by Jack Whyte
I have heard seven tales of my own death, and that, too, makes me extraordinary, for they were seven different tales of seven deaths and I sit here alive and alone, an aged man filled with the melancholy of long, friendless years, the fugitive guardian of the greatest treasure in the world. And I know that, should a band of raiders invade my refuge now, this instant, the sight of my old man's face would send them screaming, fleeing from my sight. That makes me truly, in the worst way I could imagine, extraordinary. But on that day, I had no thought in my boy's head of being extraordinary. I stood weak-kneed, gazing in slack-mouthed awe at the magnificence of the weapon that lay before me, cradled in a sculpted bed of brushed, unborn calfskin. I watched my uncle's hand reach out and pluck it from its bed and I saw the reflections race along its blade as he raised it.
"Sit. By the fire."
I groped my way back to my chair, not daring to take my eyes away from the lethal beauty of that blade lest it should disappear. My uncle came and sat in his own chair across from me. He placed the point on the wooden floor between us and held the Sword upright, with the tip of his index finger pressing on the very top of the pommel so that I could admire all the lines of it.
"Well?" he asked me. I shook my head, for I had no words to say. My eyes could not comprehend the purity of that blade. It was almost colourless, and yet it was polished silver, smooth and unmarked and flawless. The light from the fire blazed from it in a way I had never seen. Not even the finest mirror of polished metal could reflect colour with such astonishing perfection.
"Take it," my uncle said. "It won't bite you, although it could. Be careful of the edge. It's sharper than anything you've ever felt before. Go on, take it." I reached out and closed my hand around the hilt, feeling the texture of it against my palm as I drew the Sword towards me. My uncle's face was split by an enormous smile, which I knew later to be the satisfied, ecstatic smile of the sublime artist and creator. "You like it?"
Again I could only shake my head. Gradually, I began to test it. It took the strength of both my arms to lift the point free of the floor, seated as I was, but then I reached the balance point and I felt its weight settle back into my grasp like a living thing.
"It's alive!" I whispered. "What have you named it, Uncle?"
"It's called Excalibur."
"Excalibur?" I repeated it, still whispering. "Excalibur! It is a beautiful name. And it is a beautiful sword."
He laughed. "Aye, look at the hilt. You see that grey- black stuff covering the grip? That is the belly skin of a mighty fish. A shark. I had it sent to me years before you were born. A fisherman in Africa used to use it to wrap the handles of his knives. That skin will never slip in a man's grasp, no matter how he sweats. It's constantly firm and hard and never slippery. I bound it into place, as you can see, with wires of gold and silver intertwined into a net. It took me five months just to bind that hilt the way I wanted to."
"And this?" I asked. "This cross-piece? How was it made? Is it silver? It's different from the blade. How did you do it?"
"It's one piece, lad. A secret I learned from my own grandfather. Give it to me, let me show you." I handed the Sword back to him, and he held it up in front of him, admiring the lines of it as he continued speaking. "You know the making of a blade, any blade. What's the main difficulty?"
That was easy. "Binding the hilt to the tang."
"And why is that?"
"Because they're two different pieces. If the blade is short and broad, you can rivet the sides of the handle together through the tang. That's the best way. But the bigger the sword, the harder it becomes to fasten the hilt securely. You can rivet it, and then bind it with wire, or you can drill a hole lengthwise through the hilt piece, insert the tang, and then bind the whole thing together with a weighted pommel at the end against the heel of the hand, flattening the end of the tang against that, like a rivet."
He smiled at me again, pleased with my knowledge. "Good! But there is another way, Caius, and that's what you are seeing here. Can you guess how this was done?"
I looked closely at the Sword again, trying this time to ignore its beauty and see only its construction. It had a wide cross-hilt stretching almost the entire span of my twelve- year-old hand on either side of the hilt itself, and the arms of this cross were intricately worked in flowing designs of thorn branches and leaves. The hilt itself was slightly more than double the length of a normal short-sword's hilt and was wrapped in the manner described, sharkskin held in place by a net of golden and silver wires. The pommel, the endmost piece of the Sword, was a full cockleshell, perfect in shape and detail, the tracery of the scalloped shell perfectly symmetrical. There was no sign of the tang ever having protruded through the pommel. The entire construction, cross-piece and all, was, as my uncle had said, of one solid piece. I stared at it, racking my brain for an explanation and then shook my head.
"No, Uncle," I said eventually. "I can see that it's one piece, as you said, but I can't see how you were able to do it. How did you do it?"
His smile was still one of great pride. "My grandfather left me a parchment outlining a method used by a friend of his who had discovered it in North Africa. It is a little- known way of pouring whole metal figures that was once widely used by the Parthians and the Medes—"
I interrupted him. "You mean for making statues?"
"Yes, something like that."
"They use that method in Rome today, don't they?"
"Almost. As I say, something like it. In that method, the Roman one, the metal is melted in a crucible and then poured into a series of moulds to cool, and when the pieces are assembled, you are left with a hollow metal replica of what you set out to duplicate."
He had caught my interest. "How do you make the mould in the first place?" I asked him.
He stood up and crossed to one of the many tables in the room to pick up a small box-like object I had seen so many times that I had lost awareness of it. He threw it to me and I caught it like a ball, almost dropping it because of its unexpected weight.
"That's a mould. If you look closely, you'll see how to open it." It opened into two halves and protruding from one of the two pieces was a brass hemisphere that looked familiar. I shook it free and a brass apple fell into my hand. "Do you remember that?" I did. I had played with it as a young child. I nodded. "Now look inside the mould. Each half is a perfect replica of the outside of half the apple, even to the stem."
He took it from me and placed the two pieces together, pointing out a blocked hole in the top and a number of smaller holes all around the shape. "If I were to pour molten lead, silver or gold into this, and leave it to cool, I would open it to find a metal apple. A little cleaning and polishing and it would be as perfect as that one you're holding."
"And that's how you made the Sword?"
"No, of course not! Only the hilt."
"I'm sorry, that's what I meant."
"I know it was, but you must learn to say precisely what you mean."
"Yes, Uncle. But, if that's all there is to this secret, why haven't we been using it all the time?"
"I didn't say that's all. there is to it. I said it was almost the same thing as the method generally used. The method I have learned is a different one. It uses different techniques. Most people today pour into clay moulds, and it is almost impossible to keep air bubbles out of the molten metal. That's why most of the moulded forms we have are hollow. That one, the apple you are holding, is solid, and so is the hilt of the sword. I had Father Andros carve me a hilt in wood. I made a clay mould of it and then I moulded the shape itself in wax, so that I ended up with a perfect wax replica of the wooden hilt, d'you follow me?" I nodded my understanding. "Good. Well, then I packed the wax in sand, tightly, and poured molten bronze into the mould. The bronze melted the wax and replaced it, perfectly, although not the first time I attempted it. When I was convinced I had the method perfected, I repeated it, this time with the tang of the sword inserted into the wax in the mould. It did work, eventu
ally, but it took me five months and ten attempts to get it right. That hilt is absolutely solid; metal bonded to metal."
"Bronze? But it's silver."
"No, Caius. It is beaten silver over bronze."
I held out my hand and he returned the Sword to me. I held the hilt up to my face and looked at it again, closely and carefully. There was no sign of any seam or joint. "How did you say this is named, Uncle?"
"What? The technique? It has no name that I know of, but my grandfather wrote that the people of Africa and Asia Minor who deal in such things apparently call their moulds 'qalibr.'"
The word sounded strange and exotic in my ears and the small hairs on my arms stirred. "Qalibr," I said. "The hilt came out of a mould. Ex-qalibr. That's where you got the name!" I tested it with my tongue, knowing by the goose- flesh on my arms and neck that it was the perfect name. "Ex-qalibr!"
"Excalibur." My uncle smiled, humouring me. "I'm glad you approve, Caius.
VI
Once I had seen Excalibur, it was never out of my mind. The other swords I had admired and wanted for so long became dull and clumsy in my sight. I had a long-bladed wooden sword that was my own treasure, and I carried it with me everywhere I went that summer, slung over my shoulder in the style that had been adopted by our horsemen. I was holding it in my hand, I remember, when the cry went up announcing the return of my father and his men from another of their endless patrols. I ran to watch them clatter up the road and into the fort, admiring again the sheer size and bulk of my father, their General. Titus rode with him, as did Flavius and several others I had come to know among his officers, and as soon as I had seen that they were all there, I ran to my uncle's Armoury, hiding my wooden sword among his books and pretending to read, for I knew that my father and his officers would come here to make their first report to Uncle Varrus before going to the baths.
Uncle Varrus himself arrived shortly after I did and busied himself at his writing table, paying no heed to my silent presence. Minutes later came the sound of nailed boots approaching, and my father strode into the room accompanied by Titus and Flavius. They were accompanied by three troopers, each of whom carried a burden which, at a nod from my father, they placed on the floor and then left.
"Greetings, Publius," said my father, pointing to the objects on the floor. "Look at these. Familiar?"
I watched from lowered brows as my uncle approached the three items on the floor, his eyes wide with surprise. "The boy's saddle-chair!" There was wonder in his voice.
"These are the same device, but larger. Where did you find them?"
"Under three Franks. They strap them to their horses' backs and ride in them. Tried them ourselves. Useless. No sense in them."
"How so? What do you mean?"
"You have to climb onto them! Not possible to mount them any other way. You put your foot in the device—that hanging loop there—and swing your leg across the horse's back. We thought that might be so when we got the first one years ago, remember? We assumed the boy rider was crippled. Never occurred to any of us that whole men might need steps to get on a horse. Once you're up there on the thing, the raised part at the back sits strangely against your rump. Uncomfortable, and you can't grasp a horse's barrel through it. The thing's too thick."
My uncle appeared perplexed, his face furrowed in thought. "And yet you say these people all ride in these things?"
My father sat down heavily in a chair, his leathers creaking. "Aye, it appears so. Saw seven of them, but only caught three. With Uric's bowmen, we could have had all seven."
My uncle was shaking his head, an expression of incomprehension on his face. He crossed and touched one of the cumbersome saddles. "This is strange, Picus. I wonder what the benefit of using these things is? There must be some. Benefits, I mean. Wouldn't you think so?"
"Aye, you would think so," my father agreed, speaking slowly and clearly. "But whatever they might be, none of us could guess at them. We tried, but we were no more successful in divining their usefulness than we were at mastering them. We decided that these Franks are just poor horsemen. But I suspect that's far from the truth."
"Did you ask the prisoners to show you?"
"No prisoners. Fought like wild men and all died. Brought these back for your collection. No use for them, throw them out."
My uncle shook his head. "They're of no use to me, Picus. I already have one, small as it is. I've no need for the larger ones." He knelt by one of the strange devices, running the flat of his hand across its seat, his brow knitted in thought as he tried to make sense of the thing's purpose. Finally, however, he gave up and rose to his feet again. "How did the remainder of your patrol go?"
My father was pouring wine for himself and his officers. He shook his head as though dismissing the question. "Smoothly enough. Nothing except those Franks. Four got away, as I said. Apart from that, a long, peaceful and uneventful sweep. I'm ready for a hot bath. Feel I've got half the lice in Britain mating in my hair."
"Go then, all three of you, and wash the travel off. Welcome back. I will tell the cooks to roast a deer tonight."
"Do that," my father said, smiling one of his rare smiles. 'Tell them to cook something for the others, too!" All four of them left the room, carrying their wine and laughing among themselves, leaving me alone. I crossed to the strange "chairs" that had been left on the floor and examined them. They were exactly like mine, but bigger, man-sized.
On a balmy afternoon in the following spring Uncle Varrus came into the Armoury to find me perched upon my sideways chair, swinging my wooden sword at imaginary foes who swarmed around me. Since I had discovered that the chair was really a riding harness of some kind, I had attached a rope to serve as a bridle, looping it around one end of the saw-horse on which my chair was mounted. I heard my uncle say "Great Mithras!" in a shocked voice before I was aware that he had entered the room and I scrambled from my chair in alarm, prepared to be punished for indulging in levity here in this hallowed room.
"Go back, Caius! Back onto your chair." There was no anger in his voice, merely an urgency I could not define. Surprised, I clambered back to my seat again as he continued speaking. "Do what you were doing when I came in." I gazed at him in confusion, but I could see from his face he meant what he said, so feeling peculiarly foolish I began to wave my wooden sword around half-heartedly. "No, no, no! Not like that! You were fighting, killing men. One of them was down by your left foot. Kill him again, as savagely as you did before."
Deciding that I would never understand the inconsistencies of adults, I did as he bade me. My feet were firm in their two supports, and I was almost standing upright, my "reins" in my left hand. Tightening my grasp on them for balance, I swung my sword with all my strength down across my front to the left, where I had imagined an enemy grasping my ankle.
"There! That's it!" he said in a strained voice. "When did you start to stand upright like that?"
I blinked at him. "I don't know, Uncle. I never could, before. I couldn't reach the supports with my feet. I must have grown tall enough to reach them."
"Aye, lad. To reach them and to stand upright in them! And standing upright like that, you're standing on a platform!" His last words meant nothing to me, but he spun on his heel and almost ran into the passageway outside the doors, shouting for attention at the top of his lungs. A wide- eyed servant came running to see what was amiss, followed by an equally alarmed soldier, My uncle pointed an accusatory finger at the soldier. "You! You're the man I want! Find General Picus and get him here immediately, and be sure he comes alone! No one else! Quick now, or I'll have the hide off your back!" The man left at the run and my uncle turned to the gaping servant. "What's the matter with you? The General will be here shortly. Bring wine! Move!" He turned back to where I still sat dumbfounded in my chair, looking at me with narrowed eyes and then shifting his gaze to sweep his eyes around the walls of the room until they came to rest on a light, but metal-headed club. He crossed to where it hung and removed it from the wall,
bringing it back to where I sat watching him.
'Try that. Is it too heavy? Swing it." He took my wooden sword out of my hand and replaced it with the war club. I swung it tentatively, finding it top heavy but not too cumbersome for me. I swung it again, a little harder. "Wait, Caius!" He moved to a table and took an earthen vase full of flowers and placed it on the ground to my left, removing the flowers as he did so, letting the water from the stems puddle unheeded on his precious floor. "Now," he said, his voice thick with excitement, "this vase is a man's head. He's wearing a heavy helmet. Let's see how big a dent you can put in it." He noticed my eyes and smiled. "I'm not crazed, Cay. Just do as I ask."
I indicated the club. "With this?"
"Of course."
"But I'll break it."
"It's only a vase, and I want you to break it. Stand up in those pedal things and smash it, hard as you can. Go ahead."
I missed it with my first and second swings because I was not trying hard enough and I saw displeasure in his face, so my third try was a real one. I settled my rump in my seat, gripped my "reins" tightly, rocked myself slightly to get the required motion of a horse, and then swung myself up and onto the balls of my feet and swung at the vase with every ounce of strength I had, pulling the reins tight in my left hand for leverage. Shards of the shattered vase flew in every direction and the water exploded in a great, splattered puddle across the polished wood of the floor.
"Great Jupiter!" Uncle Varrus's voice was hushed in awe and I was afraid I had done too well. He went to another table and brought a second vase to the same spot, throwing the flowers carelessly on the floor. This was his sacred Armoury! I had never seen an item out of place in here and I really began to think that he was beginning to lose his mind, but he spoke to me again. "Just like that, Cay. When your father arrives, I want you to shatter this vase just the way you did the first one. Even harder, if you can. Use all the force you can muster. Here he comes now." We heard my father's hurried stride in the passageway outside and then he strode into the room, almost skidding to a halt as his eyes took in the carnage on the normally spotless floor.