The Skystone

by Jack Whyte

  “Obviously. Well, there seems to be little point in not doing so. At least they haven’t shouted at us. Come with me.”

  I walked one pace behind him on his right as we made our way forward to meet our rescuers, and we stopped within three paces of them. Neither pair of us made any effort to salute the other. Lucca and Britannicus faced each other impassively, neither man’s face revealing anything of his thoughts. A worm of dread squirmed in my gut. Britannicus had been correct; we were in trouble with our own people. I fought to keep my facial expression non-committal.

  Tertius Lucca was a dark-faced, good-looking man in his late twenties, and his uniform seemed opulent next to our rags. He wore a corselet of burnished bronze plates, cunningly attached so that they overlapped to hang loosely and seemed to shimmer when he moved. His armoured skirt straps and his helmet bore the same sheen of expensive bronze, and his leather harness had that deep, glossed polish that only servants can produce. His cloak and his tunic were of creamy, white wool, decorated with a Greek border in dark green, and the crest on his helmet was of white egret plumes. I noticed, too, that he wore white leggings of the same rich wool beneath his sandals. It was he who broke the silence.

  “Have you no salute for me?”

  Britannicus shrugged. “I would have, gladly, if I thought you might return it, but I think you might not.”

  “You are perceptive.” The Tribune pursed his lips. “And correct. I could not.”

  “Could not? On what grounds?”

  “On the grounds that you have been found guilty of desertion and are hence beyond the recognition of a soldier.”

  “I see.”

  I was biting my tongue. I could hardly believe the coolness of Britannicus’ voice.

  “Desertion. Not killed in battle. Not presumed dead at all, even though no one has seen me since the fall of Hadrian’s Wall. There is no doubt in the official mind, it seems. I did not die in battle. I deserted. With all my men. Look at me, man!” His voice cracked like a whip. “Do you believe I am a deserter?”

  “What I believe or disbelieve has no relevance. You stand convicted —”

  “In absentia!”

  “In absentia, as you say. That state of affairs is not uncommon in cases of desertion.”

  “So,” and still Britannicus maintained that calm, even tone, “what is your next step, Tribune?”

  “I am unsure…” Lucca’s eyes narrowed as he gazed at Britannicus and then turned his glance on me. “I know what it should be… what it should have been. I am guilty, even now, of wrongdoing in speaking to you like this, but this meeting, and the form of it, has been… unexpected.” Britannicus held his peace and Lucca continued. “Had your men been deployed other than the way I found them upon our arrival, I would have joined battle instantly. I suspect you were aware of that?” Again, he received no answer. His next comment was unexpected.

  “You owe this courtesy, small as it is, to one of your former officers, a friend of mine who served with you in Africa, years ago. Julian Symmachus. He is not here today, but I remember the fervour with which he defended your name and your honour when he first discovered you had been proscribed for desertion. He swore that you had to be dead, that you were incapable of desertion. He swore too loudly, fought too well on your behalf and made a nuisance of himself. He was transferred.”

  Britannicus was smiling. “I remember Julian well. I shall thank him for that. Where is he now?”

  “He is dead. He was killed in a skirmish with a band of Scots.”

  There was no reply to this. Britannicus simply lowered his chin to his breast.

  A large bee appeared from nowhere and began buzzing somnolently around Lucca’s chin, attracted by the perspiration that coated his face in the growing heat of the summer sun. He flicked at it without looking, and so fast was his hand’s speed that he actually knocked the insect away, whether to the ground or not I did not see. He undid the clasp beneath his chin and removed his helmet, resting it against his hip and wiping the sweat from his brow with his free hand.

  “It was Julian’s defence of you that I recalled today when Barates told me that Caius Britannicus awaited me. I determined then, right or wrong, to speak with you before taking action against you, and to do so, upon my own authority, with only one witness to our discourse. This was in tribute to Julian Symmachus only, understand. I have no wish to come to grief over you as he did, but neither did I wish to condemn you out of hand without even having tried to assess the accuracy of his judgment. Will you surrender yourself and your men to my authority?”

  “As what?” Britannicus raised his head and looked Lucca straight in the eye. “Do you intend to treat us as deserters?”

  “I have no choice. I must.”

  I heard again the sharp sound of my commander sucking air between his teeth, a sound that betrayed to me the perplexity he was going through.

  “Do you believe, Tertius Lucca, as a professional soldier and a man of reason, that, being guilty as charged, I would present myself and my command so meekly to the wrath of Rome?”

  “You might.” Lucca was close to smiling, I thought. “Symmachus often talked of the various kinds of effrontery you have shown in the past, as a resourceful leader. A move such as this might be a master stroke of sheer duplicity.”

  The worm in my gut was whirling rapidly now, but Britannicus’ next words astounded me. “What if I were to tell you I can prove total loyalty to Rome, on my own behalf and that of all my men?” He was standing fully erect, seeming to peer right over Lucca’s head. “How would you react?”

  “With amazement.” Lucca was smiling openly now, but there was no malice in his eyes. “Can you do that? Can you prove your loyalty?”

  “I believe I can, if given the opportunity. Even to Primus Seneca.”

  Lucca made a wry face. “I doubt that. The Legate has no patience with convicted felons.”

  “And even less with me. We are old enemies. Personal enemies.”

  “Oh. I was unaware of that. That is unfortunate.”

  “Will Seneca be my judge?”

  “He will. He is the legate. He is God, on campaign. You know that.”

  “He could refuse to countenance my evidence.”

  Lucca nodded, slowly. “He could, and would be well within his rights. You stand condemned already.”

  I took advantage of the short pause that followed these words to turn and look back at our forces. Every eye was fixed upon us, and I wondered what they were all thinking. Another bee hummed loudly in my ear and I swatted at it, uselessly. Britannicus spoke again.

  “Where is the Legate quartered?”

  “Officially? At Lindum, about thirty miles from here. But he is camped much closer today, in a fortified base camp about six miles from here. He has important guests in his train — a senatorial party from the Court of the Emperor, sent to inspect the progress of our campaign. He brought them out to visit the base camp yesterday. They return to Lindum tomorrow.”

  Britannicus raised his eyebrow. “Senators? Do you know their names?”

  Lucca frowned slightly. “The senior is Flavinius Tesca. I do not recall the other names.”

  “Flavinius Tesca! I know him from better times. He is an honest and honourable man.” Britannicus inhaled a deep breath and rose to his tiptoes, before rocking back on his heels. “Tribune Lucca, if you can guarantee to bring my men and me before the Legate Seneca while he has Flavinius Tesca in his train, I will surrender to you and rely on Tesca to see justice done on our behalf.”

  “I can guarantee nothing, Tribune.” Lucca was frowning now, but all of us heard the honorific he accorded Britannicus. “It is my duty to take you and your men into my custody. If that is effected quickly and without strife, then I will deliver you today to face the Legate Seneca. But I must warn you that the Senator, Flavinius Tesca, has no authority over the Legate Seneca in matters pertaining to discipline and military law.”

  “I am aware of that, Tribune.” The resolve in my
commander’s tone told me that he had made his decision. “But Flavinius Tesca is an imperial senator, and therefore a direct representative of the Emperor himself, here in Britain upon imperial affairs. If you will grant me one moment to address my men, who have no idea they stand accused, far less condemned, of anything, I will surrender them, and myself, to you. It seems ironic that my soldiers expect celebration and reward for having fought for, and maintained, their Roman pride, do you not agree? How eagerly would they have fought this past year, I wonder, knowing that they faced court martial and death on winning home?”

  “Very well.” Lucca sounded and appeared disconcerted. “Speak to them. While you do so. I will furnish you and your officers with horses.”

  “My thanks. Tribune.” Britannicus caught my eye and we turned to leave, but Lucca stopped us. calling Britannicus by name. We turned back to face him again, seeing the wish to believe in his eyes.

  “You really believe you can establish your innocence?”

  “I have said so.”

  “You must know it seems impossible.”

  I agreed with Lucca. At that point, I was half convinced that, on returning to our own men, Britannicus would tell them what had happened and then try to fight his way out of this valley. But to where? My mind had not been able to stretch that far. I found myself staring at Britannicus, awaiting his answer as eagerly as Lucca was.

  Britannicus looked at me and saw the lack of understanding in my face. He smiled at me and looked back at Lucca.

  “Impossible? It would be, had I not decided the day the Wall went down to keep a daily record of our campaign. I have those written records, faithfully compiled day by day by our clerk, dated and signed by me. The written record of almost five hundred days, signed and dated by me each day. I began it on a whim; I maintained it out of habit and discipline; and it seems now I retained it and protected it by the will of God against this day and these charges.”

  Lucca’s eyes had grown round in surprise, and he began to shake his head slowly in wonder. “That would be proof to me, if I could read,” he said.

  “My friend,” said Britannicus softly, “it will be proof to Flavinius Tesca, no matter what the Legate Seneca may say.”

  The mention of his commander’s name wiped the smile from Lucca’s face. He stood to attention and snapped a salute, which we returned. “Tribune,” he said, in a voice filled with strength and resolution, “you and your men may retain your weapons for the present. My cohorts will escort you, not convey you.”

  “Are you sure you wish to do that, Tribune Lucca?” Britannicus spoke in a low voice. “Seneca will not thank you for the failure to disarm convicted felons.”

  “Yes, Tribune, I am sure. The Legate will have my head for it, I think, but only if you fail to make your case.” Lucca smiled again. “This is my tribute, a personal one, to Julian. I believe you, and I believe in him. Besides—” he turned his smile for the first time on his companion, young Barates Placidus, “—it may be the only way to bring you into custody. Your men are hardened veterans, survivors, where mine are little more than unblooded recruits. Is that not so, Barates Placidus?”

  The young man blinked. “Yes, Tribune.”

  “So be it,” Britannicus murmured. “We shall not forget this, Tertius Lucca.”

  We returned to our own men, and Britannicus informed them of the conversation that had just taken place. Grim-faced, they listened in silence as he outlined the situation and emphasized the importance of the journal carried by Luscar, the clerk. He ended his address by reassuring them and making them laugh, in spite of the gravity of our situation.

  “I have brought you here safely,” he told them, “and I do not intend to abandon you now. I have spoken at length with each man among you several times since we began this odyssey of ours. You know that all of you are important to me. Trust me now. I will not let you down. But, for the love of God, look after Luscar for these next few hours. He is to be the hero of this day, but if we lose him now, we are all lost!”

  Almost two hours later, we reached the camp. Lucca had sent word of our coming, and they were ready for us. Taking their direction from Britannicus, our men were solemn and unsmiling. The gates of the camp opened to greet us in silence, and beyond them we could see rank upon rank of legionaries standing stiffly. There was no sign or sound of welcome as we passed through the gates, and my belly was cramping with apprehension, terrified by what I was seeing.

  The entire garrison was turned out and battle-ready, formed up in the hollow square into which we were marching. At the far end, opposite us, stood a magnificently uniformed legate, surrounded by his staff officers. Britannicus rode straight towards this group and reined his horse in, holding up his right hand in the signal for us to halt, which we did, coming to attention. The silence in the square was absolute. I was aware of the civilians in the background: three tall men and a shorter one, all wearing amazingly clean, brightly coloured clothing.

  The Legate, a vision in silver and scarlet and black. spoke in a high, neighing voice that dripped with dislike and a kind of triumph.

  “The prisoner will dismount!”

  Prisoner? I felt the tension of the men behind me increase immediately. Even my own skin broke out in goose-flesh at the sound of the horrible word, even though I had been expecting it and rehearsing the sound of it in my mind. I swung around and barked, “Stand fast!” over my shoulder. The few faces I saw in the brief glimpse I had of my men were confused and incredulous.

  “Stand fast, damn you!” I roared again.

  Britannicus made no move to dismount. He remained motionless and silent.

  “Dismount, I say, or die.” The Legate raised his arm in a signal, and suddenly lines of archers swarmed up the steps and along the platforms on the camp’s parapets, where they nocked arrows and aimed at us. Britannicus turned from one side to the other and looked at the archers, and then he eyed the assembled soldiers who hemmed us in. His face was expressionless. Finally, he looked again towards Seneca, in whose face I could see the resemblance to his brother, my former legate in Africa.

  “In the absence of criminals, I can only assume that you are addressing me, Legate Seneca?” The expression on Seneca’s face was one of triumph.

  “I see criminals aplenty, Britannicus. You, and your rabble.”

  I swung around again to still my men, but there was no need. They were white-faced, most of them, and straining to see over the heads of the men in front of them, but their eyes were on Britannicus, whose voice came again, hard-edged.

  “You had better explain that, Seneca.”

  “There is no need. You and your rabble were convicted as deserters a year ago. No one expected that you would crawl back seeking clemency, but then your character is such that it does not really surprise me.”

  I could see the tension in every line of Britannicus’ being, but his voice remained calm.

  “On whose authority was I convicted? And for what cause?”

  “For what cause?” Seneca scoffed openly. “For what cause? Is not the loss of a province cause enough? Your incompetence, and that of the others like you, caused the loss of almost the entire land to barbarian invaders, and in recognition of your culpability, you fled the Empire’s justice to hide and cower in the hills. Now you have been starved out and come crawling back, hoping for clemency. Enough of this! Order your men to throw down their arms and surrender themselves, or I shall order mine to exterminate them and you.”

  Britannicus raised his voice. “Flavinius Tesca! Will you come forward, please? And Senator Opius?” There was an uneasy stirring everywhere as all four of the civilians at the back of the ranked soldiers began to move forward. Seneca was not pleased, and was obviously surprised by Britannicus’ appeal.

  “There is no need for that!” he snapped. “The Senators have no authority here in the field.”

  The civilians continued to approach, regardless of his words. When they reached the front they stopped, and the tallest of the fo
ur nodded to Britannicus, his expression non-committal. Seeing him do so, one of his companions also recognized the Tribune with a tiny nod. Britannicus spoke to the first man.

  “Tesca, you are familiar with the situation between my House and the House of Seneca. Am I to be constrained and killed with all my men? For serving the Empire and winning back to civilization? Are we all to stand condemned? By a Seneca? In front of imperial senators?”

  Tesca looked uncomfortable. “The condemnation is not Seneca’s, Caius Britannicus. He is correct. You were convicted in absentia of desertion.”

  “Why? On whose word?” For the first time, Caius Britannicus allowed his voice to show anger. Tesca shrugged his shoulders. Britannicus kept his voice high, so that everyone in the camp could hear him.

  “Flavinius Tesca, I appeal to you as one Roman of senatorial rank to another. Do deserters march into armed camps, under full discipline, to surrender as meekly as we have done? I wish to call one of my men forward. May I do so?”

  “No! You may not!” This was Seneca.

  Britannicus ignored him. “Senator Tesca? My appeal is to you.”

  Tesca nodded.

  “Luscar! Step forward!”

  Curullus Luscar, the senior and only surviving clerk of our cohort, marched forward and stood at attention.

  “Produce your records, Luscar, and present them to the Senator.”

  As Luscar complied with the order, my eyes were fastened on Seneca’s face, which registered suspicion and puzzlement. Luscar’s pack was oversized, but it held few military contents. The entire space within his rigid, thick-sided leather pack was filled with the tightly rolled papyri on which, for the entire duration of our wanderings, he had kept his meticulous record of all our doings, making ink out of soot and urine, and filling the back sides of every document he had carried with his tiny, crabbed scrawl. Britannicus nodded to the piled papyri on the ground.

  “I had Luscar keep a record of the events that followed the attack on the Wall last year. Since then, he has recorded everything, writing on the back of his precious records when he ran out of fresh material. He is a scribe by nature and by training, and I see now that God Himself had a hand in keeping him alive.