The Sorcer part 1: The Fort at River's Bend cc-5
Page 48
As our masons laid the stone in place and levelled it, I saw the tears streaming down Arthur's cheeks, and I laid my hand on his shoulder, drawing him aside. He walked with me a way, then stopped and looked back at the grave. The snow around it had been tramped into slush by all our feet, but it was still snowing lightly, and the stone stood out stark and black, against the pale ground.
"It's so ugly," the boy said, more to himself than to me.
"Aye, it is, lad," I said softly, knowing he meant the grave and not the stone. "But it's the common fate of all mankind. We all go there, eventually."
He turned on me, angry. "Why, Merlyn? Why should we?"
I had no good answer for him.
"Why must we go into the grave?" he continued. "It's too ... final, too utter!"
I found myself frowning at him. "What d'you mean by that? It's inevitable, Arthur. The grave awaits all men and women."
"And most deserve no more. But there are some ... like Luke ... who deserve more. Now he is there, in a hole, in the ground. Identifiable. Ended. Finished. He's done! There's no more hope that he will ever again ... achieve ... "
"How could he, lad?" I asked softly. "Luke's dead."
"I know that, Merlyn!" He was almost spitting out his words, so great was his frustration. "But that doesn't make it right that he should come to such a public and a final end right here ... " His voice failed him and he shook his head tightly, his fists clenched by his sides.
"It's not his death that angers me, Merlyn. It's this visible statement we are making that everything he ever did—all his achievements—have ended here, in a clearly marked hole in the ground. There's no need for that, other than that created by our need to honour him. But his honour is in our hearts and memories. We should enshrine him in our minds, but leave his final resting place obscured from all men's eyes. In the spring we will be gone, and he'll be here alone, forgotten and neglected. When men pass by this way and see his stone, they won't know who he was. They'll walk on him, or sit on him, and even though they may think they knew him, they'll know nothing of him save that he's dead and he's rotting here! Better to bury him someplace unmarked and secret. Then he would be safe from gawking fools and left alone to live in our memories."
I found that my mouth was hanging open in amazement, not at his eloquence but at the content of his speech. I had never heard any man utter such perfect and incontestable good sense and wisdom, and my own bafflement in the face of such obvious truth left me speechless. But there was nothing I could do at that time. I had a momentary vision of the reaction of the others, were I to walk forward and uproot the stone prepared so lovingly to mark Lucanus's grave.
To cover my confusion, I reached out and placed my arm about young Arthur's shoulders, with no notion that, years later, I would recall those words of his and act upon them on his own behalf. Instead, and perhaps foolishly, in retrospect, I looked for a way to break his train of thought and take his mind off on another track. I turned him to face me directly and grasped him by the shoulders.
"Listen to me, Arthur! Where a man rests after his death is unimportant. His importance lies in his life and what he did with it. Luke's life was exemplary. He was, I think, the finest man I've ever known, apart from my own blood. In all things that he did, he was a giant among men, the very soul of wisdom, of compassion and of strength. He stood for the nobility of ordinary, commonplace people. If you seek to emulate him in that aspect alone—in knowing who you are and what you stand for, and perfecting that—then you will live a fine and honourable life.
"Luke's task was to be a surgeon, the very finest surgeon he could be, and he was proud of that. He trained in the finest school on earth, in Alexandria, and then in the Corps of Legionary Surgeons, and he devoted five decades of his seven to serving his fellow men and women. A fine life. A fine record. As you say, he will continue to live long in the minds of those of us fortunate enough to have known him. So face him now, and make your last farewell as it ought to be. Then come and walk with me for a while. After that we will visit Rufio. He'll be despondent over having missed this farewell to our old friend."
I followed him as he turned back to the graveside. There he stood for several moments with his head bowed. I walked slowly towards the parade ground. Arthur caught up to me and walked beside me, and as we went I spoke at length, and he listened.
"May God rest his soul, as befits the soul of one who has done all that was asked of him and all that he asked of himself. His task is done. Mine is ongoing, and yours is about to start." I glanced sideways at him, to make sure he was paying attention. His eyes were looking directly into mine. "Your task is to be a leader of men—a warrior and perhaps even a king some day, in your father's land." I stopped walking, forcing him to look at me again.
"Beginning in the spring, your school will be the field of battle. You'll come to Camulod with me, and you'll ride to war, as a servant and a student, sometimes to me and at others to your Uncle Ambrose. You'll keep our weapons bright and clean and dry. You'll keep our horses fed and clean and dry. You will run errands and fetch and carry messages and orders and dispatches, and you .will learn at every turn. And one day, when you have earned the right to do so, you will have messengers and servants and your own armies at your own disposal. This is your real training.
You have learned much, till now, yet you have not even begun to learn. War is a harsh teacher, Arthur. Its lessons are stark and chastening and its punishments are death and deprivation."
I saw the fire kindle in his eyes. He drew himself up to his full, imposing height, his chest swelling with pride, and I saw a question forming in his eyes.
"Will I have a sword, of my own?"
"Aye, a short-sword at first, purely for self-defence. I will give it to you today. It was made by your own greatgrandfather, Publius Varrus, and you will find none finer the length and breadth of this land. It has a matching dagger, perfectly appointed, and a belt to hold the sheaths that house both weapons. But bear in mind at all times henceforth that your primary task in this endeavour will be to learn to follow and obey, not yet to fight. You will obey orders and follow your commander wherever he may lead you.
"In the year ahead of you, you will remain a boy, and yet you'll be expected to comport yourself at all times and in all things as a man. In following, and in obedience, with due attention and observance, you will learn to lead, and to command the honour and respect of the men who will fight with you and for you." I paused, watching the excitement in his eyes dim, and I recalled the bitter chagrin I myself had felt at his age, constrained to ride out with my elders knowing I had not yet earned the right, in their eyes, to fight as a man. The memory bloomed fresh in my mind as though it had been only yesterday. I clenched my fist and laid it against his jaw, nudging him.
"Believe me, lad, although you may not think so now, the time will come soon enough when you will have your own command. Far sooner than you can imagine. Now look at me, eye to eye and man to man." He raised his unique, yellow-flecked eyes to gaze into mine. I felt my throat swell in acknowledgment of his physical beauty and his splendid youth.
"Hear this of me now. I promise you that on the day you take up the burdens of a man, I myself will give you your own sword, and it will be a weapon the like of which men have never seen. These are not idle words, Arthur." I had seen a moment of doubt flickering there in his eyes.
''Yours will baa weapon to set men staring in awe. Not simply your own sword, but one for all the world to marvel at. I promise you that."
PENGUIN BOOKS
Published by the Penguin Group Penguin Books Canada Ltd,
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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices:
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First published in Viking by Penguin Books Canada Limited,
1997 Published in Penguin Books, 1998
3579 10 8642
Copyright © Jack Whyte, 1997
All rights reserved.
Publisher's note: The Sorcerer: The Fort at River's Bend is based in
part on actual events, but all the principal characters are fictional.
Manufactured in Canada.
CANADIAN CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION DATA
Whyte, Jack, 1940- The sorcerer
(A dream of eagles; v. 5) Contents: bk. I. The fort at river's bend —
bk. II. Metamorphosis.
ISBN 0-14-025467-6 (bk; I) ,
ISBN 0-14-027026-4 (bk. II)
I. Title. II. Series: Whyte, Jack, 1940- . A dream of eagles; v. 5.
PS8595.H947S6 1998 C813'.54 C95-932786-X PR9199.3.W58S6 1998
Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
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