The Burning Stone

by Jack Whyte

  He looked around one last time, preparing to leave, then sighed, almost groaned, when he heard a sound from the other cell, the one holding the prisoner he had seen being brought in the day before. He had known the man was there when he came in, of course. He had simply not wanted to become involved with him or his problems, considering that he had more than enough of his own to deal with. Now, though, Cato cursed under his breath, then removed the locking bar and pulled the cell door open.

  It was pitch-dark in there, so at first he could see nothing, but then he began to discern the outline of a man in a chair. Remembering the bucket in the room behind him, he went out and returned moments later with a blazing torch, to stand in front of a fair-haired man who had been tied into the chair that held him. It was a large chair, with solid arms and legs of dense-grained, heavy wood that looked like oak, and it was discoloured with age and thickly layered stains of what Cato took to be blood. The prisoner, Cato could see, was disoriented, blinking and grimacing against the brightness of the flickering torchlight. Cato took in the dried blood and livid swelling around his mouth, nose, and eyes, and thought he might have merely undergone a preliminary session—a loosening-up in preparation for the serious business of interrogation once Endor arrived.

  “I’m going to cut you loose,” he said. “But you might not be able to walk when I free you, so here’s what we’re going to do. I’ll help you to stand up, and then I’ll carry you into the other room. There’s a cot in there, and a fire. Believe me, it’s a lot more welcoming in there than here.” He looked around until he saw a bracket on the wall, and dropped the flaming torch into it. Then he drew the shorter of his two swords and crouched quickly to cut the ropes binding the prisoner’s limbs and torso to the chair.

  “There,” he said, straightening up and sheathing his blade. “Now stand up and bend forward over my shoulder.”

  The prisoner did as he was told, and Cato carried him into the other room and lowered him to one of the cots with barely more than a grunt of effort. By the time he laid him down on the thin mattress, though, the prisoner was beginning to twitch and moan, and Cato nodded as he stood up.

  “Aye,” he said, “those ropes were tight. That’s going to hurt for a while, until your blood starts flowing normally again. Nothing I can do about that, so you’re going to have to bite down and bear it.” He paused, then added, “I don’t know who you are and I don’t care, but you were probably taken off the street in broad daylight, and I’m willing to wager there are people out there looking for you, worried about what’s happened to you. Is that true?”

  “Yes.” The voice was weak, the word a mere whisper.

  “Then stay here and let them worry. They’ll be all the more relieved when you turn up alive and well. And you will, as long as you don’t try to leave here alone. I have a task to finish here, and it involves putting an end to the man who had you snatched up. When I’m done with him, he’ll be no further danger to anyone and you’ll be free to go home. Now, did you see any of the people who took you?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know why they took you?”

  “No.”

  “Hmm. Those are bad answers, friend. Can you think of a reason why anyone would even want to—? What? What’s the matter?”

  The prisoner had gone rigid, peering directly up at him in sudden alarm, and Cato looked behind him, to see what had caused the reaction, but there was nothing there except the bright beam of light slanting down from the high window and dazzling him as he looked straight into it.

  “Damn it,” he said, ducking his head and looking back at the man in the cot, blinking against the sudden blindness that had hit him. “What’s the matter?”

  The prisoner pushed himself up onto one elbow, squinting with concentration as he peered at Cato’s face. “I know you,” he said, wonderingly. “I’ve met you before.”

  “Nah, you’re wrong,” Cato said. “I’ve never seen you before and I’m good with faces.”

  “No, we’ve met. We shared a camp together once, about a year ago. My friend and I were fishing, on the way here, to Camulodunum, and you were on your way from Londinium.”

  Cato frowned. “I remember that, but I don’t remember you. I stayed that night with two Eirish smiths—”

  “Called Mcuil,” the prisoner said. “Fingael and Shamus Mcuil. I invited you to join us, called you out of the woods, remember?”

  “I remember that, too. But that wasn’t you.” Cato’s frown had deepened. “That man had dark hair, almost black, and dark skin. I remember him. Your hair’s yellow.”

  “Almost yellow. And yours is red. The stubble on your chin is red. Your name is Rufus.” The prisoner sat up sharply, as though stung. “Limping Vulcan! You’re Rufus…Marcus Cato! I remember now. No wonder the name sounded familiar when I heard it.”

  Cato was thunderstruck, but the man on the cot gave him no time to absorb what he had said. He pushed himself up onto his knees, peering closely at the unshaven stubble on the other’s face, which glowed ruddy gold in the light from the window overhead. “I’m right, am I not? You’re Marcus Cato, and your friends all call you Rufus? That’s you!”

  Cato’s mouth snapped shut and he spun away, frowning. He could not afford to have anyone recognize him or know who he really was. He took two steps away from the man and then swung back to face him again, raising a pointing, peremptory finger only to discover that he didn’t know what to say. He simply stood there, his hand raised, his finger pointing and his mouth clamped shut. And then he dropped his arm to his side, suddenly acknowledging that this man was not an enemy.

  “Who told you my name?”

  The prisoner stood up off the bed and stood swaying slightly, testing his balance. “They all did.” The answer, as obscure as everything else he had said, made Cato frown again, but the prisoner kept talking. “It was mostly Ajax, though. He talked about you more than any of the others.”

  “Ajax…Ignatius Ajax?”

  “Yes.” The stranger nodded. “His friends call him Natius, though.”

  “What friends?”

  “The others. Thomas, Dido, Stratus, Leon, and Demetrius.”

  Cato nodded, accepting the revelations numbly. “Who is Demetrius?”

  “Demetrius Hanno. He’s the senior smith at the armouries. Works for Natius. He’s my trainer.”

  “The armouries. You mean here, in Camulodunum? The others are here? Leon and Stratus and the Twins are in Camulodunum?”

  “Yes.” The prisoner blinked. “Did you not know that?”

  “No, I didn’t. Wait…I need a moment to think.” Cato lowered his head and placed the heels of his hands on his temples, staring down at the floor as the prisoner watched in silence. Then he looked up again and shook his head. “You know,” he said, “not a single word that you have said since I cut you loose has been anything like what I expected to hear. Plainly, though, we have the same friends, and that changes everything. How do we find them quickly, Natius and the others?”

  “They’re at the fort, right here in town.”

  “We’re not in the town. We’re outside the walls, in a private house. They brought you here after they snatched you. What’s your name?”

  “Varrus. Quintus Varrus. You knew my grandsire, I think. Titanius Varrus. We always called him Tertius.”

  Cato’s eyes widened, and the expression on his face sharpened. “Tertius was your grand father? Then you must be Marcus’s son. I thought you dead.”

  “You and everyone else, but yes, I’m Quintus, the one with the famous Varrus knee, and the last one left alive. Well, except for my uncle Marius.”

  Cato looked as though he was about to ask a question, but at that moment they heard a noise in the yard, and he whipped up a hand, demanding silence, then swung towards the door, listening intently. The noise was not repeated, but the sound of it had underlined the urgency of their situation.

  “Listen,” he said. “We need to reach the others, right now, but we need to be
very careful, too. There were four men in the gang that took you. I’ve dealt with three of them, but the fourth one is still out there somewhere and he might come back at any moment. There’s another man coming in, too, the ringleader of an entire group, and he’s the one I’m waiting for. Trouble is, I don’t know when he’s coming—only that he’s due sometime today. And he might not be alone—my guess is he’ll have had an escort on the road.”

  Varrus nodded. “What do you want me to do, then?”

  “I want you to get out of here and fetch the others, as fast as you can move. I’ll stay here and wait. But don’t waste any time. I’d like to be alive and well when you come back. Just tell Ajax I’m at the Villa Carbo, near the south gate, and I need help, then bring them back, quick as you can. And make sure they come fully armed.”

  “Done.” Varrus picked up the sword belt Cato had thrown onto the cot. He loosened the blade in its sheath, then strapped the belt around his waist. “Why don’t we both go?”

  “Because I have to stay here, in case the man I’m waiting for arrives.”

  “And what if he does, and he has company with him? Your friends will be glad to see you, though not if you’re dead when we arrive. Who is he, this mysterious man?”

  “There’s nothing mysterious about him. He’s a condemned felon and a murderer and I’m here to kill him. You’ll thank me for that, eventually, because he’s the man who killed your family. There’s no more mystery than—” He broke off suddenly, as the unmistakable clatter of shod hooves rang out in the yard. “Shit,” he said. “He’s here, and he’s not alone. We’ll have to take what the gods serve us on this one. Quick, back into the cell and sit on the chair. Take off that belt, but keep the blade in your hand, behind your back. Quick now.” He led the way, and pulled the burning torch from the bracket where he had left it. “Sit,” he said. “Hands behind you, head down, and straight-backed, as though you’re tightly bound. Hold on to the sword and be ready to move quickly. Have you ever fought before?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ever killed anyone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good, then be ready. Here goes.”

  He went out, carrying the torch.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Varrus half listened to Cato’s footsteps receding in the direction of the outer door, but he was still hearing the words he had said moments earlier: He’s the man who killed your family…The man who killed your family. He couldn’t believe it. Cato must be wrong. The massacre had taken place in Dalmatia, so it seemed completely unlikely to Quintus that the murderer, whoever he had been, might now be in Britain. But then he remembered his own situation and the extent of his own travels since the murders, and saw the short-sightedness of his own expectations. He was still thinking about that when he heard the sound of the outside door being opened, followed by Cato’s raised voice.

  “Ah! I thought I heard horses. Who are you people?”

  “Never mind who we are. Who are you, and what’re you doing here?” The voice was rough and coarse, sounding as though it belonged to a big man.

  “Gaius Blixus. My new employer, Janus Carbo, told me to come here and wait for him. So I’m here, waiting. What’s going on?”

  Varrus was listening intently now, trying to determine how many men were out there in the other room, but it was impossible, and on an impulse he rose to his feet and moved back cautiously, farther into the darkness at the back of the cell, to where he could see past the edge of the slightly open door into the other room with little risk of being seen himself. He could see three men there, one in the doorway and two others moving into the room, on either side of the door, all three glowering at Cato, who stood facing them with his back to the cell and the sputtering torch still flaring in his hand.

  The spokesman flicked a hand towards the man on his left, pointing backwards with his thumb. “Fetch the boss,” he said. “Bring ’im here.” The fellow turned and left, slamming the door behind him, and the other two moved farther apart, one on each side of Cato, and neither bothered to hide his suspicion.

  “What?” Cato asked. “What are you doing? Wha—?”

  Both men lunged simultaneously, but Cato was more than ready for them and skipped nimbly back, swinging his flaming torch round-armed and hitting the leading man square in the mouth. Only then did Varrus see that the torch he had swung was not the one he had taken from the bracket in the cell. This was a new firebrand, still dripping with fresh pitch, and it soaked into the man’s beard immediately, igniting it with a whooshing sound, turning his head instantly into a ball of fire and sending him away screaming, clawing at the roaring flames that suddenly engulfed his head. His companion hesitated in stunned surprise just long enough to allow Cato to whip out some kind of weighted leather club from beneath his tunic and swing it hard, crushing the fellow’s skull before he knew what was happening. Cato had leaned fully into the swing, pivoting on one foot, and now he continued to spin, completing a full circle, his arms fully extended, to strike the burning man at the base of his skull, no doubt killing him instantly.

  Varrus had not yet had time to move, and he stood motionless, stunned by having seen two men struck dead in the space of a few moments, and smelling the stink of burning human hair.

  Cato threw the remnant of the burning torch into the fire basket with the other and slipped his weighted sap back into its place on his shoulder before drawing both his swords and turning back to Varrus. Before he could speak, though, the door flew open again and three more men burst in, all armed, one of them the fellow who had been sent to fetch Carbo.

  The man in the middle was clearly the leader. Varrus saw that immediately, even though he had never set eyes on him before.

  “You snake,” Cato said to him, raising his swords. “I have you, you son of a whore.”

  Like a snake indeed, the man in the middle reared back. Varrus had never seen anyone react to anything so quickly before. Carbo leapt back instantly, sweeping the men on each side of him forward with both hands at the same time, and then he vanished through the open door more quickly than Varrus could believe.

  Cato leapt forward after him but was tackled immediately by one of the two remaining mercenaries. The man threw an arm around Cato’s neck, raising the sword in his other hand to finish him, but Cato’s feet were already off the floor and his dead weight pulled his assailant down with him, leaving the third man hopping, looking for an opening that would allow him to finish Cato without stabbing his friend. Seeing the ridiculous little dance the fellow was performing snapped Varrus out of his trance-like state. He ran forward, unseen as he broke from the darkened room, and sank his short sword deep into the capering man’s armpit, then twisted it, hard, and jerked it straight back out again. The stabbed man turned towards him, his eyes wide and his mouth gaping, then coughed up blood and dropped to his knees, his eyes already glazing over.

  “Varrus! Get the whoreson. It’s Endor! Don’t let him escape.”

  Endor!

  Everything he had heard about Appius Endor came together in Varrus’s mind at the same instant, and he felt panic well up. The man was gone, again! He looked down at the sword in his hand and saw how useless it was for what he needed to do, but then he saw, too, the heavy smith’s hammer with its columnar steel head, and he snatched it up from the table and ran for the door, ignoring Cato’s struggles with the last man on the floor. He raced out the door and into the cobbled courtyard, where he stood reeling for a moment, trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

  Something was moving, far off to his right, something strange, and at first he could not make out what it was, until his angle of vision changed and everything clicked into place. There were horses in the yard, four or five at least, and one of them was rearing and bucking wildly, resisting the efforts of Appius Endor on its far side as he tried to mount it. He was on the beast’s right side, for one thing, the wrong side from which to approach an unfamiliar horse, and the animal had no saddle. Even as he saw that, though, Endor
managed to haul himself up onto the horse’s back and lean forward over its neck to seize the reins. He captured them and dug in his heels, but still the terrified animal fought him, galloping away from the gate and towards the farthest corner of the yard.

  As the fugitive struggled to dominate the horse, Varrus realized that he was closer to the gate than Endor was. He began to run with his limping gait, pushing himself harder now than he ever had before, but even so, he knew he would not reach the gate in time, for Endor had finally gained control over his mount and was riding hard, straight towards the gate.

  He’s the man who killed your family. The words rang loud in Varrus’s mind and he stopped running abruptly, teetering on the verge of losing his balance and fighting to control his breathing, watching as Appius Endor drew level with him and then forged past. Then he closed his eyes and stood up straight, hefting the blacksmith’s hammer in his hand. He visualized what he needed to do, then opened his eyes and gauged Endor’s speed and distance. And when the moment came he threw, hard and true, using every ounce of strength and conditioning his years of smithing had engendered.

  The hammer turned over slowly in the air once, then twice, and struck the fleeing man square in the side of the head with a sound like one of the horse’s flying hooves striking the cobblestones. Varrus almost felt the sound, so unexpected and loud was it. And then everything appeared to him to slow down and go silent as the fleeing man threw up his arms, letting the reins fly free, and was flung sideways, off the horse’s back and down to land heavily on the cobblestones. He bounced once and rolled over several times, throwing bright, strong jets of blood into the air to spread and spray and fall, like a fine mist, to coat the stones around him.

  “By Vulcan’s bulbous balls, I have never seen anyone throw anything like that.”

  Cato had spoken from directly behind him.

  Varrus could not take his eyes off the fallen man. “I stopped him, didn’t I?”

  “Stopped him?” Marcus Licinius Cato laughed grimly. “Oh yes, you stopped him. You stopped him dead.” He was silent for a space, then added, quietly, “Your grandfather would be proud of you.”