The Sorcer part 2: Metamorphosis cc-6

by Jack Whyte

  "What was he wearing?"

  "Armour—Roman armour."

  "Hmm Quick thinking on the part of the trooper who tripped him. He should be commended. Was Cato badly hurt?"

  "Only in his dignity. He'll be more careful in future. Anyway, as soon as Falvo saw what this fellow looked like, he thought you might like to talk to him, so he brought him in under guard, although he did permit the man to keep his weapons. Fellow was on foot, and only had a shortsword and a dagger, but he seemed honourable. That was Falvo's word. It impressed me, coming from him. Anyway, Falvo spoke to the fellow in Latin, told him he wasn't really a prisoner but that he'd have to come along, and asked him for his parole not to attempt escape, in return for being able to ride behind one of the men. I met up with them a couple of miles from here, down where the road forks, and the rest you know. And now, if you're going to ask me what I think you should do, I've no idea."

  I smiled. "We have absolutely no idea who he is?"

  "No, nor where he comes from. Only thing we know is that he was either there alone or he has very pusillanimous friends."

  "Hmm," I grunted again, my thoughts racing. "Well, let's find out."

  As we approached the group on the other side of the fire, I saw the stranger notice me and fasten his attention on me. The others fell back on either side, and Dedalus stopped a few paces to my rear. Soon I stood facing the newcomer, taking his measure as he was taking mine.

  Dedalus was right. This man was a fighter—it was stamped into his bearing. And there was no mistaking his Roman heritage, even had he not been wearing the telltale armour; his Romanness leaped from his face and form as though written there in letters of light. His stance and bearing showed that he was accustomed to deference and to obedience—more than a mere fighter, this was a leader of men, and the fact that I towered over him by a full head and more made absolutely no difference in my assessment of him. Publius Varrus, years earlier, had described the Emperor Honorius's regent, Flavius Stilicho, as a Vandal hawk; the man who faced me now was the same type, radiating menace, self confidence and absolute competence. He was young, on the lighter side of thirty, his well formed muscles full of the vigour of prime manhood. High, sharp cheekbones defined a lean face with a wide mouth, narrow lips and deep, dark, sunken eyes on either side of a dominating, sharp ridged, aquiline nose. The breadth of his high forehead was emphasized by the sharp widow's peak of hair that bisected it, reminding me fleetingly of Lucanus and drawing my attention to the raptor like quality of the face beneath. He was clean shaven, and his hair was close shorn in the Roman fashion.

  From his broad, strong shoulders, a dark-red cloak hung, fastened in the Roman manner through the breast rosettes of the metal cuirass he wore. He wore a quilted, knee-length tunic of thick, white wool, and an officer's kirtle of heavy, armoured straps was belted about his waist. The red cloak showed clear signs of having been carefully repaired in several places, and the relief work and decorative rosettes on his metal breastplate were worn almost smooth from years of polishing. The same polished lustre of loving care betrayed itself on the worn scrollwork of the bronze sheathed sword and dagger at his waist.

  I returned my gaze to his eyes, which, as he stared back at me, betrayed nothing of his thoughts. I nodded, keeping my own expression benign, if noncommittal.

  "Welcome, " I said quietly, "although you may doubt my sincerity at this point. May we know your name?"

  He sucked in one cheek, biting it as he gazed at me, narrow-eyed, and considered his response. "Call me Abductus," he said eventually, his voice betraying no emotion.

  I nodded, twisting my own mouth to hide an admiring smile. "Hardly accurate," I responded mildly. "You were not really abducted, nor were you taken prisoner. You were merely invited—"

  "Forcibly..."

  I nodded. "Forcibly, and I suspect tacitly, but nonetheless invited, to attend us here for purposes of mutual examination. You still wear your weapons, no? Prisoners and abductees are seldom permitted that."

  The black eyes were flat and unreadable. "Who are you, and what do you want of me?"

  "We'll come to that, but first I have to ask you why you were spying on my men."

  "What?" He spat the word in disbelief, then struggled with his anger before he could school his face once more to show nothing. When he resumed, his tone was flat again. "Your men were on my land, among my crops, trespassing close to my home."

  "I see. You live alone, farming so many fields?"

  I saw him frown, but my eyes had returned to the worn shortsword by his side. I knew that I was being foolish, allowing it to distract me, no matter what I thought I saw in it.

  "Does it surprise you that I should farm my own fields?"

  A clever answer to an unexpected question, but I pressed on. "Dressed as you are, yes, it does. You are no farmer. Your armour makes a liar out of you."

  He looked down at himself, then back at me. "I wear this seldom, nowadays. I am a farmer, first and foremost, as were the soldiers of Rome in ancient times. I take up the sword only when I need to. The presence of your people gave me cause. And as a soldier, I have given you all the information you will receive from me. "

  "Very well. " I could feel the others all looking hard at me. "I shall respect your wish to remain silent. But would you mind showing me your sword? I'm sure you realize, " I added, seeing the sudden suspicion in his eyes, "that had we wished to harm you, you would now be dead. May I?"

  I held out my hand, and he hesitated for only a moment before unhooking the shortsword and passing it over to me. I held it up close and examined the scabbard, then eased the sword itself partly from its sheath. Sure enough, as I had expected, there was a tiny "V" stamped into the top of the blade, just below the hilt.

  "How did you come by this?"

  He frowned again, clearly wondering how such a thing could have any importance, and then he blinked and shrugged his shoulders.

  "It was my father's. And before that, it was his father's. "

  "So it belonged to your grandfather. Where did he obtain it, do you know?"

  He had decided to humour me, it seemed, yet when he spoke his voice betrayed contempt. "How could I know that? He was an old man when I was born. Grandfathers are, you know. "

  "Yes, I know. " I ignored his truculence completely. "But I had good reason for asking the question. My great uncle made this sword. His name was Varrus. He was a sword maker, but some of his weapons, a very few—his special, finest works—he stamped with his personal mark, V for Varrus. He gave those only to his friends. This is one of them, so your grandfather and my great-uncle must have known each other. Look for yourself. "

  I tossed the sword back to him and he caught it deftly, pulling the blade partway out and peering at the mark, twisting it to catch the fire's light. He stood gazing at it for a space of heartbeats, then straightened up, sheathed the blade completely and clipped the scabbard back onto his belt before looking back at me.

  "I don't know what you are about, " he said. "But I don't believe you. I don't believe in coincidences—not like that. You looked first, and then made up the rest. "

  I was ready for him, however, and had already undipped my own sheathed dagger. "There's no coincidence. I simply recognized my uncle's handiwork. Look at the scrollwork on that sheath, then look at the V. " I tossed the dagger to him as I spoke.

  He looked at it as I had told him to, then handed it back. He cleared his throat, his expression, for the first time, suggesting uncertainty.

  "My name is Caius Britannicus, and I have some excellent mead in the headquarters tent. May I offer you some? I think we two have much to talk about. Thank you, gentlemen, " I added, looking around at my men. "You may leave us now. "

  I turned on my heel and walked directly to the single large tent in the middle of our encampment, knowing without looking that our visitor was walking behind me, and trying to imagine what he must be thinking.

  The tent was brightly lit and empty for the moment, although I
did not expect that to last for long. Philip, as Officer of the Watch, would be returning shortly and would have need of the table and the lights. I poured a cup of the amber liquid for myself and my "guest" from the flask of mead kept in a chest by the Officer of the Watch for special occasions. He took the cup I offered him and sat in the chair I indicated, moving slowly, his eyes on mine. Then he sighed quietly and sipped at the drink. Only after he had savoured it, rolling it around on his tongue, did he allow himself to relax slightly and lean back. I sat opposite him and waited.

  "So," he said, eventually. "You are Caius Britannicus. I am Appius Niger." He raised his cup in a small, ironic salute. "My thanks for the welcome. What do we do now?"

  I smiled. "We talk."

  'To what end?"

  'To an end of hostility, I should think. We have much in common."

  He pursed his lips and his eyes flicked from me to the appointments of the tent in which we sat. It was high and roomy and four cornered, six paces long on each side with a twin peaked roof supported by poles and guy ropes, and it was made from score upon score of uniform panels of soft leather, assiduously stitched together with strong, waxed twine so as to be both waterproof and windproof. It could hold a score of people in comfort and was military in every respect, clearly a command point for a mobile expedition. To his credit, my guest made no comment on any of that, unwilling, I assumed, to volunteer any information even by comparing what we had to what he might not have. Instead, he confined himself to responding to what I had already said.

  "Our names are both Roman, but the Romans are long departed. Beyond that, I can find little in common between us."

  "Well then," I offered, "let me make a suggestion. We are both of Roman descent, as you say, and we live here in Britain. That means we both have learned to live in amity with the Celts here. And that sets us both squarely against the newcomers who have been swarming over Britain since the armies left."

  He sat without moving for several moments more, then sniffed. "The newcomers. You mean the Picti, the Painted People from beyond the Wall in the north?"

  "Aye, in part, although I doubt they come this far south in any organized manner. But I also mean the Danes and the Saxons."

  "We have had no trouble from either of those. We have heard of them, of course, the Saxons at least, but they are only names, nightmare names with which to frighten children."

  I shrugged. "Nightmare names, perhaps, but you have been singularly fortunate if you have lived this long without ever meeting any of them. Only a few years ago, not far south of here, in Glevum, we encountered Berbers from the Central Sea. Corsairs, raiding here in a massive Roman bireme. They were stripping the marble from the public buildings in the town there, presumably to sell it beyond the seas, and they'll be back. When they've stripped everything of value from the towns close by the coast, they'll venture further inland. The Saxons and the Danes, for the time being, are content to remain in the eastern parts of the country, but they won't stay there forever, not when there is rich land to be had here in the west. You gull yourself if you believe you'll never meet them."

  Appius Niger sipped again at his mead, giving every indication of appreciating its excellence, then looked me in the eye and nodded slightly. "I've no doubt you're right. But our main difficulty until now has lain in dealing with wanderers, people from other parts of the country who range abroad looking to relieve people like me of crops and livestock." He paused, then added, "People like you."

  "No." My denial was instantaneous but not defensive. "You've had, and you will have, no difficulty with us." I kept right on, ignoring his attempt to interrupt with some caustic comment about having been abducted. I did not raise my voice but merely kept speaking over his objections. "We have no interest in your lands or in your crops, other than to take note of their existence, since we had not expected to find their like near here. Our scouting party was withdrawing when it encountered you, and having seen you and the style of your armour, the commander decided to bring you back with him, to me."

  "And you are Caius Britannicus. Should I be impressed?"

  His effrontery amused me. I found myself liking him, despite his attitude. "No," I replied. "But I'm also known as Merlyn, of Camulod."

  The change that came into his face was immediate, but I could not define it. He sat up straighter, however, and I sensed a sharp, sudden tension in him. My immediate thought was that he had reacted like a woodland stag, alert by nature and suddenly attuned to danger. Yet when he spoke, there was nothing of this in his words.

  "Now there's a name I've heard," he drawled, his voice and face devoid of all expression.

  "Well, now you have a face to put with it. What have you heard of me?"

  "That you serve excellent mead." He emptied his cup and held it out to me. "More, if I may."

  When I had finished pouring and replaced the flask a second time, I stood by the table that held the chest and looked down at him. "What else?"

  He tilted his head, appearing more at ease by the moment. "That you have a fabulous kingdom, far to the south, with an invincible army, supplied by the Empire." That made me laugh. "Don't tell me you're denying it!" he continued. "You and your men are wearing the evidence that proves it."

  That sobered me, and I placed my cup quickly on the table before stepping closer to him.

  "I can't believe you might be stupid enough to believe such twaddle, Niger. The Romans have been gone for generations now, and they will not be coming back."

  He blinked at me, keeping his face expressionless, but made no effort to reply. For long moments I hovered there, standing over him, before I stepped away, took up my drink again and lowered myself into a chair. Then I told him about Camulod. I told him we wore the Roman armour because of its superiority and because the legacy of our founding craftsmen, Publius Varrus first among them, enabled us to make it still. I went on to tell him of my grandfather, Caius Britannicus, and his dream of founding a defensible community that could survive the departure of the legions, and finally I outlined the role played by my father, Picus, in building our near invincible cavalry.

  "You've seen my men, and their horses," I concluded. "We are no more than a small patrol, an exploratory force. I promise you the world has seen nothing like the cavalry of Camulod since the days of Alexander of Macedon, the man they called Alexander the Great because he used cavalry to conquer the world."

  Appius was listening intently, his face rapt, and I drove onward.

  "Now I command the army of Camulod jointly with my brother, Ambrose. The cavalry is mine, by and large. The infantry is his, equally so. The Colony, however, is governed by a Council of Elders. It is a fine place to live. We have no slaves, no poverty and no deprivation. We are self sufficient in food and in other resources, and we are strong enough to withstand danger from outside—at least, we have been until now." I paused, for a space of three heartbeats, then continued. "Now, what have you to tell me of yourself?"

  Once again, my question was met with blank faced silence, but my patience was at an end.

  "Appius Nigra, think of what I have said. If my people and I were hungry for conquest, we should already be making plans to conquer you and lay your possessions waste. You were the one who spoke of our 'Roman' army. Believe me when I say it is substantial. Nothing would be easier for us than to return to Camulod—which, incidentally, is a mere four day journey from here—and then ride back at the head of a force that would obliterate whatever you might rally to meet us. We would find you—you cannot hide a settlement any more than you can hide fields. So be sensible. Believe me when I tell you that we have no plans to conquer or enslave you or to steal from you. Then be even more sensible and ask me what I have in mind for you."

  He started to drink again, but his hand stopped before it reached his mouth, and then he slowly reached down and placed the cup on the floor by his feet, looking carefully to see that he did not spill it. Finally he looked back at me, and again, knowing how his thoughts must have
been racing throughout all this, I had to admire his self possession.

  "Very well, then, what do you have in mind for me?"

  "I know you have a community, simply because of the number and richness of your fields, and I know, by the same logic, that it must be a strong one... reasonably so, at any rate. I think I might be able to advise you on how to strengthen it further. I'm no magician, but logic, applied judiciously, can perform seemingly magical things, and I pride myself on being logical."

  "Hmm." He sat staring at the wall opposite him for a count of ten, then pursed his lips and sucked air through them sharply. His decision was made.

  "My family calls me Nero," he said. "Don't ask me why , because the reason is long lost, but that's my name." He leaned down to recover his cup of mead and sipped at it reflectively, clearly ordering his thoughts. Then, when he had satisfied himself that what he had to say was right, he began to speak, and I listened for the next quarter of an hour.

  The story he told was much akin to ours in Camulod, but with several large and significant differences.

  He came of a wealthy Roman-British family, the Appius clan, collectively called Niger for the blackness of their hair and eyes and the swarthiness of their skin. He was the firstborn of the fifth generation bred in Britain. Despite his youth, he was currently the paterfamilias, the senior surviving Appius following his father's recent death. His grandfather, he told me, had been dead these twenty years.

  The Appius clan had settled enormous holdings more than a century earlier, in this fertile region to the north and east of Corinium. Their family lands, which had no name of their own, had lain close enough to Corinium for the town to be both the source of their supplies and the destination for their saleable crops, but they were, at the same time, far enough removed from the town that this business required a well regulated schedule of excursions. They were also far enough removed from the town, he added with some pride, to allow the Nigers to maintain a community that was uninfluenced by the urbanites of Corinium.