus to inspect.

  “Look. Not a trace of damage.”

  “Good God!” He took the knife and gazed at it as I continued talking.

  “That’s not iron, but until I know what it is, I’ll call it iron. And here’s the theory you wanted to hear about: I know that high heat smelts iron from the ore-bearing rock. Once we have the pure iron, higher degrees of heat, and variations in the way we apply the heat and treat the iron, produce harder iron. And iron’s the hardest metal we know. Every other metal is softer, easier to melt, and easier to work with. I think the amount of heat we can generate and apply has much to do with the hardness of the metal. The fires we work with today, fuelled by charcoal and heated by bellows, are the hottest smiths have ever worked with.”

  I took the knife from his hand. “Grandfather Varrus had to work harder than he ever had before to smelt this, whatever it is. And I never saw the skystone. Maybe it wasn’t even the ore-bearing rock we know. Perhaps, if I had seen the stone, I would be able to recognize others like it, who knows? But this I do know: there’s a secret here, in this metal, that’s waiting to be discovered. If I could find the secret of whatever it is that makes this… iron — I have to call it iron — so different, so far superior to the iron we know, then men would call me a magician when they saw the blades I could produce. And I would be, too…. Magic, after all, is no more than the product of knowledge others don’t share.”

  Britannicus was shaking his head in amazement, his shoulders slumped in dejection.

  “Publius,” he said, “I believe every word you have said. But where on earth can we find another skystone, and how will we recognize it?”

  I stood up and began to throw the pieces of iron back into the box. “There’s the pity of it, Commander. I think I have as much chance of finding another skystone as I do of finding a wife at my age.”

  We had little more to say to each other that night, and Britannicus left shortly after that, walking straight and tall in the light of a full moon, promising to visit me again in the near future. Depressed and dissatisfied, I made my way to bed, where I intended to remain shamelessly until midday.

  It was not to be. I had barely climbed into bed when I heard an approaching clash of hooves outside, preternaturally loud in the silent night. Even before they had clattered to a halt outside my house I was out of bed, filled with a sense of impending disaster.

  It was Plautus, unkempt, dishevelled and out of uniform.

  “Is Britannicus still here?”

  “No. Why?” I was still pulling on my clothes, my sword belt in my left hand. I had snatched it up without conscious volition.

  “When did he leave?”

  “About five minutes ago. What’s wrong?”

  “Which way did he go? One of my men tipped me. There’s a plot. They knew he was here and they’re out to get him.”

  “Damnation! Which way did you come?”

  “Direct, but I didn’t pass him. But he could have taken the other street at the fork back there.”

  “Go back and check it, Plautus. I’ll go the other way.”

  I didn’t have to ask who “they” were. I cursed myself for not noticing which way Caius had gone. Either direction, right or left from my gate, would have led him eventually back to the fort. We split up, Plautus, mounted, to the left and myself, on foot, to the right.

  I had developed a technique of running that allowed me to make the most of my bad leg. I progressed in a series of bounds, launching myself off my good limb and using the bent one merely as a balancing point. It worked well and allowed me to cover ground quickly in short bursts. On this occasion, however, the sustained effort and my anxiety tired me quickly. Darkened tenements hemmed me in on either side before I had run two hundred paces, and as I turned one corner a frightened cat leaped, hissing, from my path, the suddenness of it almost causing me to fall. I stopped and listened, but I could hear nothing except the pounding of my heart and the rasping of my breath. I stood there for the space of twenty heartbeats, forcing myself to calm down before I ran on, cursing the fact that every street in this town sloped upwards towards the fort on the hilltop.

  I passed one junction where two streets crossed, glancing left and right as I ran through the intersection. The pale light of the full moon allowed me to see that both streets were empty of life. I had gone about halfway up the next length of increasingly steep street when somebody tried to kill me.

  My lopsided style of running saved me. The increasing gradient and my growing fatigue had me progressing by this time in a bobbing, dipping series of lurches. As I hunched into one lurch, the tip of a sword blade hissed by my head, slicing into the lobe of my right ear. My instincts and training took over immediately, and without thought I allowed my bad leg to collapse under me. Rolling forward and away from my assailant, I maintained my momentum and drew my own sword as I rolled. I whipped the blade up in front of my face just in time to counter another swinging slash that almost disarmed me. I turned it aside desperately and managed to unbalance the black-cloaked figure that loomed above me. Then, spinning myself on my rump and putting all my weight into my lunge, I slashed at the one glimpse I had of a bare knee and felt the edge of my blade bite deep, grating on bone. I realized at the same instant that this might be Caius Britannicus, treating me as a potential attacker.

  It was not Britannicus, and I knew that as he fell, cursing me in a high-pitched whine of agony. We grappled together there on the edge of the cobbled street. I was glad of my smith’s muscles as I forced his arms down and slipped the point of my sword into the soft flesh beneath his chin, ramming it quickly upwards through his skull so that he died suddenly, his frantic liveliness turning to dead weight in a moment of spastic shuddering.

  I regained my feet and freed my sword, shaking like an old man with the palsy and fighting hard to get fresh air into my lungs. There was no one else in the street —just myself and my dead attacker. And then I heard the ring of iron and the sounds of a struggle coming from an alleyway I had run past before being attacked. Ignoring the corpse on the ground, I ran towards the sounds and saw a knot of fighting men about halfway down the alley.

  Britannicus had his back against the wall and faced five armed men. I yelled something as I threw myself towards them, and they turned to see who I was. As they did so, the Commander slashed one of them, who
fell to his knees and then keeled forward onto the cobbles.

  Then I was among them, hacking and slashing with my sword in one hand and my dagger in the other. I must have been a threatening sight, because the first man facing me panicked and turned as if to flee. I jumped at him and got my left arm around his neck, pulling him back into me and on to my hard-stabbing blade. I felt him arch and die and I thrust him forward, towards his companions and off my sword. As he fell away from me, I felt my shoulder being grabbed and pulled, and then, for the second time within minutes, I was scrabbling around on the ground again, fighting for my life against a large, unknown enemy. A fallen sword clanged on the ground by my head as I struggled, and then my assailant, who was above me and about to finish me, went rigid and collapsed on top of me. I heard running feet and then the clatter of hooves and much shouting and yelling, and I discovered that I did not have the strength to push away the body that lay on me.

  Plautus had arrived, with others, and two of our attackers were taken alive. Britannicus helped me to my feet and I leaned against the wall, exhausted, trying to catch my breath while a confusion of voices rattled around me. I heard Plautus say, “Five of the swine. They were determined to get you, Legate.”

  I had to hawk and clear my throat before I could raise my voice. “Six,” I said.

  “No, five of them. None got away, Varrus. There were five.”

  “Six,” I said again, my voice weak and my stomach heaving. “There’s another one up there in the street above us. He jumped me as I ran by.” I turned to the wall behind me and vomited.

  “Lars and Pector, get up there and check. Bring the body back here.” I felt Plautus’ hand on the back of my neck, cold and strong. “By the Christ, Publius! I never knew anyone like you for puking after all the fun is over. Are you all right? Are you wounded? I can’t see you for blood. Is any of it yours?”