[Camulod 01] - The Skystone

by Jack Whyte - (ebook by Undead)

  “Lars and Pector, get up there and check. Bring the body back here.” I felt Plautus’ hand on the back of my neck, cold and strong. “By the Christ, Publius! I never knew anyone like you for puking after all the fun is over. Are you all right? Are you wounded? I can’t see you for blood. Is any of it yours?”

  I managed to shake my head, but of course, as I later discovered, some of it was my own. My cut ear was bleeding heavily.

  By the time I had regained my self-possession, the two men Plautus had sent to search for the body in the street above had returned, dragging the corpse between them by the heels. Another of the soldiers had found a handcart and the rest of the bodies were thrown onto it. As they threw each body onto the cart, Plautus examined the dead faces by the light of a lantern. “Well, well,” he said. “Look what we have here.”

  The last man, the one who had been dragged back from the street above, was “The Smiler,” Primus Seneca’s factotum tribune. None of us was surprised, and no one said anything. The others were all unknown to us and obviously street ruffians hired for the occasion. The two prisoners were set to work pulling the loaded handcart back to the fort. I walked between Plautus and Britannicus, both of whom were unhurt.

  Needless to say, Caius Britannicus did not leave Colchester at first light. He made a formal report of the incident and brought a formal charge against Seneca as the instigator of the assassination attempt. No one, including Theodosius, had any doubt of the veracity of the charges levelled, but nothing could be proved against Seneca. His defence was that his subordinate, in a rage of misguided loyalty to his principal, had decided on his own initiative to revenge what he took to be a series of insults to his Commander and had hired assassins to carry out his orders. The assassins themselves had dealt only with “The Smiler.” They were executed that same day, and in the absence of conclusive evidence, Seneca was legally exonerated of any complicity in the matter.

  By the time Britannicus did leave, twenty-four hours behind schedule, the love between him and Seneca had grown no deeper. In the meantime, I had managed to have my ear bound up and to get a good night’s sleep.

  XI

  The mother of my house servant died about a month after Britannicus’ visit. The event had no significance for me personally; I would not remember it at all were it not for the fact that I had an unexpected visitor on the first night I spent alone at home without my servant and his wife. My leg had seized up on me again that day, with far less ferocity than on the previous occasion but still with sufficient malignity to send me home for the day from the smithy. I had spent the afternoon reclining on a couch with my leg supported on a pile of cushions, reading the scrolls that my grandfather had left to my attention. The one dealing with his newly perfected method of pouring solid metal sword hilts fascinated me, and I was rereading it for about the tenth time when I heard someone at the door of my house. I got up from my couch, pleased to notice that my leg felt fine again, and went to the door, where I stood blinking without recognition at the tall shape that faced me, silhouetted against the late-afternoon sun.

  “Publius? Master Varrus? Do you not know me?”

  I squinted against the glare, tilting my head to one side, and recognized him.

  “Bishop Alaric!”

  I ushered him inside and led the way to the chamber I used as a dayroom. “I didn’t recognize you, standing against the sun the way you were. I certainly didn’t expect you. Sit down, please.” He seated himself in one of the big, padded armchairs my grandfather had loved. “Will you drink some wine with me?”

  “Yes,” he said, smiling, “I would like that.”

  After I had served the wine, I sat opposite him, wondering what his visit could be about. We drank in silence for a few minutes as I searched for something to say that would not sound too foolish or too curious. He saved me from embarrassment by speaking first.

  “I enjoyed our meeting last month, Master Varrus, and I have been thinking of you, intermittently, ever since.”

  I was intrigued. “You have?” I said. “Why? Why should you think of me? Or even remember me?”

  He smiled. “Why should I not? Do you believe yourself to be unmemorable?” I gave him no reaction and he continued. “I remembered you because of your calling, first of all, and then because of some of the things Caius Britannicus told me about you on our journey to Verulamium following the attempt on his life. You are a craftsman in metal, he told me. More than a simple smith.”

  It was on the tip of my tongue to say something modest and self-effacing, but then I recalled what I had so admired about this man —his simplicity of speech. “Aye,” I said. “You could say that, almost. I am a craftsman in iron.”

  “Only in iron?”

  “Mainly in iron. It is the metal I prefer above all others. I work from time to time with bronze and brass, too, and copper. But I prefer iron. I find it has more…”

  “More what?”

  “Character, I was going to say, but I think challenge would be more accurate.”

  “You enjoy challenge?”

  “Aye, doesn’t everyone?”

  He smiled again. “No, Master Varrus. Not everyone does. What about silver?”

  “Silver?” I indicated my disdain with a small shrug. “A fine metal, for jewellers. What about it?”

  “Have you worked with silver?”

  “No. Silversmithing is a craft all on its own. It’s more art than discipline, if you know what I mean. He said nothing, obviously waiting for me to continue. “Silver is too soft, too malleable to appeal to an ironsmith. It has a delicacy, a fragility, that sits ill with the kind of strength and directness the ironsmith brings to his craft. Why do you ask me about silver?”

  In response, he reached inside his long robe and produced a sheet of folded papyrus.

  “Have you ever seen the likes of this before?”

  I took the sheet and opened it to find the inner surface covered with a delicate tracery of curves and swirling, intricate shapes.

  “These are Celtic,” I said. “Beautifully done. Who did them?”

  “I did.” He took the papyrus back from me and I watched his eyes follow the designs inscribed on it as he spoke. “I copied them from a number of sources while I was in the west, in the mountains there.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “For the pleasure it gave me. This is the artwork of the Celtic peoples of Britain. I am a bishop of the Church in Britain. I have decided that I would like to have a plain, pectoral cross in silver, decorated in this, the Celtic fashion. A vanity, I suppose, but a more practical vanity, or at least a less pretentious one, than this.”

  He reached inside his robe again and pulled out a gold cross, studded with red and green jewels, which he handed to me. I took it and examined it, conscious of the surprisingly solid weight of it and of the craftsmanship that had gone into the making of it.

  “This is magnificent.”

  “It is barbaric. Sybaritic. I find it gross.”

  I scratched it with my thumb-nail, feeling the richness of it. “Where did you get it? May I ask?”

  He looked at it musingly. “In Rome, last time I was there. It is eastern, made in Constantinople.”

  “Yes.” I turned the thing over. The back was covered with oriental scrollwork. “I’ve seen this work before, but never in a cross.”

  He snorted. “The Church is growing wealthy. It has become the accepted fashion for bishops to wear such things.”

  “But you find it gross.”

  “Yes. I do.”

  I handed it back to him. “Was it a gift?”

  “It was.”

  “Why did you accept it, if you find it so distasteful?”

  He looked at me as if I had lost my wits. “Because of its value, of course. I saw its worth. I intend to sell it in Londinium. The price I get for it will aid me in my work.”

  “God’s work?”

  “The two are the same.” There was no hint of censure in his voice to cou
nteract the cynicism in mine.

  “I see. When were you in Rome?”

  “Three years ago.”

  “Why haven’t you sold it before now?”

  “I did not have to. Now I need the money.”

  “For your work?”

  “For my work.”

  I cleared my throat, deciding the man was telling the absolute truth. “Tell me about this silver cross you visualize. Why do you want that?”

  He pursed his lips. “As a token. A symbol.”

  “Of what? Forgive my bluntness, but I do not understand. Why should you need a symbol? Of what? Your faith? Your position?”

  “Both of those, but more.” He picked up his cup of wine and looked into it, and then he got to his feet and began to move about the room, sipping occasionally at the wine.

  “I see the Church here in Britain, Master Varrus, as lacking an identity, a local flavour if you like, that would make it more acceptable to the people here. The pectoral cross is an excellent badge of office. I have no doubt of that. It is large, easily visible and unmistakable. The garishness of that gold one, and of the others I have seen, however, suggest a foreignness and a preoccupation with worldly wealth and power that offends me. You see? I spoke of vanity and here I am, in my own vanity, decrying the vanity of others. Anyway, my thought is that a plain, silver cross, stark and simple, adorned only with inscribed Celtic designs such as I have shown you, would serve the double purpose of defining my function to my people here and dedicating their art, their traditions and their abilities to the glory of God. Does that make sense?”

  I picked up the jewelled cross again from where he had left it on the arm of his chair. “Aye, Bishop,” I said. “It makes sense, I suppose. But why silver? Why not plain gold? Why not wood, for that matter?”

  “Why not? I understand what you are saying. Let us just say that there is a modicum of vanity involved. Wood does not appeal to me. Silver does. It has a beauty, a purity, that is unique. It is pristine.”

  I raised my hand, palm outward. “I can’t argue with that.” I handed the cross back to him again and this time he replaced it inside his robe. “But why have you come to me? I’m not the one to make your cross for you. There are silversmiths by the squad in Londinium, any one of whom could do that in his sleep.”

  “No, Varrus. There is your error.” He placed his empty cup on the table. “I’ll take no more of your time, but let me leave you with this thought. You may never have worked with silver, and you may care little for its delicacy, as you say, but you are a man who respects integrity, whether it be in a man or in a metal. I have been asking people about you. You are also, by your own admission, a man who responds to challenge. I am on my way to Londinium. While I am there I will convert this golden bauble into money. If you will, please think about what would be involved in making this cross for me, respecting the integrity of the metal, of the design of the cross itself, and of the decoration you would add to it. Consider, too, the challenge of the silver. I will return within the month. If you tell me then that you do not want this commission, I shall respect your decision. Is that fair?”

  I shrugged my shoulders, bewildered. “Aye, I suppose it is. I’ll think on it. But I make you no promises.”

  “I want none. Now I must go.” He made a move to rise, and, on an impulse, I stopped him. He waited, looking at me in silence as I struggled with the question that had risen, unbidden, to the tip of my tongue. After several seconds had passed, I found the words to frame it; more accurately, I found a minor question that would allow me to work towards the question that concerned me.

  “Please,” I said, “if you can spare me a few more minutes, I would like to ask you something about the Tribune, Commander Britannicus.”

  He settled back into his chair and crossed his hands on his stomach. “What would you like to know, Master Varrus?”

  “Nothing that will embarrass either of us to discuss, Bishop, but I could use some enlightenment on a thing that has been bothering me. Have you known the Tribune long?”

  He nodded. “All my life. His family and my own are close and have been for many years.”

  “I thought so. Are you Roman born?”

  “No, I was born here in Britain, as was Caius.”

  “What can you tell me about the enmity between him and Primus Seneca? I know it is deep and bitter, but I have never been able to discover the cause of it.”

  “Have you asked Caius?”

  “Commander Britannicus? No, I have not. He has spoken of it, but I have asked him nothing. Our relationship is not one that would allow such intimacy.”

  Alaric smiled. “I think you are wrong, there, Master Varrus, but I appreciate the reason for your thinking that way. You would regard such a question as impertinent, but Caius Britannicus would not. He regards you as a friend, not as a subordinate. I think he would gladly tell you the story himself, were you to ask him.”

  I thought about that for a second, and then responded, “I could not do that.”

  Alaric smiled. “All right. Theirs is a blood feud — a family feud, the origins of which have been forgotten while the virulence remains and seems to grow.”

  “All the Senecas hate all the Brittanici? Is that what you are saying?”

  “Almost.” He was frowning slightly now, thinking. “Caius Britannicus is the next-to-last of his line. He has a sister, Luceiia, a son, Picus, of whom he is very proud, and three other young children. There are no other members of the family Britannicus left alive, not even cousins bearing the same name. The Senecas, on the other hand, are. a prolific breed. Primus is the first of seven brothers, all of whom are soldiers save the youngest, who is a ne’er-do-well. The family is fabulously wealthy, you understand, and has been since the days of Julius Caesar when Seneca the Elder, the banker, was estimated to be the wealthiest man in the world.” I nodded, to show that I was aware of the Seneca legend.

  “As I said,” Alaric continued, “no one knows when this war between the families began, but it has grown like a weed, and it has blighted both families, particularly the family of Britannicus. Caius had an elder brother, Jacobus, who was murdered, along with their parents, almost twenty years ago in Rome. The circumstances surrounding the crime pointed towards Primus Seneca as the instigator, although nothing could ever be proved. The case was taken to the Senate, but there was nothing to be done in law.

  “Caius thought otherwise, however. He was a very young man at the time, with more than his share of youth’s hot-headedness and lust for revenge. He challenged Primus Seneca, accused him publicly of the crime, and they fought, each employing a number of mercenaries to their cause. The affair created a scandal. There was open warfare in the streets between the adherents of both families, and there were many deaths. Public sympathy was with young Caius, but there was no proof of Primus’ guilt, and so the authorities stepped in and put an end to the fighting by transferring the two men — both soldiers, remember — to opposite ends of the Empire.” He sighed, deeply and disgustedly. “That solved the immediate problem, of course, but in fact it resolved nothing. The Seneca family continued to live in Rome, and in Constantinople, and Luceiia, Caius’ baby sister, was sent to live on the family estate here in Britain, where she remains to this day.”

  “Is the Commander wealthy?”

  “Extremely. You have obviously never seen his villa in the west.”

  “No.” I shook my head. “But I think he would like me to go there and live as one of his Bagaudae.”

  “Ah yes, his Colony. I believe he will establish it, you know. I sincerely hope he will.”

  “Why? Do you mind my asking?”

  He smiled. “Why should I mind? Caius is a man who needs to be occupied. He has a mind that is capable of greatness. You know he foresees the death of the Empire in the near future?”

  I was stupefied. “What are you talking about?” I asked, my surprise audible in my voice.

  “Just what I say. Caius believes that the Empire, as we k
now it, is doomed.”

  “Rome? Doomed? By what?”

  “By its own excesses.”

  “That is nonsense! It’s impossible. It’s… it’s an obscene thought!”

  “Is it? Really? I wonder. Our own Lord foretold that He would return after a period of time for the final Judgment of mankind, and that when He did, the world would end. He died to redeem the souls of men. To give mankind an opportunity to grow in spirit, and to put away the things of this earth. It seems to me that the Empire is of this earth. There is little heavenly about it.”

  I sat blinking in confusion, my head reeling. “You must forgive me,” I said. “We have come too far, too quickly in this conversation. I am beyond my depth. We started out talking of the Commander and his enemies, and suddenly we are dealing with metaphysics and the end of the Empire. I am not qualified to talk of these things.”

  He grinned at me. “It is I who should ask forgiveness, Master Varrus. You asked only about the feud. My personal convictions led me astray. But let me summarize my own thoughts on Caius Britannicus and the Senecas in a way that will not take me far from what I have just been saying, and yet might make my thinking clear to you. I know you do not doubt the coexistence of Good and Evil, and no man could doubt the strength of the Empire, on the surface at least. In my mind, Master Varrus, Caius Britannicus, and men like him, represent all that is good in the Roman way. Honour, honesty, integrity, probity and the respect for law and order, both spiritual and temporal, are their watchwords. The other face of the coin is represented by the excesses, the venality, the corruption and the disregard for humanity and divinity that characterizes the worst, elements, and, unfortunately, the most powerful elements in the Empire today. White and black. Right and wrong. Day and night. Britannicus and Seneca. I will say no more, for now I must go. Thank you for your hospitality, and I will speak to you again on my return from Londinium within the month.”

  My thoughts that night were drawn in two different ways: one, to the sheet of papyrus Alaric had left lying on my table, and the other, to the frightening and apparently impossible scenario to which he had referred, and to which, it seemed, Commander Britannicus subscribed. The end of Rome. The end of the Empire. My grandfather’s parchments were put away and. for the time being, forgotten.