Camulod Chronicles Book 1 - The Skystone

by Whyte, Jack

  Another carefully wrapped package contained the great African bow that I had marvelled over as a child. It was composed of alternating layers of wood, animal horn and sinew, and it was truly a mighty weapon the like of which had never been seen in this part of the world. I laid it aside for closer examination later.

  There were several items that I had never seen before, and a parchment wrapped in deerskin, addressed to me with the instruction that I should read it carefully at my leisure and study the contents and methods described in it. Intrigued, I laid this package, too, carefully aside. A second, new-looking package contained a magnificent shirt of soft leather, onto which had been stitched, with the most astonishing precision, thousands of tiny metal rings in overlapping rows, in the fashion of our own Roman plate armour, but in a form much lighter and far more supple. The accompanying note said that it had been brought back from the country north of the Danube and was the kind of armour being worn now by many of the Germanic and Saxon chiefs.

  The last package was a magnificent box of rich, oiled wood no more than a foot long by a hand's breadth wide by about half of that in depth. At first I could not even find out how it opened, but eventually I discovered that the top and bottom had been carved to fit one over the other into matching grooves. I knew this package was special, from the way it had been hidden away at the back of the hoard. I was trembling slightly in anticipation as I opened it, but I almost dropped it when I saw what it contained. It was a knife. A dagger. But such a dagger! The blade shone like polished silver, and in fact I took it to be that at first; the hilt looked to be of polished gold. The entire weapon was covered with a slight sheen of oil.

  I picked it up reverently. It felt alive in my hand. I tested the blade with the ball of my thumb and drew blood! Gaping at the blood in amazement, for I had barely used any pressure, I carried the knife upstairs and out into the sunlight, where it blazed in my hand like a torch. I heard footsteps behind me and Equus stood by my side.

  "I see you found it. I've been dying of impatience! Thought you'd never go down there. Boudicca's buttocks, man, sometimes I think you're not human! How could you not go down there for all this time?" I didn't even bother to answer him. I was too busy staring at the wonder in my hand.

  "He was sorry it couldn't be a sword, but that was all of the skystone metal he had left, and he didn't want to pollute it with ordinary iron the way he did with the sword he made for your father. He didn't know what it was, but whatever it was, he thought it was fitting that it fell from heaven. It holds an edge like nothing in this world. It'll shave the hairs off your arm. Try it."

  I did, and the tiny hairs of the back of my wrist gathered in a small clump on the edge of the blade.

  "Have you ever seen the like?"

  I simply shook my head, hefting the knife in my hand. It had an unusual hilt, slightly cruciform, the arms of which protruded for about an inch above and below the blade.

  "Why the cross-piece?"

  "Extra weight. And balance. You can throw it. It flies as though it had wings, like magic."

  "Is the handle solid gold?"

  Equus shook his head. "No. Gold-dipped, though. Underneath it's brass. Gold was too heavy. And too soft."

  "And too expensive. It looks like one piece — the hilt, I mean. How did he make it?"

  "He poured it." Equus grinned at my wide-eyed look, "Did you find the scroll he left for you? It's all in there. The old man thought it was an entirely new technique, revolutionary, he said, if it's properly used."

  "How did he get this finish on the blade, Equus?" He shrugged his massive shoulders. "He didn't. It was there already. All we had to do was polish it... and polish it and polish it and polish it. But it was worth it. And the brighter it got, the easier it became to polish. We put the oil on it to protect it against rust, although we didn't know whether or not the skystone rusted. Better to be safe than angry. "

  I held the beautiful thing up to my eyes. At the top of the blade, just below the cross hilt, my grandfather had inscribed a tiny "V" for his name and mine: Varrus. I felt a lump swell in my throat and swallowed hard.

  "Equus, I'm going to take the scroll, and this, and go home. Will you see to shutting everything up?"

  He grinned again. "Thought you might do that. Of course I will. Go home. Go!"

  VIII

  "How bad was that wound of yours?"

  Plautus and I were sitting in one of the local taverns frequented by the garrison centurions, waiting for Equus to come and join us and watching the antics of some of the other customers in the place. His question was unexpected.

  "Bad enough. Why d'you ask?"

  "Just curious. I was watching the slut with the big tits across there, and something about her reminded me of the bitch who used to run that big old brothel, over in Alexandria. You know the one I mean. The big one."

  "The big brothel, or the big bitch?"

  He laughed. "Both."

  "You mean Fatia?"

  "That's the one! Fatia. What a whore that one was. She could suck the pommel off a sword! Hello! What's going on over there?" I turned to look at the commotion that had erupted in the back of the tavern. Somebody had been caught cheating at dice and there were naked blades being waved around. The quarrellers were civilians, however, so Plautus had no need to get involved. We were too far away from them to see any of the details, but a sudden scuffle and a scream told us that blood had been spilled before the tavern owner and his enforcers could reach the scene. They were there within seconds, however, restoring order with heavy hands and clubs.

  Plautus sat back in his seat. "God-cursed civilians, they make me sick. Not a one of them fit for military service, but they cause more trouble in one night in this place than all the old sweats who come in here. If the place was mine I'd declare it off-limits to all civilians."

  "That's nice. Then I wouldn't be able to come here." Our beer was gone, and I signalled to the serving girl to bring us more. We both watched her in silence as she swung her fleshy body towards us, slopping ale from the jugs she held in one big hand. As she leaned over the table I could smell her — warm and sweaty and slightly sour. She leered at Plautus and he reached to tweak one of her prominent nipples as she laughed and swung away.

  "She stinks like a goat, " I said. "What is it about her that reminded you of Fatia? At least Fatia was clean."

  "Aye, clean, but voracious. What a mouth!" He shook his head in nostalgic wonder. "What a mouth that bitch had."

  "Plautus, are you drunk?"

  He blinked at me. "No more than usual at this time of night. Why? Are you?"

  "I don't think so, but you're not making sense. You asked me about my leg and then started prattling about Fatia. I don't see the connection."

  He hitched himself around in his seat and looked me straight in the eye.

  "You used to be a bigger whore-chaser than I was. You introduced me to Fatia's place, remember? Now we've been back together again for, what?

  Two months? I haven't seen you as much as look at a woman in all that time. It just occurred to me that you might..." His voice faded. "You know..."

  I stared at him in amused surprise. He was embarrassed! "Your wound—I thought perhaps... damnation, I think I am drunk."

  I smiled gently. "I've still got all my equipment, if that's what you're getting at. It was a close thing, though. Missed by an inch."

  "An axe, you said?" He looked fascinated.

  "Aye, with a spike on the back. It was the spike that got me. The whoreson swung it underhand, up into my crotch."

  "Aiee!" His face puckered up in sympathy and horror at the image. "It hurts just to think about it."

  "You should try it from where I sit. I still wake up at night in a cold sweat, dreaming about it."

  He shuddered, but he couldn't leave it alone. "You didn't lose anything?" I smiled at the worry on his face. "I told you, no. Apart from the ability to walk straight. Everything's still there, and it all works. I pump myself dry regularly in my
sleep, so I know. But otherwise..." I sighed, resigned to telling him, but looking around first to be sure nobody else was listening.

  "I don't know, Plautus. It just doesn't seem to work while I'm awake. I can't get it up. I don't even have the urge anymore. I haven't had a woman since it happened, and that's been over a year now."

  "Have you tried?"

  I laughed, a short, bitter laugh. "No, I can't really say I have. As I said, I've lost the urge."

  "Maybe if you bought a whore you'd be all right? I mean, if it works for you in dreams it should work when you're awake, too, shouldn't it? I mean, if you get the urge when you're sleeping, you must be able to get it at other times."

  I nodded my head slightly. "You'd think so, but it doesn't seem to work that way."

  '"A'ssamazing, " he slurred. He was definitely getting drunk. "That's... amazing. A shame, too. I think we'd better get you fixed up, Publius."

  "Perhaps. But not tonight, Plautus."

  "No. Not tonight. Too late. What's the time?"

  "Almost curfew."

  "Time I was getting back. Wonder what happened to Equus?"

  "Oh, he'll get here, sooner or later. You'd better go. I see your friends over there getting ready to leave. I'll sit here and have another beer and wait for him."

  "Isn't this ridiculous? A man my age having to be back in bed by midnight?"

  "That's the army, Plautus. If I hadn't shown up back here in town, you'd stay in the barracks every night."

  "That's true. It's a good life. Well, I'd better get going." He stood up, swaying slightly, and grinned down at me. "Tell Equus he's a pissy-arsed civilian with a pissy-arsed civilian's bad manners, breaking an appointment with a primus pilus. Good night, my friend. Don't worry about your cock. We'll get it fixed up. Just you leave it to old Plautus." I bowed, still sitting.

  "I'll be glad to. When I die, it's yours." He blinked again, missing the comment completely, and threw me a salute. I sat there smiling, watching him leave with three other centurions, who waved to me as they went out.

  I had another beer, wondering what was keeping Equus. He should have been there an hour before at least. Two beers later there was still no sign of him, and I was surrounded by an evil-smelling crowd of late-arriving revellers. My gorge rose at the stench of them. Being a Roman has its disadvantages at times, and the constant expectation of cleanliness is one of them. I left my drink unfinished on the table and made my way unsteadily to the door, where the cool night air revived me enough to let me get my bearings, and I set out to walk home.

  I was drunker than I had thought, and it proved to be a long, weary walk, on a night that was unseasonably cold for the time of year. My route took me past the smithy, and I told myself, on a drink-inspired impulse, that Equus was probably in there, working late. In fact, it was long past midnight, and it was no more than maudlin, drunken sentimentality that took me in to the smithy's womb-like warmth instead of to my bed. I found the key under its stone, easily enough, but it took a lot of fumbling in the dark before I could insert it in the padlock.

  As soon as I entered the smithy, however, locking the door conscientiously behind me, I knew someone was there. A lamp burned on one of the benches, and there was a feeling of presence in the place.

  "Equus? Are you here?"

  There was no response, and yet I knew f was not alone. I am not a superstitious man, but the smithy was obviously empty, and when I realized that I had had to unlock the door to let myself in, I felt the tiny hairs stirring on the back of my neck. I crossed to the lamp, peering around me into the shadows as I went, but saw nothing to alarm me. And then, as I picked up the lamp, I saw a disembodied face staring at me with enormous eyes from the floor in the corner by the forge. I leaped with fright and almost dropped the lamp, but even as I reacted I recognized Phoebe. She was lying on the floor, wrapped in a dark blanket that blended with the heavy shadows in the corner.

  "Phoebe, " I said, trying to disguise the fright she had caused me, "what in the name of all the gods are you doing here? And at this time of night?" To my horror, she started to weep, placing me immediately at a disadvantage. I stood there mute, gazing at her in consternation as her sobs grew and expanded to fill the whole room. I can handle most situations, but the tears of women have always left me helpless. I could do no more than wait until she settled down, which she eventually did, and then, amid a succession of sighs and choking sobs, her story came out. Cuno had been drinking again. A four-day bacchanalia had ended in a rampage of violence during which he had tried to kill her. She had escaped from him and run here to Equus for protection, and Equus had calmed her, given her some blankets, locked her inside the smithy for safety and gone looking for Cuno. She had cried herself to sleep and had not been aware of my entrance until I spoke, startling and frightening her. Somehow, during the telling of her story, I found myself seated on the floor beside her, comforting her with an arm around her shoulders as she whispered her tale, with bent head, into the region of my armpit. Had I been sober, I would have been upset by her story. As it was, I listened with no great feeling of shock until she had finished, when I said "Hmmm, " or something equally intelligent.

  Her sobs were growing less frequent now, and it seemed natural to remain where I was until she grew completely calm. I was staring like an owl at the crown of her head, seeing the white scalp beneath her hair, when I became aware that she was no longer sobbing, no longer moving. I felt my eyelids starting to droop and blinked them rapidly, holding them wide open by an effort of will. I was feeling extremely comfortable there, with the hard wall at my back and the hard floor beneath my buttocks and the soft warmth of Phoebe's body against my chest. She straightened slightly beneath my arm, raising her head to look into my face, and her voice was a gentle breath in my ear.

  "Can I stay, then?"

  Could she stay? Of course she could stay. I had not raised my head with hers, and I now found myself looking down the bodice of her smock, imagining the warmth emanating from the full, heavy white breasts that nestled there, soft and vulnerable, exposed to my eyes. Suddenly, with no warning, the hand that had rested so casually across her neck, cupping her shoulder, let my mind know that it was full of female flesh. Shoulder flesh, certainly, but that was just a start, for I knew, equally suddenly, that I could have her, there and then. She was spurned and beaten, vulnerable and available, and she would even be grateful. The knowledge frightened me back to awareness of who and where I was. I withdrew my arm guiltily and sat up straight.

  "Stay here? Of course you can stay here." I heard the bluster in my own voice. "Equus will be back soon, or he may have finished with Cuno already and be waiting until morning to let you get some rest. You just settle down there, and get back to sleep. You'll see, everything will be fine, come morning." I was struggling to get back up to my feet, but my traitorous, crippled leg was betraying me. I had no feeling in it at all. I threw both arms out against the wall behind me for support and levered uselessly with my sound leg.

  "What's the matter? Can't you get up?"

  "My leg. The bad one. It seems to be asleep. No feeling in it."

  "Here, let me help you." In a second she was up, out of her blankets and pulling me upright. She was a big girl, and I was grateful for her strength. Erect, I let go of her hands and reached behind me again for the wall's support, feeling myself sway slightly.

  "Thank you, Phoebe. It'll be all right now. Get back into your blanket. It's cold."

  "No it's not. It's warm in here. Are you sure you're all right?"

  "Yes, fine. My leg just goes strange from time to time, if I sit the wrong way. It sort of stiffens up."

  "Does it hurt much?"

  "Not usually."

  "Now?"

  "No, not now. It's just numb."

  "Can you walk on it?"

  "I will in a minute, when the feeling comes back into it."

  "That's happened to me a couple of times. It's a strange feeling. Like being pricked all over with needles."
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  She was standing close, watching my face with a peculiar expression, her arms folded beneath her breasts so that they swelled up visibly in the scoop of her neckline.

  I looked away. "There, " I said. "That's better." I bent my knee and flexed it and then stepped away from the wall and fell sideways. She caught me in her strong arms, my face against her breasts, and hauled me upright again, leaning me back against the wall, where I remained, feeling weak and foolish and remarkably sober all at once.

  "It's not better at all, is it?"

  "No." I shook my head, smiling foolishly. "Not yet." But then it started to get 'better' and the sudden, brutal, unexpected ferocity of it made me suck in my breath with a hiss as the torn muscles in my thigh knotted and cramped and I felt myself falling again. She took my whole weight in her arms and half carried, half dragged me to the only chair in the room, into which she dumped me unceremoniously. I was beside myself with pain far worse than any I had felt before. My entire leg, from the buttock down, was a howling, twisted knot of agony. Through the fog of it I heard, her voice, urgent and demanding, hissing in my ear.

  "Stop writhing, or I can't help you! Lift up! Up! Stay still, damn you!" And then, eventually and gradually, over the space of what seemed like uncountable aeons of time, the awful, dementing pain began to recede, displaced by a firm, rhythmic, soothing motion and the kneading of strong fingers that worked on the muscles of my leg, relaxing them, easing the tightness out of them and gentling their spastic tremors until they disappeared altogether. I opened my eyes, conscious of sweat drying on my skin.

  I was lying on the floor of the smithy, beside the overturned chair Phoebe had thrown me into. I had no remembrance of falling. Phoebe knelt above me, straddling my bad leg, her hair hanging down over her face as she concentrated on the action of her hands on my thigh muscles. I could feel a sensation that was unusual, pleasant, somehow familiar, yet unplaceable. And then I recognized it. It was the cushioned warmth of naked thighs around my bare foot. I froze with shock. She felt me stiffen and knelt back on her haunches to look at me, pulling the hair back out of her eyes with one hand. The movement brought the astounding heat of her centre down on my toes, but she seemed unaware of it.