by Jack Whyte
“So what are you sayin’, Quint? Should I not go ’ome?” Callum sounded genuinely perplexed.
Varrus knew Callum was not the cleverest of the four sons. “Of course you should go home, Callum. But you should leave here with some real hope of reaching there alive. Wait for a few days and go home with the rest of the family. That way there will be more of you, and by then we should be able to make the group bigger, for safety’s sake. There are always people eager to combine with other folk to travel to Londuin in safety.”
“Err…All righty, then, I’ll go back with Da and our Lyddie. Say, when’s you two gettin’ wed, then?”
“I can’t answer that question,” Varrus said, and turned to Lydia beside him. “Can you?”
“Of course I can, my love.” She smiled sweetly and leaned forward to talk to her brother. “We will be wed the very moment we are ready, Callum, and we will let you know well in advance, so you’ll know it’s coming.” She then looked back at Varrus, batted her eyelashes at him demurely, and returned to her conversation with Shanna.
TWENTY-TWO
Mid-morning the following day, Varrus was interrupted while talking to Demetrius Hanno about the blade they were currently working on. Annoyed as he always was at being distracted from his work, he changed his attitude instantly when he looked up and recognized the insignia of a guardsman on the cuirass of the man who had spoken to him. The fellow saluted, then announced that there was a messenger at the main gates, asking for him.
It was Shamus, and Varrus felt his chest fill with dread when he saw the look on the young man’s face.
“What’s wrong?” he demanded as soon as he was close enough for Shamus to hear him. “Who’s sick?”
“It’s Liam,” Shamus said, whey-faced, and in spite of himself Varrus felt a great surge of relief sweep over him. Liam had been sick before, from his injuries. He would recover. Varrus had no doubt of that.
“What happened?”
“He fell. Hit his head on the smithy floor. The concrete.”
Varrus grimaced. “How bad is it, do you know?”
“Bad. I was there, behind him. I couldn’t reach him in time to catch him.”
“Is he bleeding?”
Shamus shook his head. “He was. Not so much now. Split the back of his skull open. He hasn’t woken up since he fell. Da tried to stop the bleedin’ but ’e couldn’t, not for a while.”
“How long ago did this happen?”
“This morning, early. Mayhap three hours ago.”
“Damnation! Stay here. Right here. Don’t move before I come back.” He spun away towards the guardsmen. “I have to get to the infirmary. What’s the quickest way?”
The guard decanus pointed into the main body of the fort and shouted instructions as Quintus took off at a run—past the quaestorium, and then the second building on the left.
Moments later he found the building and ran inside, shouting for help, to find himself in a small atrium surrounded by open-ended rooms, each containing a bed and nothing else. None of the beds were occupied, but a man appeared from another door.
“Hey, hey, hey! What’s all the shouting about?”
Varrus went right to him. “What are you, a magus or an orderly?”
“I’m a physician. Who are you?”
“Can you treat head wounds?”
The other man pursed his lips. “Of course I can. That’s why I’m in the army. What’s wrong?”
“A friend of mine, an elderly man, has fallen and cracked his head. He is unconscious. My name is Mcuil and I work in the armouries. Can you come with me?”
“Yes,” the other said, turning away. “I’ll fetch my instruments.” A moment later he returned, carrying a leather satchel. “Where is this man?”
“Not far from here, outside the fort. I’ll show you. Come.” He led the way, and they collected Shamus as they passed the gates on their way out.
Liam’s smithy lay five minutes away at a brisk walk, and they covered it in less, going directly to Liam’s bedchamber. The room was large and spacious and it was well lit and comfortable because Liam had built it to be so. It was also far more crowded than Varrus had expected, mostly with neighbours and friends, and for the first time since he had arrived in Colcaster he realized how many Eirish people there were in the narrow district housing the smithy. It was no more than two, perhaps three streets in extent, and it had no name, but everyone who lived there was Celtic, and most of them, like the Mcuils, were Eirish. The women were clustered around Shanna, whose face was dominated by her wide, uncomprehending stare.
Varrus called everyone to listen to him, and when the noise continued he raised his voice to a bellow, commanding instant silence. Raising his arms for attention, he indicated his companion and said loudly, “This is Gnaeus Aurelius. He is a physician attached to the garrison infirmary and he knows about injuries like this.” He spoke directly to Aurelius. “Is there anything you need, Magister Aurelius?”
“Hot water, as hot as it can be,” the physician said, gazing at the still form on the bed. “And cold water. More of the hot than the cold, though, and a constant supply.” He continued to stare at the unconscious man, squinting through narrowed eyes. “Those bandages look clean—as clean as they can be with blood on them, I mean. I would like more of those. The same width, and in strips as long as you can provide.” He glanced around the room. “Apart from that, I need room to move freely, and I need quiet, so everyone go away now, if it please you, and find other places to wait. And go even if it does not please you. Liam will thank you for that later.”
Varrus took it upon himself to clear the room, approaching each family member and friend individually, and within a very short time the room was empty save for himself, the physician, and the immobile Liam.
Aurelius nodded tersely. “Benigne,” he said. “My gratitude. Now that everyone has gone, though, I am going to need an assistant. Someone sufficiently calm and cool-headed to work around an injured, bleeding man, attending to his needs. That might be the man’s wife, but then again it might not, depending on her temperament. I know none of these people, so I must rely on you to pick one of them to assist me.”
“Am I acceptable? I know the man—I respect and admire him—but I won’t swoon at the sight of fresh blood and I can help you move him around, if need be, better than any woman could.”
“Excellent,” Aurelius said. “So be it. Come over here and help me remove these bloodied dressings. I need to see what damage has been done.”
That was the start of a long stint of hard, exhausting work that Varrus remembered little about afterwards. He recalled feeling vaguely relieved that the back of Liam’s head was merely cut and not completely crushed, as he had feared it might be; remembered, too, that Gnaeus Aurelius frowned and made impatient tutting noises as he checked Liam’s pulse from time to time. Most clearly, though, he remembered the physician’s sharp intake of breath after he had cut away Liam’s tunic.
“God’s blood,” he muttered. “No wonder you fell down. You wouldn’t have noticed the bang on your head at all beside the pain of this thing. I’m surprised you could even get out of bed, let alone go to work.”
Varrus remembered wincing at the sight of it, but afterwards he had only vague images of livid red and purple discoloration, deep folds of fatty-yellow, unnatural-looking skin, and black-scabbed areas of healing flesh.
He also remembered going to the chamber door at times and bringing in pails of hot, steaming water and armfuls of neatly rolled white cloth bandages, and he remembered flexing his legs and lifting Liam up in both arms at one point, then turning away from the bed while Aurelius rearranged the bedsheets before calling for him to set his burden down again. And he remembered, very clearly, washing his hands and forearms thoroughly with some kind of pungent, foaming soap that Aurelius gave him.
Afterwards, when they went back into the main part of the house and sat by the fire, Lydia came to meet them, bringing each of them a mug of Shanna’s ale a
nd asking them for information on Liam’s condition. Aurelius explained that he had given Liam a sleeping potion that should keep him sound asleep for at least eight more hours, and that when he returned to his infirmary he would prepare some other medications and bring them back with him in the morning, when he would explain what they did and how they should be administered. He was also adamant that no visitors should be allowed into the sickroom other than Liam’s wife, Lydia, and Varrus himself.
When Lydia left to spread the word of what she had learned, the physician raised his mug to Varrus and then sipped at his drink, staring into the fire.
One of the logs in the brazier gave way, and Varrus watched a whirl of sparks rise into the chimney. “The bang on his head is the least of his troubles, isn’t it?” he said.
Aurelius shook his head and exhaled loudly through his nostrils. “Not the half of them,” he said. “I’ve seen severe battle wounds that were nowhere near as bad as that. What in God’s name happened to him?”
“An accident. In the forge. He fell while he was carrying a white-hot blade. It burnt him to the bone.”
“It did far worse than that. When did this happen?”
“I don’t really know. He won’t talk about it. It was more than a year ago, though. I’ve been here for almost a year and he was over it by the time I got here.”
Gnaeus Aurelius threw Varrus an unfathomable look. “You speak very well, and conduct yourself very well, for an Eirishman. How good a smith are you?”
“I know my craft.”
“Aye, I’m sure you do. You have that air of competence about you that commands respect. How do men call you? Your friends, I mean.”
Varrus cocked his head. “Fingael,” he said, “or Finn.”
“Then I shall call you Magister Fingael. So listen, Magister. I assume this man is your uncle, am I correct?” Varrus nodded, and the physician continued. “Well, I have no hesitation in saying that I have probably never met a more stoic or courageous man in my entire life. He should have died months ago. I am a Christian, and I am now speaking as a Christian. The fact that this man has actually been working in a smithy, in the condition I found him in today, is close to being miraculous. That he has remained alive for as long as he has with such wounds is a miracle in itself.”
There was a long silence until Varrus said, quietly, “So there is nothing you can do to save him?”
“The Lord God Himself would be taxed to save this man, especially with the wounds he sustained today.” He shook his head. “No, Magister Fingael. There is nothing I can do, save make him comfortable for as long as he continues to live.” He held up a hand to stop Varrus before he could say another word. “You are going to ask me how long that might be, but let me ask this of you instead: how am I to know that? The infection and corruption in his wounds is rife—beyond salvage. I have never seen the like of it. The man should not be alive. And yet he is. Would you have me attempt to read God’s mind? Well, forgive me then, because I cannot do that. All I can do is respect His dictates.”
He raised his mug and drained it. “I have to get back to my infirmary. Fortunately, as you saw, we have no residents at the moment, so my temporary desertion might have gone unnoticed. I’m grateful to you for your assistance today. You were of great help. When I get back, I’ll prepare those medications I mentioned. But I warn you, they are painkillers and sedatives, so expect no miraculous resurrections.”
“What should I tell the family?”
“That he is gravely hurt and it is highly likely he will not recover. No need to tell them more. His wife, at least, has lived with his infirmity for a long time now, so she must believe it to be non-fatal, and that speaks even more directly to her husband’s determination and stoicism. No need to disillusion her on that. It would only make her feel guilt she does not deserve. The blow to Liam’s head was severe—ample reason to expect a tragic outcome, and I suspect the entire family already thinks that to be true.” He stood up, setting his empty mug on the table. “Between you and me, though, I’ll be surprised if he survives the night. Farewell, Magister Fingael.”
* * *
—
Varrus escorted Aurelius to the outer gate and saw him on his way, and as he turned back towards the house he saw Lydia waiting for him in the courtyard, her arms crossed on her breast. He hugged her in silence, kissing the crown of her head, and when she leaned back in his arms to look up at him, he asked, “How is Shanna?”
She looked away, over his shoulder. “How should she be?” she said. “Frightened, lost. What will she do now? She can’t run the smithy by herself, without a smith.”
“She has a smith. Shamus will do the work.”
“Shamus doesn’t want to be a smith forever.”
It became his turn to lean back and look at her. “What is that supposed to mean? Shamus is a smith. That’s what he does to earn his livelihood. If he has no desire to be a smith, then it’s a secret of which I knew nothing.”
“No one knows,” she whispered. “No one but me. He’s not even sure of it himself.”
Varrus cupped her face in both his palms, peering into her eyes. “Lydia, my love,” he said, “I treasure you more than anything in life, but this has been a long, frustrating day and I have no idea what you are talking about. Will you please explain this to me?”
She pulled herself erect and sniffed, dabbing at her eyes with a tiny piece of cloth she had been holding in her hand, and then she took him by the wrist and led him to where they had talked the previous afternoon, against the wagon by the wall. “Lift me up,” she said, spreading her arms. When she was seated, looking down at him slightly, she drew a deep breath.
“Shamus thinks he is in love,” she began, and then told Varrus all that she had discovered about Shamus and his love interest. “He told me this yesterday and made me swear to tell no one else. But that was yesterday, and none of us would have believed what today would bring. And besides, what he told me this afternoon changed everything. I could not have remained silent, knowing what I know now.”
“Today? What more did you learn today?”
“The poor lad was distraught, blaming himself for not having caught Liam before his head could hit the ground. That is nonsense, of course, but not to him. He was inconsolable, and so I took him aside to see if I could comfort him. I thought it might take his mind off things if we spoke of his girl again today. But once he started talking this time, he could not stop and everything came out…how much he hated smithing, how he’d never wanted to be a smith but had been forced into it, as though it were a kind of slavery. And he went on and on about how he was going to marry his Eylin and steal her away to where he could build a business of his own, doing what he wants to do.”
“Gods!” Varrus stood silent for a moment. “And what was that? What does he want to do? Did he say?”
“He wants to be cooper.”
“A what?”
“A cooper. A barrel maker.”
“In know what a cooper is, my love, but where did he conceive of that idea?”
“At home,” she answered, unfazed. “In Londuin. Our smithy used to be a cooperage before Da bought it.”
His eyes widened. “Well, yes, of course, but did Shamus ever work as a cooper? Or has he merely been dreaming of it?”
“He worked at it. When he was still a boy, too young to be trusted around the smithy and the forge, he worked outside for two summers, helping a friend of Da’s who was a barrel maker. I remember how much he enjoyed it, but he never spoke of it again after Da let him go into the smithy…” She watched him intently. “So what will you do now, now that I’ve broken my promise to him not to tell anyone?”
“I don’t know,” Varrus said quietly, “but I’ll keep your secret for as long as I can, because he’s not likely to walk out of here tomorrow and set himself up as a cooper. He probably doesn’t know how to make a barrel. Or he might know how to, but he couldn’t do it himself.”
“Would he need to?”
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br /> He cocked an eyebrow at her. “What d’you mean?”
She shrugged, prettily, and made a little pout. “Does a barrel maker have to be able to make barrels himself, if he employs others who can do it for him? Your Ajax is a garrison armourer and a collector of fine swords, you say, and yet he can’t make a sword himself.”
He stared at her and his lips began curling into a smile. “You are a devious woman,” he said in tones of open admiration. “Admittedly he has no money, or any strong likelihood of earning it, but all he would really need is a willing investor to help him get set up and hire his own coopers. So his dream need not be impossible. Difficult to realize, certainly, but not impossible. Your vision would give him leave to dream, at least, and dreams come true, I’m told, from time to time.”
“Even if they do not, they can fend off despair,” she said. “And if Shamus even thinks he could learn the trade, working with a real cooper, it might give him hope for the future.”
“Perhaps so. But it would do nothing for Shanna’s need to have a smith around to run the smithy.”
“There will be no need for that if Liam recovers. For as long as he remains alive, Shamus will not feel threatened in the matter of his freedom to move on.” She hesitated, frowning at him. “What is it?”
“Gnaeus Aurelius thinks Liam might not live. The damage to his head is severe.”
Lydia was silent for a moment, then asked, “How likely does he think Liam is to die of it?”
“He has no way of knowing. But he said he will be surprised if Liam survives the night.”
“Dear God,” she whispered. “I must pray for Liam’s soul. Help me down, Quintus, quickly.”
He lifted her from the wagon and watched her hurry away towards the house and her own room, where he knew she would close herself in and pray.
In the depths of the night, in the darkest hours before dawn, a keening wail woke Varrus, and he knew that Liam Mcuil was gone.