The Burning Stone

by Jack Whyte

  “Smelters and smiths change red earth into iron,” Ajax said. “And in Egypt, I have heard, there are sorcerers who claim the ability to change lead into gold. But when I look at you I see, right before my eyes, someone who changes charcoal into gold, and I know something is wrong.”

  Varrus felt the abyss yawn open at his feet. “You know,” he said in a dead, hopeless voice.

  “I know many things. It’s my responsibility to know things. That’s why I’m the armourer here. I know, for example, that you came to me some months ago as an eager young Hibernian tyro, Fingael Mcuil, with a hunger to learn about making blades. I believed you must be Eirish, because had you been otherwise, you would be in the legions, not merely working for them. But I did not know then that you have a physical flaw that would bar you from legionary service no matter who you were. I know, too, that since then you have set me on my arse, time after time, with the way you speak and the things you know, things that you could never have learned in Eire, or even in your father’s smithy in Dalmatia, or wherever you grew up. You use words no Eirish smith should ever know—and ‘moribund’ is only one of them. And in the past few days the hair close to your scalp has turned to gold—not just to early grey, which is what I thought was happening when I first noticed it, but to bright, yellow gold.

  “I know you’re an impostor, too. I was sure of it from the outset, but since then I’ve been asking around, and no one I’ve spoken to has ever met or heard of a living Eirishman calling himself Fingael Mcuil. That would be like me calling myself Romulus of Rome and expecting to be taken seriously. Fingael Mcuil is one of the legendary giants of your people—a myth, like Hercules or Priam, King of Troy. The state of Rome is paying you a salaria, believing you to be who you said you are, and you are manifestly not who you said you are. That alone is grounds for a court martial with an outcome of execution…So, as I said, here is where you and I will begin all over again, and where we go from here will rest with you. For the time being, at least. Who are you?”

  Varrus had listened to Ajax’s accusation with mounting dismay, and his thoughts had been racing along with the armourer’s words, so when the armourer finished with his final question, he answered without hesitation.

  “My name is Varrus. Quintus Publius Varrus. I—”

  The speed with which Ajax’s hand flashed out to silence him startled him into freezing mid-word, and only then did he realize that the young apprentice had returned, bearing a steaming kettle of spiced apple juice. Ajax rose and thanked the lad, then closed the door behind him. That done, he poured two horn cups of the hot drink and set one down by Varrus before returning to his seat.

  “Roman,” he said. “And patrician, I suppose. Varrus is an ancient name. I suspected you might be Roman, but the patrician part makes no sense. A smith and an aristocrat? I smell a tale of dire, uncommon import…” He made no attempt to cover up the skepticism in his voice. “Do you want to tell me about it? About how you came here, and why and from where?”

  “Yes. I do.”

  Ajax wrinkled his nose and sniffed, but then he sipped at his drink and made himself as comfortable as he could in such spartan surroundings. “You have my attention,” he said.

  No one disturbed them as Varrus told his tale, and by the time he had finished it his hot drink was cold and untouched.

  Ajax had listened closely to the entire story, making no attempt to interrupt with questions, and when Varrus finally fell silent, the armourer sat staring into emptiness. Finally, he straightened his spine and stretched, then raised his cup and drank what remained in it. “You really believe the Roman authorities in Londinium were searching for you?”

  “They were searching for someone that morning,” Varrus replied, “and they were being thorough. I was glad to be safe outside the city gates at the time. I do believe they were looking for me, most likely because of the Emperor’s labarum. It was foolish of me to wave that around the way I did.”

  “Hmm…Had you not waved it around, though, things might have quickly gone from bad to much worse in that marketplace, so don’t be too regretful. You might have saved lives, but you will never know, one way or the other. Do you still have it?”

  “I do.”

  “Then bury it. It’s probably the most dangerous thing you’ll ever have in your possession. Believe me.”

  “I do. I learned the truth of that when I fled Londinium.”

  “And the Blues—that’s the part that made me raise my eyebrows. You killed four Blues, all by yourself?”

  Varrus grimaced dubiously. “Dominic thought I had. I killed four gutter creatures, I know that. But as to whether they were Blues or not, I simply do not know. I had been in Londinium for no more than a few weeks, and I moved on within days. I didn’t know what a Blue was, and I still don’t.”

  “If I were you, I wouldn’t lose much sleep in mourning them, whether they were Blues or not. But I’m glad you’ve told me everything, finally.”

  He reached to pick up the dispatch cylinder on the table at his back, and as he did, Varrus asked, “So when do you want me out of here? Or do you prefer I leave right now?”

  Ajax looked at him with raised eyebrows. “I don’t want you out of here. All I wanted was to know who you really are. I already knew what you are. You’re a willing worker who knows how to smile and when to laugh, and has the makings of a damned fine smith, and that’s all I really care about—I didn’t want to lose a good smith simply because he felt he couldn’t trust me. That’s why I’m glad you told me. Now we can trust each other. You might want to start wearing a smith’s hood, though, to cover your hair, like most of the others who work with sparks flying around them. And once you start working on the new swords with Demetrius, you won’t have time to scratch your head between now and next Saturnalia.”

  He held up the cylinder. “This came today, addressed to Fingael Mcuil in care of Liam Mcuil, smith, in Colonia Claudia Victricensis. I have no idea what’s in it, but it’s official, dispatched from colonial headquarters in Londinium.” He passed the cylinder over to Varrus. “I’ll leave you alone to read it.”

  “No,” Varrus said, looking at the cylinder and seeing his name on a scrap of parchment melted into the red wax seal. “You don’t need to leave. I don’t know what’s in here, but I doubt my life will be threatened by it. What about my name, though? What will I do about that?”

  “Keep it to yourself and guard it jealously. The crew here knows you as Fingael Mcuil, so it might be best to keep it for now. People don’t really care what you call yourself in here, as long as you can do what you’re supposed to do, and do it competently. Later, if you ever go back out into daylight wearing decent clothes, you can use your Roman name and no one will be any the wiser. Now, will you open that damn cylinder?”

  Varrus broke the seal and shook out the contents, catching them in his free hand: two letters rolled lengthwise in the manner of scrolls, but with separate pages. One was much more substantial than the other, and each was held closed by a thin, flat ring of bone or ivory. The smaller of the two had been inserted into the centre of the larger one, and so he unrolled it first, scanning to discover that it had been written three weeks earlier by Rhys’s brother Dylan, on the first day, the Kalends, of March. It was written in Latin, and intrigued, he began to read it, whispering the words for his own ears.

  Ajax stood up and collected Varrus’s untouched cup. He emptied it back into the kettle, then turned away. “I’ll heat this up again,” he said, and left Varrus to his reading.

  Londinium. The Kalends of March

  To Fingael Mcuil

  That opening, alone, stopped Varrus and made him smile, for the name it used told him that Dylan had been in touch with the Mcuils in Londinium, which meant he had been talking to Lydia, and a sudden surge of longing for her almost overcame him. He thrust it aside, however, refusing to be diverted, and noting, as he continued reading, that Dylan knew precisely where he was and what he had been doing.

  Greetings
, my friend:

  My neighbour Malachai, who has the market stall next to mine and is a Christian, informs me that this is the 318th year in the Christian calendar or, as they phrase it, the year 318 in the time of our Lord. Whichever way one counts the years, though, be it in the old Roman fashion or the new, there can be little doubt that our world is changing rapidly.

  A week ago, I received a summons to attend the office of the quaestor in the fortress here, and when I presented myself I was informed that a package had been delivered in trust to the garrison commander for my attention. I was told that it was a military communication from the headquarters of the Italian fleet at Classis, near Ravenna, and that it had been sent to me in person by Vice-Admiral Marius Varrus, the sub-prefect of the Ravenna fleet.

  Varrus scanned what he had read for a second time, wondering what on earth his friend was talking about. It was one thing to pretend that Quintus himself was called Mcuil—arguably a necessary subterfuge—but it was another altogether to designate an inaccurate rank to Marius, whom Dylan had never met or, to the best of Varrus’s knowledge, even heard of. Beginning to feel the slightest niggling of concern, he read on.

  On hearing that name I remembered that my dear brother Rhys had been an associate of a naval officer called Varrus who served on the northern frontiers years ago, and so I accepted the package gratefully and with great curiosity, assuming it held tidings of my brother.

  Varrus sat frowning now, his brows drawn together ferociously. Rhys had died in Dylan’s own home, less than a year ago, so what Dylan had written here was absolute nonsense. But then the tension inside him began to abate rapidly, because Dylan must have known that Quintus would recognize it as nonsense. Which meant that Dylan had written the letter anticipating that it might be read by eyes other than Quintus’s own. Feeling much better, he returned to the letter, scanning it now with an eye for what was really being said rather than what was written.

  The package contained a letter, addressed to me, from the admiral himself, telling me who he is and explaining that several years ago he had persuaded his close friend, my brother Rhys, to undertake an urgent and clandestine mission on the admiral’s behalf and, incidentally, on behalf of the Empire. Admiral Varrus had asked him to travel north, into the area of the city of Aquileia on the upper shores of the Adriatic Sea, there to observe and report upon activities among the local tribes who were reportedly harbouring and assisting Gothic invaders from the Rhine frontier. Rhys had apparently carried out similar missions in the past, the admiral told me, and had been well rewarded, but the work was secretive and dangerous. Rhys had vanished into the northern territories soon after that, and had not been heard from since. After waiting for more than a year, the admiral had presumed Rhys dead, killed while in the field.

  Again Varrus paused, but no longer in puzzlement, and went back to reread the passage, smiling this time in admiration of the elaboration of the lie he was supposedly being told.

  Several months earlier, however, shortly after the feast of Saturnalia the previous year, after having heard nothing of Rhys for several years, the admiral had heard a report of a man purporting to have escaped from captivity among the Goths on the Rhine, in company with two other men, both of them metal smiths from Hibernia. This man in the report had won home to Italia, but his two companions had chosen to steal home to Britain. The admiral had tried immediately to find out more, for the report he had heard had been specific, even naming the other man’s name, and stating that he was a smith like Rhys himself.

  The search had been fruitless, though, because the man who had claimed to have escaped with Rhys could not be found, making the story appear to be no more than a baseless rumour. Admiral Varrus, however, remains convinced that what he heard was true, and that my brother is still alive somewhere. He also remembered that Rhys had given him my name and details of my occupation in Londinium before he left to travel to Aquileia, and so he resolved to send me my brother’s remaining personal effects, which Rhys had left in his care. He told me he would ship them by sea from Ravenna, consigning them directly to the garrison in Londinium, in the hope of finding me, but that he was sending the letter directly overland to Gaul by military courier, in the hope that I might receive it in advance of the arrival of my brother’s personal effects.

  I have no doubt that you are now wondering why I should write to you of this, but the answer is simple: the man with whom my brother supposedly escaped from captivity has the same name as you—Mcuil. Is there the merest possibility that you might have encountered, or even heard of one of your name, a man called Mcuil, who has recently returned to Britain from the Rhine frontiers of Roman territory? If there is, and if you know of such a man, I beg you to inform me. You may find me as I found you, through the good offices of Rome’s garrisons.

  Dylan Dempster

  Varrus had been so engrossed in reading that he had failed to notice Ajax coming back into the small room and setting a freshly heated drink within reach of his hand, but when he looked up, there it was, and behind it was Ajax himself, eyeing him.

  Varrus picked up the drink and sipped it, feeling its biting, sharp tang flooding his mouth with tingling sensations. “Benigne,” he said, raising the cup to Ajax.

  The armourer nodded back, then inclined his head towards the letter in Varrus’s hand. “Does that bring ill tidings?”

  “I don’t know what it brings,” Varrus said. “I’ve read it through three times and I’m still not sure I understand it. Here, see what you can make of it.” He held the letter out and Ajax looked at it askance, as though it might be dangerous.

  “Are you sure you want me to do that?”

  “Yes, I am, because I want to know what it means, and you might be able to understand it better than I can.”

  Ajax read it the entire thing through, twice, and then lowered it and looked at Varrus.

  “So what do you not understand?”

  “Well, the major part of it is nonsense. Rhys is dead. He died in Londinium, in Dylan’s arms, not long ago. And he was never on the Rhine frontier. He was in Dalmatia, with me. He never knew my uncle Marius, either, beyond seeing him in the villa on occasion, and that was seldom twice in any year. Marius was always at sea. And Marius is a navarch, not a vice-admiral. Sub-prefect of the Italian fleet! Nonsense!”

  “No,” Ajax demurred. “You can’t be sure of that. Good officers do win promotion, and you said earlier your uncle was a good officer. And it’s been what, two years since you last saw him?”

  “More…But you’re right. He could be an admiral by now. The rest is shit, though.”

  Ajax looked down at the letter again. “Perhaps not. Has it occurred to you that this was deliberately written to confuse? Not to confuse you, necessarily, but perhaps to mislead anyone who might intercept it, or read it for the wrong reasons.”

  “Yes, I saw that eventually. Still, why would he worry about anyone else reading it? Who would even know he’d written it? And who could access it between there and here, especially since he was sending it through official military channels?”

  Ajax looked genuinely regretful. “Mcuil, Mcuil, Mcuil,” he said. “Bear in mind why you ran away from Londinium in the first place. You thought the authorities were hunting you. The authorities—nameless, faceless, and all-powerful. Don’t you think there’s a danger they might still be looking for you, interested in anything to do with the Mcuil family?” He ignored Varrus’s crestfallen look. “What about the other letter?”

  “Gods, I didn’t even remember it.”

  Ajax’s grin flickered at the corner of his mouth. “No wonder you get confused,” he said. “Your mind’s like a cloud of midges, buzzing everywhere in tiny circles, getting nothing done. Read it now, then. See what it says.”

  Varrus picked up the second, larger scroll, and removed the ivory retaining ring. He cleared a spot among the clutter of documents on the table, then unrolled the new letter and laid the sheets of parchment face downwards, pressing them flat and h
olding them against their tendency to curl up again, finally laying a broad metal file across them to keep them flat. He wiped both hands on the front of his tunic beneath his apron, then grasped the edges of the flattened pages and rolled them up tightly again, this time in the opposite direction, holding the finished roll tightly for a count of twenty. When he released his grip this time, the pages sprang open and remained open. Handling them more gently now, he spread them apart, revealing that they were six identically sized vellum pages, carefully cut and shaped with a sharp-edged instrument. He turned them over and scanned the first page, and instantly grinned.

  “What?” Ajax asked.

  “This is from Marius. Six pages of it. And anyone but me would go mad trying to read it.”

  “How so?”

  “Because it’s not a language that can be written. It’s gibberish.”

  “Let me see.”

  For a while Ajax peered at the pages, frowning at the close-set lines of black writing that covered them, words that were completely unintelligible. “That is…It’s insane,” he said eventually. “It looks like writing, but it makes no sense. What’s the point?”

  Varrus laughed, feeling completely at ease with the centurion for the first time, and enjoying it. “The point is, Magister Ajax, that there’s nothing insane about this, and you were absolutely correct about the purpose of the other letter being to confuse. Let me explain.

  “There is not much for normal, healthy, intelligent young people to do on the coastlands of Dalmatia in the heat of summer. It can be a lonely, desolate place, despite the perfect weather every day. I had few friends as a boy, but my uncle Marius was my closest friend, and in the summer of my twelfth birthday, my uncle and I amused ourselves—he was on leave from the Moesian fleet at the time—by inventing our own written language that no one else could understand.”

  He saw Ajax starting to raise a hand to interject. “Wait. You’ll see in a moment. There was an island a mile off the coast from where we lived—a tiny place, peopled by fishing folk. They had nothing to offer anyone and nothing worth stealing and they wished for nothing more than they already had, and so they never left their island, not even to visit a neighbouring one. Marius and I went there to visit many times over the years—my grandfather was the nominal owner of their island—and we came to know them well. They were a primitive people, and they had their own language, as simple as their lives. We learned to speak their tongue, but it had never been written. So we wrote it, purely for the pleasure of it. Once we worked out how, it was easy.”