by Jack Whyte
"It's beautiful. What is it, Cay?"
"This case, Auntie, contains the very essence, as you said, of Publius Varrus; the apotheosis of his craft and his love of his work and art. Permit me." I moved behind the table and leaned forward to press with my fingers on the concealed joins and the case swung open, its lid rising easily towards me as I watched her eyes. They sprang wide and her breath caught in her throat and again she reached out in wonder, but this time it was I who was amazed. Her hand, which had been hidden momentarily from my view by the raised lid, came back into view clutching the brightly coloured square of silk that had covered the case's contents since before I was born. Aunt Luceiia had no eyes for what had lain beneath it. As I stared in wonder at her, she raised the bright square slowly to her cheek, pressing its softness gently against her face with both hands, and two great tears trickled down to wet its folds, spreading in dark patches where they touched the material.
"This was mine, Cay, a gift from Publius, given and lost again many, many years ago. I grieved at losing it, but never mentioned it to Publius. He must have taken it—" She broke off suddenly, her words forgotten as her eyes became aware at last of what the silken scarf had covered. The brightly coloured cloth escaped from her suddenly nerveless fingers and slipped unheeded into her lap. I stepped around the table again to stand beside her and for long moments we stared together in awe at the sight before us. It was she who broke the reverent stillness, her voice little more than a whisper. "My husband . . . Publius made this?"
"Aye, who else? Who else could conceive of such beauty, let alone create it, other than Publius Varrus? See, his mark is stamped into the metal, just below the hilt there."
My aunt leaned forward, peering at the tiny "v." " 'Varrus.' Just like the skystone dagger his grandfather made." She jerked her head towards me. "Is this . . .?"
"Aye, Auntie, it is a skystone sword, made from the metal statue of Coventina, the lady of the Lake, as Uncle Varrus called her. It's called Excalibur."
"Excalibur. . . Excalibur." Her voice was still a whisper. "Take it out. I want to touch it, to hold it."
I removed the sword from its case, resisting the temptation to swing it and enjoy its superb balance. Instead, I grounded its point between her feet, holding it upright and steady in front of her eyes with the tip of one index finger on the end of the golden cockleshell that formed its pommel. She stared at it for some time before reaching out to touch it, but then I relinquished my fingertip hold and watched as she ran her fingers over the intricate scrollwork of its huge cross-guard and the abrasive texture of its sharkskin-covered hilt bound in its filigreed network of gold and silver wire.
For long moments she said nothing at all, devouring the perfection of the sword with her eyes, but then she glanced up at me. "Caius? Would you mind leaving me alone here for a little while? My thoughts are . . . I want to . . . absorb this, privately."
"Of course, Auntie. I'll be right outside the doors. Call me when you're ready, and I'll put it away again. Take your time; there's no hurry." I stooped and kissed the top of her head and left her alone with her thoughts.
Moments later, Lucanus found me leaning against the wall in the passageway by the side of the great, bronze-covered doors, my arms crossed on my chest. He had come striding from the rear of the house and stopped short, his face reflecting his surprise at seeing me there, apparently lounging aimlessly. I straightened up, standing away from the wall, and he approached me slowly, returning my greeting.
"You look as though you're standing guard."
"Well, I am, in a way," I said, smiling.
"Against what?" His eyes flickered to the closed doors beside me. "You expect someone to try to steal the bronze sheeting?"
"No, I'm waiting for Aunt Luceiia. She's inside." His curiosity was plainly written on his face. "Remembering her husband Publius Varrus."
"Ah, I see." He plainly saw nothing remarkable in that, because he changed the subject immediately. "The Council meeting will be starting soon. You will be coming, won't you?"
"Of course. How much time do I have?"
"An hour or so." He paused. "Have you discussed the Council with your aunt?"
"No. Should I have?"
He nodded, pursing his lips. "I think so, Cay. I didn't want to say anything while Ludmilla was with us, but there are changes occurring within the Council, changes I don't like and I know you won't like them, either."
"What kind of changes?"
" The worst kind, political. Emerging factions, or the threat of them. A threat yet young enough to be stamped out, thank Cod, now that you are back and well again. Young blood and new faces with an eye to their own position and advancement, rather than to the common good. You'll see, and it won't take you long. But ask Luceiia. She'll tell you more quickly and more accurately than I could. For a very old lady, there's not much that escapes her."
"Tell me more."
"I can't, Cay, I'm late already. Besides, it's better you hear it from your aunt. I should be in the Infirmary now, preparing for the arrival of the main train of wounded from Cornwall. They were sighted this morning entering Vegetius Sulla's old lands, so they should be arriving here any moment now. Talk to your aunt. I'll see you later."
I watched him stride away, suddenly uncomfortable with this unexpected mention of factions within the Council, and all the ominous implications. I have no idea how long I stood there fretting, but presently I heard Aunt Luceiia call my name and went back into the Armoury, where I replaced Excalibur in its case and resealed it beneath the floorboards. She watched me in silence throughout the reinterment of the case, and neither of us spoke until we were once again sitting in front of the brazier in her quarters. I waited, sensing that she had much to say to me, and she did not keep me waiting long.
"Well . . ." she began, pausing immediately. "The mere sight of that sword brought me a new perspective on your talk of dreams." I sat still, feeling slightly uncomfortable, and she snorted, a sound that might have been a smothered laugh or an indication of withering scorn. "The egotist within me was offended, at first, greatly insulted. That is why I wanted to be alone." I merely nodded, and she went on. "Why—this was the first, treacherous, self-pitying thought that occurred to me on seeing it—would Publius keep the existence of this sword concealed from me? It is plainly the most wonderful creation, and the most precious possession, of his entire life. And if he had kept this secret, how many others might he have had throughout his lifetime? What else of Publius Varrus exists beyond my private little world that I had thought so all-encompassing?" She paused again, but this time her lips creased in wry, self-disparaging amusement and I immediately felt better as she continued gently, "I am no less human and insecure than any other wife, it would seem, even after all this time." She sniffed dryly, accepting the folly of her own words. "Of course, as soon as I began to think clearly, I realized I was being silly. The mere knowledge, let alone possession, of a sword like that would endanger anyone. I am quite sure nothing like it has ever existed. No emperor ever possessed such a weapon. Men would fight wars to own it."
"Those were your husband's exact words." My interruption was involuntary, startled out of me. It won me a smile from her.
"I believe you. So, having made it, Publius could never have unmade it. And he would wish to see it put to great and noble use. Hence your reference to his dream and your grandfather's. Did Caius ever see it?"
I nodded, a sudden lump closing my throat. "He was the first to use it, saving my life. He cut down Seneca with it."
"Ah!" Her voice died away on a long exhalation, then: "Who else has seen it?"
"You and I. No other eyes alive have looked on it. Father Andros designed the hilt and cross-guard, Equus worked on the blade and the mould for the hilt, and Plautus was in the forge when Uncle Varrus cracked it open. And Grandfather Caius used it to kill Seneca. Only those five had seen it, before me—except, of course, for Seneca and his animals, none of whom recognised what they were seeing or su
rvived the sighting."
"Cracked what open?"
"The mould. Uncle Varrus poured the entire hilt and cross-guard as one solid piece, bonded to the tang. Excalibur means 'out of a mould.' "
"I see." She was quiet again, and I saw her lips frame the name before she said, musingly, "I thought it merely a poetic name, chosen for its beauty alone, for it has a power to it, a sonority." Her thoughts changed direction again. "So! Having created such a thing, their need was to conceal it from men's knowledge until the time had come to make it known, and thus, you became the Guardian. And now you believe that time will have arrived when the child Arthur is grown?" I nodded. "Did Uther know of it?"
"No, Auntie, he did not. Uncle Varrus felt Uther was too rash, too headstrong, to be entrusted with the secret."
"Hmm. He was correct, too. That does not surprise me. Publius Varrus was seldom wrong. Nor did it surprise me, upon reflection, that he had kept the knowledge of the sword from me. He was protecting me, believing ignorance would keep me safe if things went awry in some unforeseen way." She fixed me with a gaze that would brook no evasion. "What more can you tell me of my great-grandson?"
"No more than I have told you already, Aunt Luceiia. He was strong, lusty and in glowing health when I saw him last. He is a big child, and should grow to be a large man."
"Arthur Pendragon . . ." She savoured the sound of it. "Arthur Britannicus Varrus Pendragon." She heaved a great, sharp, gusting sigh. "Well, I shall simply have to find the energy to stay alive until you can bring him back from Hibernia. After that, I shall be prepared for death, knowing that our family will live on."
I returned her smile, but my mind was busy elsewhere now. "Auntie, forgive me, but I have little time and I have to ask you some questions about the Council."
Her face fell instantly into repose. "What questions?"
"About factions, divided loyalties perhaps. I don't know. Lucanus only mentioned to me within the hour, while I was standing outside the Armoury, that I should speak with you on the topic. I'm due at the meeting very soon now."
"Of course you are, how stupid of me. I really am growing old, Cay, forgetting things. . ." She clasped her hands in her lap, stretching and interlacing her fingers. "Very well, I shall speak and you will listen. What I have to tell you is very brief. Armed with it, nevertheless, you will be forewarned and prepared to draw your own conclusions." The next quarter of an hour passed quickly as I sat rapt, caught up in her tidings and assessing her information from two separate, but not dissimilar perspectives. The first of these was concerned with the immediate problems I faced in the resumption of my responsibilities towards Camulod, and the other entailed the effect those problems might have—if not correctly and summarily dealt with— upon the months-old child now being held hostage in Eire. Arthur Britannicus Varrus Pendragon, as my aunt had properly named him, would one day soon return to live here in Camulod, and mine would be the task of rearing him to manhood. Camulod would be his inheritance, and its governance would be his lifelong duty, in obligation to all of his ancestral names. Larger things might befall Arthur in the life that stretched ahead of him, but none of them would be greater than this, his first and foremost charge. Yet what my aunt was telling me—this damnable thing of factions—posed a threat not merely to the child, but to all we had planned for him and for the future. And so I listened closely and thought deeply, engrossed by the subtle layers in Aunt Luceiia's lucid presentation of her tidings.
The Council of Camulod had grown greatly since I had last paid formal attention to it. Where formerly I would have looked to see a single circle of some twenty men, the elders of the Colony appointed for their wisdom, knowledge and tolerance, I now beheld a double ring of chairs, forty-eight in number. Six of these chairs were occupied by women, the senior members of Aunt Luceiia's ancillary Council of Women. The other forty-two were filled by men, and from the information given me by Aunt Luceiia and amplified by my own observations before entering the chamber I could now see quite clearly the factions to which Lucanus had referred.
Four men had greeted me more warmly and solicitously than any others as I made my way through the crowded courtyard outside the Council Hall on my way to the meeting; four men whom I might not easily have recognized without my newly acquired awareness. Two of these were leaders, two followers. Now, in the gathering that swept out and around from where I stood behind the Speaker's Chair, I could still see them clearly. To my left, in a close-knit group fourteen strong, sat the adherents of Lucius Varo, the most notable among them his adviser, Bonno. Lucius was the direct descendant of Quintus Varo, who had been brother-in-law by marriage to my grandfather Caius Britannicus. I knew of Quintus Varo from my readings. He had been a simple, straightforward man of boundless honesty and integrity. From my great-aunt's report, his blood had been sadly diluted to produce this great- grandson, who now saw my eyes resting on him and smiled at me warmly. I allowed my own face to relax into a noncommittal smile and let my eyes continue to rove.
Lucius Varo was young, in his mid-twenties I gauged, some seven or eight years younger than I. He was a politician by nature, using his fresh, open good looks to insinuate his will upon other, weaker men and bend them to his wishes. He had been appointed to the Council two years earlier, while I was suffering from my memory loss, and had established himself as a constant presence ever since. True to his nature, he had done nothing to which anyone might take exception for the first year or so, content merely to bide his time while making himself helpful, amenable and valuable to all. Only in recent months had he begun to emerge clearly as an organizer, using the combined weight and influence of his supporters to influence decisions taken in Council so that they fell to his advantage. Within a close-knit society that had no use for or need of money, he had amassed wealth of another kind: power and influence. His great-grandfather had been one of the Colony's first and finest farmers, whose entire lands had been dedicated from the outset to the provision of edible crops, rather than to the sustenance of livestock. Over the years, that emphasis had produced, unwittingly, an anomaly, an aberration, within Camulod: a concentration of power amounting to a virtual monopoly of a unique kind within the holdings of the family Varo. Much of the finest arable land in the Colony lay in these holdings, and an agglomeration of the Colony's finest agricultural workers had grown up there, owing their allegiance and their welfare to the owner of the Varo estate, originally Quintus Varo and then, upon his death, his only son Quintus Secundus, who had been known to everyone as plain Secundus and had served the Colony and its Council all his life. His son, Quintus Tertius, had continued the tradition until he died tragically while still a young man, killed in a fire. Tertius's son Lucius had then inherited the Varo lands and title, and his father's place on the Council.
With the advent of the fourth generation of Varos, an unhealthy change had arrived in Camulod. People began to grow aware, although but gradually, that the instant and welcome assistance that had been ever available from the Villa Varo, while still available, now bore with it a duty of acknowledgment and obligation that had never before been necessary. Now, in return for favours smoothly granted, each supplicant was expected, rather than simply encouraged as in the past, to align himself with the house of Varo on matters of policy and internal Colony procedures having to do with the acquisition and administration of land holdings. So smoothly had this transition been achieved, however, that it had occurred without resentment and almost invisibly, until several months before, when several people began to remark pointedly upon the proliferation of support for Varo's many new initiatives, and upon the not so simple fact that, in order to achieve anything in the way of change or progress in land ownership or management, ordinary Colonists now had to deal specifically with Lucius Varo.
Although in possession of this information for less than a single hour, I was already convinced that something would have to be done about the affable Lucius Varo and his dangerous ambition. Camulod had no need of men like him, or of the peril
his incipient lust for power embodied. There was no room for politicians in our Colony.
A movement at the far end of the room attracted my attention and I saw that my two old friends the Legates, Titus and Flavius, had entered the hall. They did not move forward, but stood attentively against the rear wall, their arms crossed in front of them, both in full armour. I smiled at them, but they were both too far away to see it. Would these two old war-horses ever stop wearing armour, I wondered, even in times of peace? I thanked God that they were here and well, though both far advanced in years. Their presence offered me an anchor. I had not seen either of them since my return but determined to seek them out as soon as I was free of this meeting.
The Speaker's Chair in front of me was still unoccupied, and Mirren, the current president of the Council—the office was another innovation—had not yet entered the hall, although I had seen him outside and exchanged greetings with him. I allowed my eyes to drift now towards my right, to the other faction that I had identified. Peter Ironhair, its prime motivator, was deep in conversation with the man called Rhenus who had accompanied him when he sought me out in the courtyard earlier. Neither man had noticed my gaze turn their way. I took in every detail I could see of Ironhair, whom I would not have known had I not been warned of him. Peter Ironhair was a newcomer to Camulod, but a highly gifted one. He was a metalsmith, a trade honoured in Camulod since the time of Publius Varrus, and he had arrived in the Colony some five years earlier, rising soon thereafter, thanks to his natural skills and despite his extreme youth, to become one of the prime armourers of the Colony. That position had earned him his place in the Council, which he had held, to great acclaim, for almost three years. He, too, I estimated, was seven or eight years younger than I—like Varo, in his mid-twenties. He was a big man, as one might expect of an ironsmith, his hair iron-grey, prematurely whitened in spite of his youth and obvious health. He was gesturing to Rhenus, and from where I sat I could clearly see the massive rippling of the muscles in his arm. He was dressed well, no sign of the working smith in his garments. He glanced up and saw me watching him, but his expression remained unaltered. I knew, however, with complete conviction that he had noticed my gaze and chosen to ignore it. I looked beyond him, casually, at the people seated behind him, several of whom were leaning forward, listening intently to what he was saying. I counted thirteen in his group. Thirteen of his adherents, plus fourteen of Lucius Varo's amounted to twenty-seven men of the total forty-two on Council. Twenty-seven votes, a clear majority should the two groups ever arrive at a common goal, and close enough, singly, for either party to threaten a serious disruption to the business of the Council.
