[Camulod 01] - The Skystone

by Jack Whyte - (ebook by Undead)

  The answer to that was short and simple, and I had no worries about telling him the story of my grandfather, who had in fact been Varrus the Younger, youngest son of a minor branch of the famed Varus family. Over the course of centuries, our branch of the family had acquired an extra “R” in the spelling of its name and had, in the same process, lost almost all of the wealth associated with the one-R Vari. My grandfather himself had been brought up by slaves, which was not unusual in Roman households, but had become fascinated as a young boy with the smithy attached to the house. Drawn to the atmosphere of smoke and heat and the clanging of the smith’s hammer, he haunted the place. The smith, for his part, took a liking to the young nobleman and taught him as much as he could about the art of forging and working with metals. It was a love that was never to leave the boy, and eventually, when he left the army, he set up a smithy of his own.

  At first it had been a hobby, but as the smithy began to take up more and more of the young man’s time, his father had become increasingly displeased. Arguments developed into open rifts, and the younger Varrus finally left home to realize his dream of working with metal. He had a little money from the sale of his smithy, and he made his way to Britain, where he set up another and began making tools and weapons to supply the army of occupation. Because he was Roman and an aristocrat by birth, and because he was a veteran of the legions, and because he made the finest swords available, he was able to build up a thriving business.

  He married the daughter of a wealthy merchant, also of pure Roman birth, and produced one son who, in his turn, married yet another Roman and produced me. But my father was killed on campaign and my mother died of a fever the following year. From then on, my grandparents raised me, my grandfather completing the task alone after the death of his beloved wife. He died while I was stationed in Africa.

  When I had finished my story, Britannicus lay looking at me for a few minutes before asking, “What are you going to do when you leave here, Varrus? Doesn’t seem as though you’ll be doing any more soldiering, thanks to that.” He nodded towards my mauled leg.

  I grinned at him. “Smithing, like my grandfather. I’m going back to Colchester to work the old forge. It’s mine, now.”

  His patrician eyebrow arched in surprise. “Smithing? Isn’t it a bit late in the day to be starting over? You’re a soldier, Varrus. What in the name of all the ancient gods do you know about being a smith?”

  I smiled at him, anticipating the impression I was about to make. “I probably know more about it than a lot of so-called smiths who are doing well by supplying the armies today, Legate. The old man taught me all he knew. I was as keen, and as good a student, as he had been. By the time I was thirteen, I could run the whole smithy. By the time I was fourteen I was making swords for local officers.”

  “Good God, I don’t believe it!” But he did, I could hear it in his voice. “You mean to tell me you really are a smith? A worker in iron?”

  I nodded slowly. “Yes, Legate. Believe it. I really am.” I dropped my voice. “I even know the secret of white iron.”

  He raised his head from the pillow, trying to sit upright, “White iron? You mean the magical kind, the one men have lost the secret of making? You joke with me.”

  I shook my head. “No, Legate, may I die right now, I tell you the truth. To some of us, that secret was never lost — to the majority of men, however, it has yet to be discovered. You’ve seen Theodosius’ sword.”

  “What about it?”

  “Were you impressed by it?”

  “Of course! Weren’t you? It is magnificent. If I were superstitious, I’d be inclined to think it was made by Vulcan himself. I have never seen anything like it. It shines, almost, in the dark. And those patterns on the blade! I think they’re Egyptian. At least, that’s what Theodosius himself thinks they are.”

  I stretched a kink from my back and stifled a belch; then, when I was sure he thought I had no more to say, I added, “They’re British, General, not Egyptian. The patterns are Celtic, from the mountains. And the blade wasn’t made by Vulcan, it was made by Varrus. My grandfather made that sword for my father when he entered the legions. He had not quite finished it when my father had to leave, and so he kept it for when he would come home on leave. He never did. He died in Iberia.

  “I played with that sword as a boy. Then one day some Roman officers saw it and wanted to buy it from my grandfather. It wasn’t for sale. A week later, our smithy was broken open and the sword has never been seen again, until I saw it on display as the property of Theodosius himself.”

  “Good God, Varrus! Are you suggesting that Theodosius…?”

  “No, General, of course I’m not. God only knows how it came into his hands. It’s probably priceless. It may quite possibly be the finest sword ever made. A lot of men would give anything to own such a unique weapon.”

  We lay there in silence for a while, each of us thinking about the beautiful sword. Britannicus broke in on my thoughts.

  “What makes it so different, Varrus? What makes it so much harder and sharper and cleaner than ordinary iron? And so bright?”

  I thought about that one carefully before I answered him. “I don’t know, General. I honestly don’t know. I know how it was made. The old man taught me how to duplicate the process, and we made some fine blades of a light grey colour, but we were never able to duplicate that blinding brightness. My grandfather swore it was the skystone that made the difference.”

  “The what?”

  “The skystone — a stone that fell from the sky.” I smiled at the look on his face. “No, it’s true. A shepherd who worked for one of my grandfather’s friends heard a terrible noise in the air one night, followed by a crash that shook the earth. It almost frightened him to death and kept him huddled awake beneath his bed skins for hours. When he peeked out in the morning, he saw a great hole in the ground, close by his hut. At the bottom of the hole was a rock, almost buried in the ground. The shepherd tried to dig it out, but it was so heavy for its size that he could hardly move it. He was frightened to discover it was warm, too, so he left it where it was and reported it to his master, who examined it but thought little more about it.

  “That afternoon, in the course of a conversation, he mentioned it to my grandfather, who sent my father to bring the rock to him. It was as heavy as iron. For some reason, he kept it for years. And then one night, intrigued by the weight of the thing, he decided to try to melt it down, to smelt it. It turned out not to be easy and he almost gave up the attempt, but just as he was about to abandon it, he noticed that it had developed a glazed texture, almost as though it had been starting to liquefy. So he kept trying. He had to use a far higher temperature than ever before to melt it down, whatever it was. Eventually he succeeded, and from it he finally forged the sword that now belongs to Theodosius, mixing some of the skystone metal with an equal amount of normal iron. When the blade was finished, he polished it with an abrasive stone and it developed the finish you find so admirable. Whatever that skystone was made of is the material that made the sword so bright.”

  When he responded, his voice was admiring. “Bright! The thing is unnatural! Have there been any more of these fabulous skystones found? I find it amazing that no one else has ever talked of them.”

  I indicated my own frustration on that score with a quick shake of my head. “Again, I don’t know. If that one hadn’t fallen where and when it did, it might never have been found. Who’s to know how many others there are like it?”

  “Hinmm. I see what you mean. But do you really believe it fell from the sky, Varrus? That’s impossible. I mean, I believe that it fell, but it must have fallen from somewhere!”

  “I know it seems impossible. My grandfather felt the same way. But it was still warm when the man found it, hours after it had fallen, and it did contain something that isn’t known to smiths anywhere. He finished up believing that it truly did fall from the sky.”

  His eyebrow shot up and he shook his head. “Astonis
hing! Have you ever tried looking for any more of these phenomena? These skystones? I mean, how do you know there aren’t thousands of them just lying around waiting to be found?”

  “Lying around where, General?” I grinned at him, shaking my head at the foolishness of the thought that occurred to me. “A man could spend a whole useless lifetime just walking around, looking at stones.”

  He sucked air through his teeth. “Yes. I suppose you’re right. But if ever one could find such a stone again, could you make another sword like that one?”

  I considered that. “Yes, I could. I know how he made it. I’m sure I could make another.”

  Britannicus lay silent, thinking. He might have wanted to say more, but Mitros came in to change our dressings and he made us both take the sleeping potions that he believed were the secret behind letting the body heal itself. We slept.

  The following morning, I awoke to the sounds of grunting and movement, to find Britannicus being hoisted into a sitting position by two soldiers whom Mitros had drafted for the duty. They made him reasonably comfortable, eventually, in spite of his cursing, which died away when the physician pointed out that this was part of the curing process. When they had all gone and left us alone again, I asked him if he was in much pain. He looked at me without responding for a few moments, then eased his leg slightly sideways with both hands and shook his head.

  “No,” he said, “doesn’t hurt nearly as much as it used to. How about you?”

  I smiled at him. “I feel no pain at all, as long as I don’t try to move. ’Course, when I fall asleep, my body seems to want to move on its own. Then there’s pain. I tend to wake up suddenly, very often.”

  He was watching me closely, frowning slightly. “Well,” he growled, “at least you’re beginning to look a little better. Those purple bags have gone from beneath your eyes and your face has started to fill out again.” He cleared his throat, his frown deepening, then added, “Mitros tells me you should soon be functional again.”

  It was my turn to frown. “Functional? What, you mean I’ll be able to walk again?”

  “No, of course not. We know you’ll be able to do that. You might have a limp, but you’ll walk perfectly well. No, I meant… functional — physically, sexually.” He seemed embarrassed.

  “Oh, that,” I said, as a vision flared in my mind of the discomfort an erection would cause. “God, I prefer not even to think of that at this point.”

  He was looking at me strangely, and I felt myself flush under his gaze.

  “What is it, General? What’s the matter?”

  He shook his head dismissively. “Nothing… nothing at all.” He paused, and then continued. “You’re an abstemious kind of a character, aren’t you?”

  “General?”

  “Abstemious, fastidious. You’re not much of a man for the womanizing life, are you?”

  “I suppose not,” I said, surprised and caught off guard by this unexpected departure from our normal style of talking. I added as an afterthought; “No less than any other normal man, though, if no more so.”

  “No, I don’t think so.” He shook his head again, an unusual, almost musing expression on his face. “I’ve watched you, you know, over the past few years, and I’ve been pleased by your temperance. It’s one of the primary elements that make up exceptional soldiers.”

  He saw by the expression on my face that I was uncomfortable with his line of reasoning, and added reassuringly, “Oh, you are normal enough, God knows. It’s simply that there’s nothing excessive about you, in the vicious sense. You do everything in moderation, it seems to me, nothing to excess. You don’t drink too much, you don’t whore too much, you don’t fight or even argue without reason. You are a fine example to your men.”

  “Gods, General,” I said, “you make me sound too sweet to be wholesome.”

  “Ha! Far from it, but I apologize nevertheless.” He was quiet for several moments, and I had closed my eyes again, wondering when the orderly would arrive with the hot water for my morning ablutions, when he spoke again. “Varrus, have you ever been in love?”

  My whole body stiffened in the bed as I wondered what had come over him to provoke such unaccustomed intimacy. Britannicus never indulged in this kind of idle curiosity about anyone or anything. “Never, sir,” I replied, hearing the awkwardness in my own voice.

  “Never, Varrus? You have never been in love? Not once in your entire life?”

  I thought about that, keeping my eyes closed, and as several errant memories chased each other through my mind, I felt a smile pulling at my mouth in spite of my earlier discomfort.

  “Well, sir,” I said eventually, “I have known a few young women, girls would really be more accurate, who set my heart a-pattering and my senses reeling from time to time in various places.”

  “Aha!” His voice sounded pleased. “And is there anyone in particular who still has power over you?”

  My smile was easier now as I grew more at ease with our topic. “No,” I answered. “Not today, not really. No one holds that power over me, and I could be sad about that, if I thought for long about it.”

  “Ah, Varrus my friend, then you are unfortunate. There is nothing greater than the love of a good woman. It can sustain a man throughout any troubles, for any length of time.”

  The silence grew and stretched until I broke it. “Aye… I’ve heard that said before, by several people.”

  “ It’s true.” Britannicus’ voice grew warmer and more enthusiastic as he honoured me with his confidence.

  “Do you know, I can remember the day I first met Heraclita? I was about thirteen…” He broke off, then amended what he had said, “Well, I actually only saw her that first time, I didn’t meet her. We didn’t really meet for about another two years, but I had never forgotten her since that first time. You’ll meet her some day, Varrus, and you’ll see what I mean. She was — she still is — the most beautiful creature I had ever seen. I knew, even at that age, that my life would be built around her. We lived in different cities, so it was fortunate that our families were close friends. After that first meeting, however, our parents decided we would wed when we had grown, and we both approved. We became friends, I marched off to the legions, and years later we became lovers. But I had been in love with her since that first day I saw her, playing with a pet rabbit among the frosted sedge at the edge of a frozen pond, with her breath steaming in the cold air and her pink cheeks making her blue eyes seem even brighter than they were. And now we have been married for what?” He did a mental addition against the back of his closed eyelids and answered his own question. “Fifteen years. We were wed on my twenty-third birthday. She was twenty.” His voice died away for a spell, his thoughts led inward by his words.

  “My only regret about being what I am,” he resumed eventually, “is that I have so little time to spend with my wife. I do my soldiering alone, and she stays at home and keeps my private world in order for me. She could come with me, but camp life is no kind of existence for a soldier’s wife, and the family of a senior officer can have much grief, particularly if the husband and father is strict with his command. But love, Varrus, the love of a good woman is of matchless value.” He turned his face towards me and shook his head in mild perplexity. “I really find it difficult to believe what you say, that you have never been in love.”

  “Believe it. General,” I told him, smiling as I said the words. “I’m sure if I had been, I would remember.”

  The images in my mind right then were distracting and, for some strange reason I never really resolved, were causing me to feel some kind of guilt — perhaps because I felt I was, somehow, deceiving him. I was thinking of saying so, after which the conversation might have gone anywhere, but the medical orderly came in at that moment with the hot water for our morning ablutions, and the entire process of changing dressings resulted in a change of mood, which led in turn to our losing the desire to pursue what we had been discussing. Nevertheless, throughout the entire washing, clea
nsing, draining and changing of my dressings, I entertained and distracted myself by recalling the girl whose presence had been brought back into my mind by the way Britannicus spoke, the girl who had bewitched me the summer I joined the legions, when I was only fifteen. She was my spectral love, my special inspiration. I carried the memory of her with me, the physical, magical excitement of her, wherever I went in the service of the Empire, and the remembered sight of her face, the supple slimness of her waist, the deep, flashing blueness of her eyes and redness of her warm, sweet mouth, had nursed me to sleep many a cold night on campaign.

  It was a wondrous time, that last summer of my boyhood, a time that would remain with me forever-more. I know now, or I strongly suspect, that my grandfather took special pains on my behalf that year, knowing that I would soon be gone into manhood and soldiery. He had a friend, a wealthy customer and patron, who lived in a superb villa close to Verulamium, and this friend invited my grandfather and me to spend the summer with him. We accepted, and I went to paradise for eight long, golden weeks. The villa itself was magnificent, but it was nothing compared to the lands! The summer fields were heavy, lush with ripening greenness, and the air was filled with the scent of the grasses, mixed with the dryness of sun-hot dust, the smells of dung and flowers. My ears were teased by the buzzing of flies and insects, the song of birds and the rustling of long grasses as they brushed against my legs. I made new friends there, a Roman boy my own age called Mario whose father was an overseer on the farm, and a younger boy called Noris, the son of the Celtic thatcher who had roofed all of the houses and buildings for miles around. Among the three of us, we hadn’t a care in the world.

  And then one day, less than a week before my grandfather and I were to return to Colchester, we heard about a festival to be held at the next villa to the east. The son of the villa’s owner had recently been married to a girl who lived far to the south-west. The wedding had been in the bride’s home, and now the son was bringing his new wife home. Everyone was invited to the celebration. There would be musicians, players, a dancing bear, games, and food and drink for everyone.