The Singing Sword

XIX

We were fortunate enough to be able to see Picus often during the two years of Stilicho's campaign in Britain, in spite of the fact that the fighting was intense and hectic all during that time. It was he who told us that the major problem facing Stilicho's forces was one of deployment, since the enemy they were fighting was seaborne and undisciplined and there was no master plan behind the Saxon incursions. Picus insisted that it was inaccurate to speak of invasion for that single reason: lacking a master plan, or even a recognizable leader, these attacks, significant and consistent though they were, nevertheless consisted simply of massive numbers of Saxons, Hibernian Scots, Caledonian Picts, and Franks from south Gaul striking without warning wherever they made landfall, so that Stilicho's armies were constantly reacting instead of initiating. This was a new form of war; there was never any question of military confrontation, of meeting and defeating a static enemy in a fixed battle.

In the course of those two years, Stilicho's greatest weapon, his supreme advantage, was his new heavy cavalry. It became clear very early in the campaign that the speed and manoeuvrability they possessed demanded augmentation and encouragement, and Stilicho was a brilliant commander who believed in making the most of every advantage at his disposal. Within months, boatloads of prime horseflesh began arriving regularly at the Saxon Shore forts along the south coast — the very finest horses the Empire could provide.

Young Quintus Flavius, one of Picus's close friends, was promoted to general and given the responsibility for overseeing the breeding farms of the armies of Britain. It was far from coincidental that every time one of these two visited the Colony, he came mounted on a fine stallion, and our own stock improved with every foaling.

Late in the autumn of 398, Picus arrived one night accompanied only by a small, armed escort. He saw to the quartering of his horses and his men and then he drew his father and me aside into Caius's study. We could tell that something important was in the wind, but we had no idea what it was, or how it might affect us. Picus let us know the answer to those questions just as soon as Gallo had brought us wine and honeyed wheat-cakes and had built up the fire in the great brazier so that it was now a roaring blaze. As the door closed behind the old man, Picus opened his pouch and produced a rolled parchment, which he handed to his father. The imperial seal that held it closed was dazzling in its import.

"Read it aloud, Father."

Caius broke the seal and scanned the parchment quickly, then cleared his throat and began to read aloud:

" 'Caius Britannicus, Proconsul of Rome, from Flavius Stilicho, Commander-in-Chief, Imperial Armies.

" 'In the name of His Imperial Majesty, Honorius, Emperor of all Rome, the time has come for me to remind you of the terms of the commission issued to you by my hand in the year of my arrival in Britain.

" 'Now, in the second year of our campaigning, it appears that our armies have turned the tide of invasion and re-established the supremacy of Roman arms in this province. I am commanded by His Imperial Highness to withdraw my legions to the marshalling of his affairs elsewhere in the Empire; departure will be immediate upon conclusion of military arrangements in Britain to my satisfaction.

" 'The Legate Picus Britannicus will remain in Britain with his cavalry, as my deputy, until such time as the Empire shall have need of him elsewhere or until he has established a cavalry command to his own standards within Britain and can feel confident in delegating his own authority to a subordinate, freeing himself in conscience to return to my command.

" 'With this letter, to be delivered to you by the Legate Britannicus, I am enclosing a plenary warrant of authorization confirming you in the rank of Legatus Emeritus of the Irregular Armies of South-west Britain, in the name of Honorius, Emperor of the West. In this capacity, you will use all the powers at your command to defend the territories delineated on the accompanying chart signed by my hand and sealed with the seal of Honorius.

" 'Stilicho, Commander-in-Chief. Pro persona: Honorius, Imperator.'"

When he had stopped reading, we both stood staring at Picus.

"So," said Caius, "what does this really mean? Apart from the obvious. Stilicho is leaving and you are to remain, for the time being. How long will you remain in Britain?"

Picus shrugged, smiling. "Who knows, Father? He may send for me next month, although I doubt it. My guess is that I am here for a long time. Stilicho has three commanders of cavalry here in Britain with him now, not counting Flavius. I am senior of the three. He has chosen to leave me behind to organize Britain. It could be a big undertaking."

"Could be?" Caius's tone was sharp. "Could be? Are you unsure?"

Picus shook his head, chastened. "No. Let me rephrase that without false modesty. It is a major responsibility. Stilicho does me great honour."

"That's better."

I caught Picus's eye, feeling the half-smile on my face at hearing the meticulous father critical, although only mildly so, of the favoured son. Picus, however, was unaware of me. His expression was thoughtful, and he stared intently into the fire of the brazier for a long time before he spoke again.

"It's not going to be an easy matter to build a permanent cavalry garrison here, or to staff it with a self-sufficient command that I can leave behind. There is too much entrenched resentment among the regular army command."

"How so?" The look on Cay's face was measuring, his eyes intent on his son as the young man laid out before us the problems facing him.

"They're jealous, I suppose," Picus muttered, finally. This was accompanied by another shrug of his shoulders. "After four hundred years of Roman occupation in Britain, their authority, as they see it, is being usurped by an upstart body of elitist troops under the command of a chain of staff officers most of whom are not yet twenty-five years old."

"Damn it," I said, "that's the way it has always been. All the brilliant soldiers of history have been babes in arms!"

He glanced in my direction, noticing me, I felt, as one would notice a passing wasp. "Aye, but most of them fought on foot, Varrus."

Caius interrupted. "Invalid, my son. After that same four hundred years of occupation, Roman military intelligence has finally come up with a new way to re-establish Roman supremacy. Surely the army commanders can see that?"

Picus half twisted his head, an incomplete gesture suggesting that his father's suggestion was an unconvincing one. "Perhaps they can, Father, but that doesn't mean they have to like it."

"True, absolutely not. But Stilicho's imperial authority means they have to accept it."

"No argument." Picus held up his helmet and brushed at its crest with the sleeve of his tunic, preening the stiff, scarlet-dyed horsehair. "But any acceptance, Father, can be qualified by willingness. Resistance to change is an intrinsic human failing. I remember, as a boy, hearing you say time and again that true change, lasting change, comes very slowly. The military command in Britain has had radical change thrust down its throat in the space of two years. My cavalry has no tradition. It has no history, and you, of all people, Father, know what tradition and history mean to the officer corps of the Roman army."

He held out his helmet to his father at arm's length. A full face-mask of heavy metal hung from the brow of it, peaked in a crease so that the sides of the mask swept in to the cheekbones and then flared out. It was obvious that its prime purpose was to deflect missiles.

"Take this, for example. I have insisted that all of my men have face-masks like this one fitted to their helmets." Cay took the proffered helmet and examined it closely, raising and lowering the face-guard on its intricately hinged flaps as his son continued. "Our speed brings us too quickly within bowshot of our enemies, and our faces are unprotected. It is a new circumstance, but I have lost too many men to this kind of injury. Now my men's faces are protected, but their pride is taking a battering from the jeers of the old infantry sweats and their officers, who have never had a need for face-masks."

Britannicus chewed on that for a full minute before answering. "You know, my son," he finally said, "you have just made a point that I have to acknowledge and emphasize. One of the advantages of growing old is the growth of the astonishing ability to accept that one can be, and frequently has been, wrong in one's deepest beliefs. I have been wrong in many things in my lifetime, but the paradox has been that much of the time, at the time, I was correct." He paused and looked down at the imperial letter he was still holding. "We are living in a time of changes — changes that would have been inconceivable fifty or a hundred years ago when the world was still set in its ways. Nowadays we have to accept and accommodate the need for such changes — sudden, radical changes, wholesale adaptations to new and abrupt circumstances. And when I say 'we' I mean we colonists in this tiny corner of the Empire. The rest of the Empire cannot, will not adapt to such changes. That is why the Empire's days are numbered. That is why we are here. Your cavalry corps is an adaptation to changing circumstances. If the inertia of the military chain of command, the hidebound military intellect, will not accept the need for it, that is tragic."

I had been pouring wine and sampling the honeyed wheat-cakes while this last exchange was going on, and now I spoke through a mouthful of food. "Tragic it may be, but it's not unusual." I handed each of them a cup of wine. Caius sipped at his before answering me.

"No, Varrus, it's not unusual. We are unusual. We are determined to adapt, and so we shall survive. Your daughter's wedding next spring to young Uric Pendragon will mark an official bonding of two peoples. The fruit of that bond will mark a new beginning in the history of this island of Britain. Your grandchildren, Publius, my great-nephews and great-nieces, will be set apart by their blood."

I demurred. "I don't often argue with you, Cay, but this time I think you're exaggerating a little. Romans have been marrying the women of Britain for as long as there have been Romans in Britain."

He shook his head, dismissing the validity of my comment while apparently agreeing with what I said.

"Of course they have, my friend. We all know that. But it has never happened at this level before. This is a monumental step, don't you see that?"

"No, Caius," I said. "I don't. What 'level' are you talking about?"

"The highest level."

"What's so different about it, in God's name? They're just two young people who are being wed by their parents. They're no different from any of the other young people who have done the same thing, gone the same way."

"Publius Varrus!" He shook his head impatiently, a frown of annoyance on his face. "Have you no sense at all of the order of things? There is no Celtic blood in my family that I am aware of, nor is there any in yours. Is there?"

I shook my head, twisting my lips into a grimace of unconcern to show it was matter of complete indifference to me. "No, not as far as I know, although I haven't made an issue of investigating it."

He pounced on that. "There you are, then! We have been bred in Britain, it is true, but our blood is pure Roman. Unsullied Roman blood, Publius. Republican blood. And it is a matter of great pride in our friend Ullic that his own blood is, as he would put it, untainted by Roman impurities. His race is regal, Varrus. He is pure Celt. His people have ruled this part of the world for centuries, long before the Caesars came to power. And you say you can't see what this means?

"When your daughter weds Ullic's son, it will be the start of a new bloodline — the same thing that excites Victorex in his breeding of horses. And breeding is what we are talking about here, let us not lose sight of that. We are causing the creation of a new breed of man by mingling Veronica's pure Roman blood with Uric's pure Celtic blood. Forget the others that have gone before. That was miscegenation. Roman legionaries have not been pure Roman for hundreds of years. They are a mongrel creation of the Empire, romanized, perhaps, but never Roman."

He swung on his son, whose face was as blank as mine. "Picus, don't tell me that you had failed to mark the significance of this match?"

Picus shook his head slightly in bewilderment. "No, Father. I hadn't thought much about it at all, and certainly not from that perspective."

"Then think about it now! And think about it from this time on. Your cousins by this union will be the progenitors of a noble house of unique qualification."

Picus's lip quirked upwards. "Yes, I suppose they will, when you put it like that."

"No suppositions! They will be!" Caius looked from Picus to me and then raised his cup. "Now! Join me in a toast to the unborn. To the sons of Veronica and Uric, the future rulers of this Colony and this whole land, for we will raise them to a legacy of strength and freedom that has not been seen by men for centuries. To our heirs!"

It was a fine toast and a stirring thought, and we drank to it gladly, although I had to resist shaking my head in wonder at my own lack of perception. There were times when Caius Britannicus could make me feel like an absolute bumpkin.

"Why are we all still standing like idlers on a street corner?" Caius finally asked. "Let's sit and enjoy the fire. There is a nip in the air tonight that reminds me of my multiplying years." He sat by the fireplace and we joined him, pulling our chairs closer to the flames as he spoke again to Picus.

"So, let's talk of strategy. Is the invasion turned?"

Picus nodded. "Yes. We believe so. The indications are all there. Reported raids have decreased greatly in the last few months."

"How significant is that?" I asked him.

"Highly significant. No raids at all in the last two weeks. Prior to that, only three in three weeks. In the three months before that only twelve, and six of those occurred in the first month of the three."

"That is still a lot of raids," said his father. "You really feel justified in claiming that to be a significant decrease?"

Picus leaned forward and toasted his palms in front of the glowing coals for a few moments before answering. Finally he said, "Yes, Father, I do. Very definitely. In the same period last year, there were more than forty raids. In any man's language that has to be a significant difference."

"Yes, I suppose it is." There was silence for a time and then Britannicus went on. "Your technique, here in Britain — how has it developed?"

"I'm not sure of your meaning, Father. From what viewpoint?"

"How has it improved over the past two years? What have you learned? What have you done? What have you initiated?"

Picus smiled. "Much. A great deal on all three points, Father. I think perhaps the first thing we learned is that, laced with an enemy whose strikes are unforeseeable, the last thing one can hope to do is operate under the normal conditions of warfare. No, let me rephrase that." His speech slowed perceptibly as he enunciated his thoughts with much greater precision. "The last thing one can hope to do is operate as though the accepted traditional ways and methods have any application. They do not." He paused and drank deeply before going on.

"We were forced to accept, right from the outset of our campaign in Britain, that we could never hope to react in time to have any preventive effect upon this type of enemy incursion. We had to evolve new tactics to deal with new conditions, and so we split our forces, our cavalry forces, regionally, into five central bases: one in Eboracum, one in Glevum, one in Verulamium, one in Dubris and one in Noviomagus. Using each of these bases as the hub of a wheel, we set up lines of observation — outposts of infantry — tending signal-fires along lines radiating from the centre. Once these lines were established and in place, the news of raiders passed as quickly as the visibility of the fires. Sometimes the ancient methods are still the best — we simply adapted the signal-fires to our own needs, and used more of them. And while we were setting up these beacons, we also set up relay stations along the same lines, fully staffed and equipped with fresh horses. We split our active troops into self-sufficient squadrons with one centurion in overall charge of each, two decurions and forty troopers. Our reasoning in this was that one longboat could contain anywhere from thirty to fifty men. Two boatloads would double that potential, and so on. Our arithmetic considered one squadron of disciplined cavalry to be at least the equal of two boatloads of raiders, so each relay station was stocked with eighty-eight horses, kept in a constant state of readiness.

"Each outpost was responsible for the building and the maintenance of groups of five signal-fires, set up side by side in a straight line and far enough apart to avoid any confusion. One fire meant one boat. Four fires set alight simultaneously meant more than three boatloads — a heavy raid. Five simultaneous fires means more than six boats — a major invasion fleet. It works very well, for our whole operation is predicated upon the advantage held by a double squadron of heavily armed, well-mounted, disciplined troops over a body of men on foot numbering twice their strength or even more. When four signal-fires are lit at once, for example, three squadrons are dispatched in response. Two of these ride at speed to catch the enemy on land, at work, and keep him from retreating to his boats. The third proceeds more slowly, in reserve, backed up by a full cohort of infantry moving at a forced march."

"It sounds good," said his father. "How well does it work?"

"As well as we can hope for. Our major weakness, at the start, was that we did not have enough good horses. It takes a lot of horseflesh to implement a plan like that. In the beginning we were operating at half strength in every area. We had to. We could not simply neglect some areas in favour of others, since we had no idea where the next spate of landings might occur. But the signal-fires passed the word quickly and our response time was very fast. As the Tightness of our method began to prove itself, Stilicho moved heaven and earth to appropriate more and better horses for us. He used to joke that he was stripping the Empire clean of horseflesh to feed the people of Britain, and there were times when it looked as though it might be true. It seemed that every second Roman galley arriving in Britain was loaded with prime horseflesh."

"Impressive," I said. "How soon after your arrival did you start to put all this in place?"

"A matter of months. As soon as we grew tired of looking foolish every time we arrived on the scene of a raid to find all the damage done and the enemy gone."

"Which was often?"

"Always would be more accurate."

"I see. And since you switched over to these new tactics all of that has changed? Whose idea was it to set up these regional bases?"

He shook his head. "No one's, and everybody's. The idea came out of a staff meeting. I mentioned the possibility of splitting our forces to gain manoeuvrability, and the idea grew from there. By the time that meeting had ended, the rudiments of the plan were in place and the logistics were under consideration. From that point onwards, it was just a matter of time until we had our units positioned and ready to move at the sight of a beacon. Once the troops were distributed, it became a matter of tightening up our procedures, learning from our mistakes and adapting to conditions as they arose."

He stood up, stretching himself. "I can give you an example of what I mean by that, too. One of the first things we learned was that, almost invariably, when there was only one boat involved in a raid, the enemy was gone by the time we arrived, no matter how fast our response was. They hit, cleaned up and got away in a hurry. As soon as a raid involved two or more boats, however, their operations time slowed down very considerably. We really don't know why this should be, but we suspect it was because of their numerical strength. It seemed to give them the confidence to move further inland. Of course, with twice the men, they needed twice as much booty to be equally successful. Anyway, a pattern began to emerge very quickly and it indicated that it simply was not worthwhile dispatching troops against a single-boat raiding party.

"There are people, I know, who think that was a callous decision. But it was the only one we could make, the only one that made any sense. At the height of the raiding activity in the early summer of the first year we were in action, there were four occasions when we were short of men to tackle major raiding parties because troops had already been dispatched to minor raids, and on none of these four occasions did our squadrons make contact with the small raiding parties. They were gone, back out to sea before our people ever came near them. Standing orders were changed to alert troops to one-boat raids but to respond only to raids involving two or more boats."

"Makes sense," I said. "If what you say is true, and I don't doubt a word of it, the people in the farms and villages along the coastline who were being hit by these small raids were beyond help in any case."

"Exactly. But a strange thing has happened in the course of two years. Do you know that there is now an almost uninhabited belt, ten or twelve, sometimes fifteen miles wide, around the entire coastline of southern Britain?"

I shook my head. "No. You mean the people have just moved out?"

"Most of them. Moved inland. A few stayed, too stubborn to move away from their homes and their living — mainly fisher-folk who live right on the coast — but the majority, the farmers and farm workers, just abandoned everything and moved inland to safety."

"How has this affected the raiders and their methods?"

Britannicus was watching his son closely, a tiny frown ticking between his brows.

Picus shook his head decisively. "It's too early to say with any kind of certainty, but we are pretty well convinced that it has had an effect — and a positive one — on the number and the nature of the raids. Single-boat raids are almost non-existent now. It takes a lot of guts for one boatload of thirty-odd men to travel inland for ten or fifteen miles in the hope of finding a village, hitting it and getting out again before our people arrive. It puts a lot of distance between them and their boat."

"But your people don't respond to one-boat raids, you said."

"They would now, knowing that the enemy is going to be on foot for fifteen miles inland and back. But it simply doesn't happen any more."

"So raiding parties are getting bigger?"

"Yes. That's absolutely correct. And fewer, too."

"So how much thought have you given to future developments in this pattern?"

Picus flashed a grin at his stern-faced parent. "We hope it develops to the point where all of them land together and we can smash them once and for all, but that's a dream. If the trend continues, and at this time it is only a suspected trend which time will prove or disprove, but if, as I say, it continues to develop, then we could see numerically stronger parties raiding more systematically next year."

"And how will that affect the deployment of your cavalry?"

"It won't. Not adversely, at any rate. We're already prepared for it. Plans are in place to consolidate our lines of communication. We'll simply strengthen our reserves and be prepared to move in greater strength."

"You obviously think that this is going to happen?" Cay's inflection made this more of a question than a statement.

"No, I hope it's going to happen. I've just dismissed it as a dream, but it is true that the more men they use, the bigger the fleets they assemble, the greater will be our advantage. Just let me get an army of them in one place at one time, and I'll smash them beyond recovery."

"Hmmm." Cay sounded mildly sceptical. "Dream as it may be, have you the strength to do that?"

"Aye. And more, I have the speed and the weight. You know yourself, Father, how wild these people are. They have no concept of concerted discipline. They operate, all of them, as independent units. Each boat's crew is devoted to itself. Land a large number of boats together and you have a fearsome band of savages. But they are a rabble. I can destroy them easily if they do that, and in their pride and ignorance, they can't admit it." He snapped his hand in front of his face as though snatching a fly out of the air, holding his clenched fist high in front of his face. "Just let me have one chance to catch them on land, in strength. I don't need a whole army of them. Just a mob big enough to grapple with at leisure."

His father sucked at his front teeth. "And how do you see our role here in the Colony shaping up, now that I am Legatus Emeritus of the Irregulars of South-west Britain? And, by the way, you still have not delivered my warrant into my hands. Is that a deliberate oversight?"

"Oh! Pardon me, I have it here." He delved again into his scrip and produced a second scroll, this one much bigger than the first. His father took it from him, broke the seal and scanned the contents quickly before passing it across to me. It was a clear, clean and specific document bearing the signature and the personal seal of Stilicho and the imperial seal of Honorius. I read it with appreciation and handed it back.

"Well, General," I said. "I can call you General again."

"Again? You never stopped." He eyed his son. "You haven't answered my question, Picus."

"What answer would you have, Father? You read your warrant. It's unique. You have autonomy under imperial seal. I can't tell you what to do, nor can any other."

"You can make suggestions if I ask for them."

Picus nodded, smiling. "True, I can."

"Well then. I have already asked you. How do you see our role here developing?"

"I would like to see it develop considerably, Father, if you are willing. How many horses do you have now?"

"You mean trained cavalry mounts?" Picus nodded and Caius shook his head. "I don't know with certainty. Victorex will have the exact number, but I suspect it will be around a hundred and fifty, perhaps a hundred and seventy-five. No more."

"Hmmm! Not enough." Picus sat in deep thought, flicking his thumbnail against his teeth. "I can let you have a hundred more now, and the same again, later, say in six months to a year."

"Can you, by God?" I jumped into the conversation again. "And how will you justify that to your superiors?"

He grinned at me in boyish delight. "What superiors, Uncle? I have none in Britain, once Stilicho is gone. No, that's not strictly true. Marcus Telia, Military Commander of the Province of South Britain, is my nominal superior, but he has been well briefed by Stilicho on the real extent of his jurisdiction over me. He is to forward my reports to Stilicho regularly, assist me in any way he can in the strengthening of my command, preserve my autonomy in terms of allowing no interference with my performance of my duties and otherwise leave me strictly alone. I don't have to justify anything to anyone. I have decided to supply you with the horseflesh you need, so that you in turn can be useful to me in the prosecution of my mandate. If your men are well enough mounted, they can patrol this whole region and set up watching-posts and cavalry depots along the entire coastline of the territories given into your charge by Stilicho."

"To the north or to the south?"

"Both, eventually. For the moment, to the north, guarding the estuary leading to Glevum and freeing my men there for duty in the south-east. And there, if I needed any, is my justification."

Britannicus jumped to his feet and clapped his hands loudly together. "Excellent! So be it! We will work together." The door opened in answer to his summons and old Gallo came back into the room. "Gallo, is General Picus's room ready for him?"

"Of course, Master." There was just the barest hint of reproach in the old man's voice.

"Good. Excellent. When will dinner be ready?"

"Whenever you are, Master. The ladies are waiting."

"Then we are ready now. Come, Publius, Picus, let's dine. Your aunt will be glad to see you, lad."

"I hope so, and I will be glad to see her. It has been months now since I was last here."

We began walking towards the dining room, and as we went, Picus began quizzing me on weapons, asking how we were solving the problem of arming our men.

"Oh," I told him, "we are making some headway, but nothing revolutionary. We've had no major design breakthroughs. I'll show you what we have tomorrow, if you're still here. Will you be still here?"

He grinned and raked his spread fingers across his close-cropped scalp. "I'll be here. I have had a rough couple of weeks and could use a day off. I'll get back on the road before dawn the following day."

"Fine." I clapped him on the shoulder. "Now, no more talk of weapons or of war. Your aunt and your niece are completely tied up in their arrangements for the wedding next spring. Since Veronica has 'become a woman,' as she likes to phrase it, she and her mother have formed a conspiracy to domesticate the men in this household. We are actively discouraged from discussing business at table. Your father and I have decided that, until the wedding is over, we will humour them. We talk of generalities and social affairs at table now, all of which means that we listen to the latest developments in planning the nuptials."

He laughed aloud. "It sounds as though this is going to be a major celebration."

"Depend upon it. It is," his father answered him. "And I for one am not unhappy about it. Bear in mind what I said earlier about the underlying connotations of this match. The more moment we accord to it, the better it will suit itself to our purposes."

"You mean it really is political? A dynastic marriage?" He was still half joking.

"Yes, I do. The young people like each other, which is a valuable bonus. But this marriage is, nevertheless, political above and beyond all else. Had I planned it myself, I could not have arranged a better match. As it turned out, I did not have to. Varrus and Ullic between them arranged the contract, Varrus in total innocence of its portent. Ullic, I know, knew what he was doing."

I interrupted. "By the way, Picus, what of Seneca? Is he still in Britain?"

He barked a laugh. "Oh, yes, he's still in Britain. He's my commander in the north and I keep a close eye on him. He knows I do, and he takes great care to keep his nose clean."

"What will happen when Stilicho leaves? Do you expect any trouble from him?"

"From Seneca, you mean? The only way he can cause me trouble is to mutiny, and if he tries that, I'll crucify him, and he knows it. No, he'll cause no trouble. He has two more years to serve, according to imperial decree. When he gets out, then he might try to cause trouble for me, but the prospect holds no terror."

We arrived at the doors of the dining room just as he concluded this last sentence, and Britannicus placed his finger to his lips in a silent "Shhh," his right eyebrow quirked high in his own particular way, and led Picus and me, both grinning, into the company of the ladies.