The Burning Stone

by Jack Whyte

  “Come nearer,” Varrus said.

  The man walked closer and stopped about ten paces away, eyeing Varrus through narrowed lids.

  “Why are you here?” Varrus asked next.

  The stranger shrugged, his face unreadable. “I stopped here on my way south, three weeks ago. Ate well, and slept well afterwards. So I thought I would do the same again, coming back. Came through the woods back there, along the riverbank, and almost walked right into you. Must have been daydreaming. I’ll move on, find someplace else.”

  Varrus had been weighing the look of him and listening carefully to what he said and how, and now he sheathed his gladius. “No need,” he said. “There’s ample room for three and we have a fire already lit. So far, though, we’ve caught but one fish.”

  The other flashed a grin, the merest hint of healthy white teeth. “I can fish. And I have fresh bread, hot from the oven this morning.”

  “Good. I can’t fish…Never learned. See what you can do about fish, then. I’ll mind the fire.”

  The newcomer scooped up a fine fish less than a quarter of an hour after that. It was easily as large as the first one, and moments later, a hundred paces downstream from him, Shamus caught a third, almost exactly the same size, just as Quintus Varrus finished assembling the set of iron roasting spits that Lydia had stowed in the bed of the cart.

  * * *

  —

  With little talk on anyone’s part, the three fish had been broiled over the fire and eaten off slabs of buttered bread with more than occasional sounds of appreciation and pleasure. The few remnants, fins, skin, and bones, had been burned in the pit before the fire itself was built up against the slowly gathering darkness.

  “That was enjoyable,” the stranger said, looking from one to the other of his hosts. “I’m grateful for the hospitality and I’m glad to be able to prove it.” He sat up straight, crossed his legs, and swayed easily to his feet without putting his hands to the ground, then bent to open his pack, which he had been using as a back rest.

  Varrus took stock of him as he moved. He saw a strong, agile man whom he judged to be at least a decade older than himself, broad shouldered and deep chested and with red-tinged brown hair that he wore long—not unusually so but unmilitarily so. That, in itself, told Varrus that he had been a soldier, because the man was unmistakably military in bearing and his hair would look completely natural in a soldier’s crop. That impression was enhanced by the fact that he wore a legionary cintus around his waist—a thick leather belt with heavy armour-plated straps hanging from it to protect the crotch area—and from that hung a well-used regulation legionary short sword with the kind of polished hilt that only years of handling could impart. It was the same style that hung from Varrus’s own belt, the so-called Hispanic gladius, with its two-foot-long razor-sharp blade. The tunic the fellow wore was brown, though; knee-length, plain and serviceable, edged with a dark green key design and definitely not military. Varrus had seen military tunics in all kinds of colours in Italy and Dalmatia, from black through a rainbow of shades to snowy white, but he knew that here in Britain, since the days of Claudius Caesar, the colonial legionaries had worn either Roman red or plain, off-white woollen tunics, with no variation.

  He suddenly became aware that the stranger had stopped moving and was looking at him inquisitively. He glanced down at himself. “Is something wrong?”

  “No,” Varrus said hastily. “Not at all. I simply noticed that your sword is much like my own, almost identical in fact, and then I saw your cintus. I’ve been thinking about buying a better belt, and I like the thought of wearing a cintus, even though I might never need one.”

  “Pray you don’t,” the other man said, reaching deep into his pack and beginning to grope around. “I believe in being prepared, though. A groin wound isn’t the kind of thing you want to be too late worrying about. Better to be ready for the unexpected. That’s never a bad thing. Aha! Here it is.” He drew out a plump wineskin. “You usually carry these things slung over your shoulder, I know. That’s too risky for the likes of this, though. The very thought of brushing against something sharp with this under my arm makes me feel sick.”

  “Must be special, then,” Varrus said. “What is it, Falernian?”

  The stranger’s eyebrows shot up. “It is. How did you guess?”

  Varrus hitched his shoulders. “It was the unlikeliest thing I could imagine. Is it really Falernian?”

  “Better. It’s the very best of the best. It’s Faustian.”

  Varrus opened his mouth to respond, but stopped himself and sat open-mouthed instead, knowing he must look idiotic but thankful that he had caught himself before admitting a familiarity with Faustian Falernian. Ill-dressed labourers in work-worn tunics would drink sour, barely palatable vinum if they ever drank wine at all. Not one in a hundred thousand would have even the vaguest awareness of what Falernian wine was. And so he forced himself to blink uncomprehendingly. “What’s Faustian? I have never heard of it.”

  The stranger grinned. “Nor had I until about five years ago. And even then, I only discovered it by accident, by being in the right place at the right time. But they tell me it costs so much that only the richest of the very rich can afford to drink it.”

  “Did you steal it, then?”

  The stranger’s grin grew wider. “From the looks of me, I know, that would be a fair question. But no. I have a friend who feeds it to me once in a while.” He pulled the stopper open and raised the wineskin, expertly squirting a quick jet of amber liquid into his open mouth. He lowered the skin and stood with his head tilted back and his eyes closed, rolling the wine around his mouth for a long time before finally swallowing. He opened his eyes and held the wineskin out to Varrus.

  “Taste that,” he said quietly, “and pass it to your friend. You may never taste the like of it again.”

  Remembering that moment later, Quintus Varrus would often think that even had his life depended on it, he could not have found the words to describe the sensations that filled him as that first jet of Faustian wine filled his mouth. It was as though all the colours of the rainbow combined in a single instant with the flavours of all the fruits he had ever eaten, to flood him with sensations of wonder and disbelief. It filled his mind with notions of ripe, succulent fruit and warm, flowing honey, yet it was light and airy, almost effervescent in its tingling freshness. He was unaware his eyes had closed until he swallowed, finally, and opened them to see the stranger watching him.

  He raised one hand and pointed to his mouth. “That was Faustian?” he croaked. “It is…It’s…A friend gave it to you, you said?” He passed the skin to Shamus.

  “Aye, I did. I know you’ll believe me, now that you’ve tasted it, but not many other people would. He’s the eldest son of the family that makes this wine. He is a soldier here in Britain, and his brothers run the business together and send him wine by the shipload just to encourage him to stay away. I met him several years ago and we became friends.”

  Varrus could feel Shamus’s eyes on him and turned to see the young Eirishman gazing at him glassy-eyed from beneath arched brows, licking his lips as though he could still taste nectar on them. “Did you like that, Shamus?” he asked. The boy merely nodded, apparently incapable of speech, and Varrus looked back at their visitor. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Ask away, but I might choose not to answer.”

  “This friend, the winemaker. How do you manage to stay in contact with him if he’s in the legions? I’m a smith, so I know legionary troops move around more than ordinary people do, but even so, there’s not much happens here in Britain between Romans and non-military folk. It’s not encouraged—it never has been. Are you one of them, a soldier?” But if he was a soldier, Varrus thought, why was he pretending not to be? Had he been following them all this way?

  The stranger sucked in a sharp breath and jerked his head in a nod. “Fair question, considering where we are,” he said. “Before I answer, though, is there by chance
a cup in that basket? There’s something simply not right about drinking Faustian from a wineskin, so if you have a cup we can fill it and share.”

  “D’ye know, there’s four cups in there,” Shamus said eagerly. “Here, let me get them.” He scuttled away, and Varrus stood up and threw a few fresh logs onto the fire, settling them down into the coals with the sole of his boot as Shamus passed around three horn cups. No one spoke as the stranger carefully poured a generous measure into each of them, then placed his own, with great care, on a flat stone by his feet. “If you’ll pardon me,” he said, eyeing the wineskin that was no longer so full and taut, “I’ll put this away where it won’t come to harm.” He stowed it carefully in his pack before returning to the fireside, where he stooped to retrieve his cup. He then tipped a minuscule amount, barely more than a single drop, onto the ground.

  “Wha—?”

  “An offering,” the stranger said, twisting his mouth wryly in response to their expressions of disbelief. “To honour the gods. It’s the way Romans do things. The gods suck all the goodness from the offering before it hits the ground. Or so they say. I don’t care how they take their share, though, provided they leave mine to me. They are the gods, after all, so they have more and better wines than we have, and I doubt they would begrudge us our little cups.” He raised his cup. “So let us three drink to fine fish, good fellowship, and a sound night’s sleep.”

  They drank in silent reverence, sipping and savouring the exquisite wine, taking great care to make it last for as long as possible, until eventually the stranger cradled his cup in steepled fingers and said, “Now I will answer your question, providing you will answer one of mine. My name is Cato, Marcus Licinius Cato, but my friends call me Rufus, for my red hair. I’m Roman, though I was born here in Britain like my father before me, and because of that I served my time with the legions along with every other citizen. I was a legionary staff officer for a time, and then I was wounded and rated unfit for active duty. Now I’m a courier. Not quite military but well connected and with some military privileges. I carry confidential communications between legionary commands, which keeps me well fed and active. The friend I spoke of is adjutant of the Second Legion, the Augusta, based in Isca, in the southwest.” He scratched his nose. “Now let me ask you a question. Who are you, and why did you decide to let me stay instead of sending me on my way?”

  Varrus hitched one shoulder, aware again of the need to be careful. “I’m Fingael Mcuil,” he said. “And this is my brother Shamus. We were born in Eire, though now we live in Londuin, where our father has a smithy. We work for him, but right now we’re going to Camulodunum, where our uncle has his own smithy and needs help…And I let you stay because I sensed no threat in you.”

  Cato shook his head. “Sensed?” he said, his voice heavy with disapproval. “You sensed no threat in me? Believe me, I am thankful, but what you said there is complete stupidity. We are miles from anywhere, here in this field, and you two have a cart that could be packed with treasures. The cart itself would be worth robbing you for, so it is foolhardy to put your faith in what you sense when you meet a stranger. You had no way of knowing whether I was a threat or not.”

  “Ah, but I did, for I had seen you earlier. When I first saw you, among the trees, you had a crossbow slung at your back, and I knew that if you had wanted us dead, we would be dead already, me while I was lying under the tree, and Shamus while he was balancing on one leg in the stream. When I saw you again a short time later, there was no crossbow. You must have laid it down when I called to you.” He shrugged again, the same one-shouldered hitch. “So I decided to be hospitable. Where is your crossbow now, though? Shouldn’t you retrieve it before it gets too dark to find it?”

  Cato smiled. “It’s already too dark, but I brought it with me earlier, when I brought in my pack. It’s leaning against that tree there.”

  Muttering something unintelligible, young Shamus rose to his feet and moved to the other side of the fire, where he shook out his bedroll and lay down, wrapping his blanket around him. Within moments he began to snore softly.

  “It’s a wise man who knows when to go to bed,” Cato murmured. “I should follow his lead.” He glanced again at Varrus. “Is there anything else you would like to ask me?”

  “There is. You say you came this way three weeks ago. Did you come from Camulodunum, and are you going back there now?”

  “No to both questions. I came directly south from the fort at Branodunum on the coast. I passed by a good twenty miles west of Camulodunum. And when I head back tomorrow I’ll strike to the northwest to Durolipons, to visit the garrison prefect there. Why did you ask me about Camulodunum?”

  “Because I’ve never been there, so I’m more or less lost out here. I was hoping you could tell us how far from the place we truly are.”

  “From Camulodunum? Three days at the most, in bad weather. The next few days should be fine, though, after the rain we’ve had. An early start in the morning and you should be warm in your uncle’s smithy by nightfall the day after.”

  “That’s what I thought, but it’s reassuring to hear someone knowledgeable say it. I have another question, if I may. Isn’t it dangerous to be carrying military communications around the country without an escort?”

  The other barked out a laugh, the first Varrus had heard from him. “It is,” he said. “And I have an escort. They’re simply not with me now because the last visit I made was a personal one to Londinium, so they’re waiting for me up ahead, in Durolipons, and they have the dispatches for the prefect there.”

  “What took you to Londinium?”

  Cato cocked his head to one side. “You speak very well for a smith. Why is that?”

  Varrus offered what he hoped was a disarming smile. “My father is Eirish,” he said. “He was raised by Christians to believe in the power of literacy and education, so all our lives we have had tutors living with us.”

  The other nodded, musingly. “Would you be offended if I chose to say nothing of why I went to Londinium?”

  Varrus raised one hand apologetically. “Not at all. I am often too curious, but with no wish to be inquisitive. Let me put another log or two on the fire, and I’ll wish you a restful night.”

  “My thanks, then, Fingael Mcuil,” the man called Rufus said. “This has been…interesting. I’ve never met an Eirish smith before.”

  Varrus smiled back at him and touched a finger to his forehead in salute. And you haven’t met one yet in me, he thought.

  TWELVE

  “Uncle Liam? It’s me, Shamus.”

  The man bent over the anvil paused, his downward stroke arrested, the two-pound hammer poised in his right hand, but he did not turn around. Instead, still looking forward, he straightened up and carefully set down the rapidly cooling blade he was holding, laying the hot iron gently on the flat surface of the anvil on his left. Then he placed both hammer and tongs on the flat brick surface of the workbench on his right. Only then did he slowly—and awkwardly, Varrus thought—turn to face the open doors to the street, pulling the covering off his head to reveal a mane of silver hair hidden beneath its long, leather flap.

  “Shamus?” he said, squinting into the bright light from beyond the door. “Is that you?”

  Shamus threw open his arms and stepped forward to hug his uncle.

  Varrus knew that Liam Mcuil needed help. That was why Dominic had asked him to come here. He knew, too, that there had been an accident of some kind, right in the smithy, which was never good because smithy accidents, nine times out of ten, involved fire and serious burns, and the remaining one in ten had to do with heavy hammers, sharp edges, and powerful blows. But Dominic had told him nothing about the nature of the accident, or how severely Liam had been injured.

  Yet what he saw now was encouraging. The smith had four limbs, all of which had appeared to function normally as he hammered the blade he had been working on and then moved to greet his nephew, and his long, lantern-jawed face was unscarred. There
had been a hesitancy, though, in the way the smith turned around from his work, a hint of something less than fluid grace.

  He became aware that Shamus was talking about him to his uncle, beckoning him forward to present him, and he approached the man, holding out his hand. “Master Liam,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to meet the man clever enough to ship the clay for Dominic Mcuil’s white forge all the way from Eire.”

  Liam Mcuil stood with his head tilted gently to one side and a dimple showing in his right cheek, brought out by a well-used smile. “I can see how you and my brother would get on well,” he said. “There’s no mystery there, for I can tell that you’re both talkers. And Shamus here tells me our Lydia looks kindly on you. That tells me right away you’re an even better talker than Dominic. So why are you here?”

  The question caught Varrus unprepared, and he half-turned to Shamus for help, but saw instantly that none would be forthcoming, for Shamus’s face was as blank as a newly whitewashed board. “I’m here to help you out, if you’ll have me,” he said. “Your brother told me you’ve been short of help since your recent accident. He didn’t say what had happened, but he’d been prepared to send Callum here for a few months to help you meet your obligations. In the end, though, Callum couldn’t be spared, and so your brother asked me if I would consider coming in his place.”

  “So you’re a smith?” He scanned Varrus slowly from head to foot, and then he sniffed. “You don’t look much like one,” he said, his face unreadable. “But Dominic seems to trust you. How long have you worked for him?”

  Varrus drew a deep breath. “I haven’t worked for him. But he tested me, and questioned me, and he appeared satisfied that I am qualified.”

  Liam Mcuil stood stock-still, one eyebrow raised in a manner that left no need for him to speak in order to express what he was thinking. “He has never seen you work? And he sends you to help me? Is that not grand? And what, in Ler’s name, am I supposed to do with you, and me not knowing if you can tell one end of a chisel from the other?”