The Singing Sword

XXVIII

Picus looked fresh as a daisy the next day.

We were all astir at dawn, and the smells of cooking and wood-smoke were everywhere. Bishop Alaric unveiled the altar-stone to open admiration and celebrated his mass, calling the benediction of God and His heavenly saints upon this place new-built upon an ancient site.

Ullic, his family and his Druids were there in attendance, the latter watching with grave, impassive interest, and when the mass was over Alaric allowed everyone to examine the stone before placing it for safe-keeping in the beautiful case that had been made for it. I had not known what to expect, never having seen an altar-stone up close before, and I was frank in my admiration of the care and workmanship that had been lavished upon it.

It was a solid block of marble, three-fourths as long as it was wide, and it was about as wide as my shoulders. In thickness it was about a handsbreadth deep, slightly more than the width of a sword blade, and the two shorter sides were carved to look like the hempen cables used to secure naval vessels to the shore. The top surface had been scrolled with a border of Celtic design, and in its centre was the ChiRho symbol of the Christians. Directly above this symbol, a rectangular hole had been chiselled into the stone to allow a cross to be slotted into place, and below the Chi Rho was a single rectangle, grooved into the smoothness of the marble.

"What does this signify?" I asked Alaric, pointing at the rectangle.

"It signifies nothing, Publius. It is the lid of a hollow chamber which contains a precious relic from the land of Christ; a finger-bone of blessed John the Evangelist."

That silenced me.

"It is a beautifully worked gift, Alaric," said Caius. "We will make good use of it."

"I know you will, my friend." Alaric picked the stone up as though it were made of air and fitted it into its wooden case. "One thing only would I ask of you: the stone is portable, but your Colony is now permanent. It would be good and most pleasing to our Master the Christ if, some day when there is the time and the opportunity, your people could construct a permanent home to house the stone. A house that would be God's house only."

"You mean an ecclesia?"

"An ecclesia. In Germany, in Gaul and in Italia itself there are many ecclesia being built today. Permanent houses of prayer. I would die happy if I knew one would be built here, some day."

"Then rest easy, old friend." Caius smiled. "I promise you there will be a house here for God."

One of the Druids, who had been standing back observing us, asked then, "What is the significance of this stone?"

The old bishop looked at him with a smile.

"It has the same significance as those your people erected in bygone days. It is to the glory of God. It is sanctified — blessed — and contains, as I have said, a relic of a wise and holy man. When this stone is taken into a room for prayerful use, that room itself is blessed by the stone's presence, and any table upon which the stone is set becomes an altar sanctified to commemorate the Body and the Blood of the Christ, both given in sacrifice to free mankind from sin."

The Druid frowned slightly but made no further comment, and Alaric closed the wooden case, hiding the stone from profane eyes, after which he and Father Phonos carried it between them to the small enclosure at the far side of the Council Hall that had been specially built to hold the stone.

Later that day, after the midday meal, we met as we had planned and rode together down to the villa — myself, Caius, Picus, Ullic, Uric and Equus. Picus and I were ready first, and as we sat waiting for the others to join us, he tweaked my nose verbally about my having drunk too much the day before, telling me that I'd missed the most interesting part of the day. I smiled to myself as I imagined what his expression would be were I to tell him of what I had seen and heard in the night on the hillside. Of course, I said nothing, and the others soon joined us so that he left off his teasing.

When we arrived at the villa I led them past the house and directly to the forge itself, a move that occasioned some comment, since we had been talking on the way down from the fort about cracking a jug of wine as soon as we arrived. The inside of the forge was dark and the fires were all out. We threw open the doors at the front and back of the forge and opened the window-shutters, letting in enough of the bright spring sun to lighten all but the darkest corners.

Picus perched himself on the edge of a bench, first taking care to clean the dust from it. Ullic leaned against a pillar, oblivious to dirt, smacking his lips and clearing what was obviously supposed to be a parched throat, with much spluttering and dumb show. Young Uric stood quietly beside his father, saying nothing. He had barely spoken six words since leaving the fort, this being his first outing as a man among men. He had taken unmerciful teasing all the way down here from all of us, myself included, and had not been a bridegroom long enough to develop the confidence that was needed to cope with such banter without embarrassment. And that, naturally, provided more fuel for the fires on which we roasted him.

I seated myself on one of our three-legged stools and nodded to Equus, who walked to a chest at the back of the forge and produced a long, cloth-wrapped bundle.

"Equus has something to show you," I said.

He brought the bundle back, dropped it with a clank onto the floor and unwrapped four long swords, one matched pair and two others. Wordlessly, he passed them around, giving Picus one with a long blade that was slightly curved, with a flared end just behind its point. Ullic took the other singleton, and Caius and Uric each held one of the pair of long, tapering, straight-bladed swords with the heavy, leaden pommels and long, two-handed grips.

"We've all been looking for a new kind of weapon to suit the needs of our horsemen," I began. "The standard sword we've always used is too short, now that we're up on big horses. These are some of the results we've come up with. Picus? What do you think?"

Picus was holding up the sword he had been given in his two hands, his right gripping the hilt and his left supporting the flat blade as he ran his eyes along the sweep of its length, which gleamed dully in the dim light. He removed his left hand from the blade and swung the sword tentatively, testing it gently and grimacing slightly with satisfaction before standing up from his bench and stepping forward to give himself room to swing the sword in earnest, stabbing it downward to touch the floor, point first, while his elbow was still bent.

"I like this, Uncle!" He flipped it up into the air and caught it just below the hilt, examining the hilt itself and the pommel counterweight. "How did you make this? What is it? Lead?"

"For now, yes," I told him. "Lead over iron."

"How did you get the weight right?"

"Strung lead discs over the iron tang like beads and then heated them." This was Equus who spoke.

"Will it remain solid?" Picus gripped the hilt purposefully, flexing his fingers and splaying them to wrap tightly around the grip.

"Aye, it'll stay solid," Equus continued. "It is solid."

Picus returned now to his inspection of the blade, extending his left hand and laying the pointed tip on the upturned palm.

"Why the flair above the point?" he asked next. "It looks familiar, but I know I've never seen it before."

"Yes you have, Picus," I told him. "Africa, and Asia Minor. The desert peoples there use similar blades, curved, with a slightly flared tip to add impetus to the swing."

"Of course, that's it! But this is different again — this blade is not so deeply curved."

"No, nor so deeply flared, for that matter. Remember, Picus, our men are mounted. We are attempting to create something here that will stab like a spear yet chop like an axe, something that can be used effectively without being swung too hard."

He nodded towards the sword I was holding. "That one is different. Why?"

I shrugged. "They are all different. The one Ullic has is much broader in the blade close to the tip than yours is. That one we have already rejected as being too heavy, too unwieldy. Try it."

Picus exchanged swords with Ullic and one swing of the new sword was enough to show him that I was right.

"I agree. Too heavy. Clumsy. The first one's far superior."

"Yes, but also no. It's better, but it's far too light in construction. It will bend in battle. It is the prettiest, the most aesthetically pleasing, but it is the least practical of all the prototypes we have tested." I held up the one I was holding. "This is the winner. The best we have come up with to date." I threw it to him hilt first and he dropped the one he was holding to catch the one in the air. He caught it, arm extended, and held it there at arm's length, his eye sweeping from the boss out to its distant point. Long seconds he held it there, unmoving, and then, as though its point were anchored at the centre of a circle, he began to walk around it, watching the light change on the blade as he made the turn. Then he flexed his elbow, bringing the weapon close up to his face until the iron touched his cheek before tilting his head back to look up at the point held vertically above him. This done, he took a slow step forward on his left foot and swung the sword, feeling its weight and balance at every point on its arc.

"There is nothing wrong with this one, Uncle. Much that is right, but nothing wrong."

"Let me try it." Ullic's face was rapt, and Picus handed the weapon over to him and then turned back to me.

"I think you have solved the problem, Uncle."

"So do we," I smiled at him. "Even Equus likes it."

"With the exception of one raw imperfection." Equus's voice was heavy with irony, and I tried to quiet him before he said any more, waving a minatory finger and frowning in reproof as I shook my head sharply, hoping Picus would not see. Naturally, he picked up on it immediately.

"What's wrong? What imperfection?"

I grunted and accepted the inevitable. "A minor imperfection, Picus, far from insoluble," I said. "The iron of the blades is difficult to control, because of its temper and the length of the swords. They bounce off each other and are dangerous to the unwary. But it is not a matter that is insoluble. We're working on it now."

"Then why is Equus so disgusted?"

I smiled at him. "For the same reason as always. He is a perfectionist and refuses to countenance imperfection. In the meantime, the problem I am working with Equus to solve should have no effect on you. I would like you to start immediately training your people to fight with the sword from horseback. By the time you have enough of the swords to begin the training, I should have solved the problem of the cross-hilt."

"The what?"

"The cross-hilt. I'll show it to you when it's done. Far simpler than trying to explain it. Just remember not to let your men even attempt to train against each other with these prototype weapons."

"As you wish, Uncle." Picus's acquiescence was unconditional, but his face betrayed his incomprehension. Nevertheless, he covered himself very well. He turned immediately to Ullic. "What do you think of this sword?"

"I think it is a good sword, as swords go, Picus, but I'll stick to my new bow, my short-sword and my axe."

"You don't like it?"

"Oh, I like it well enough." Ullic's shrug showed his disdain of the new weapon as clearly as his next words. "But what need would I have of a great thing like that? I don't fight on horseback. I walk to fight, and sometimes I run. A long sword like that, I'd be forever tripping over it and falling down. My kingly dignity would suffer sadly."

"Now there's a point, Uncle Varrus." Picus was grinning now, acknowledging Ullic's humour but holding the sword point-down by his waist, where Romans always wore their swords. "A man won't be able to wear this in the traditional way. It touches the ground."

"Aye, so it does," I agreed. "Nor would he be able to draw it right-handed from his right side. Our men will wear their new swords hanging from their necks, across their backs."

"How? In a scabbard?"

"I don't know yet, Picus, but probably through a metal ring attached to a cross-belt. We have plenty of time to work that out. First we have to make the swords. We can decide later how we will carry them."

"How long will it take you to make me two hundred of them?"

I looked at Equus with a smile. "How long, Equus? Two years?"

"About that."

"Two years?" There was pain and anguish in Picus's voice. "Two years? Why? Why so long?"

"Because, my impetuous friend, we have just begun working on this thing, this problem. Even this iron is not tempered properly. We have been more concerned with weight, shape and balance, than with quality at this stage. This weapon has a long, long way to go before it's ready for use in mock combat, let alone in battle."

"Then would you mind if I set my own armourers to work on the design?"

The question surprised me, and I looked at Equus to see his reaction before I spoke again.

"Don't ask me," I said then. "It was Equus who came up with the design. If he has no objections, how can I?"

"Equus?"

My big friend shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. "I don't mind," he responded. "It's a simple extension of the Roman short-sword in the first place. I'm surprised your Roman armourers haven't come up with it already."

"They have not come up with it, Equus, because they lack what you and Publius Varrus have between you: the genius to look at something that has been unchanged for centuries and see how it can be improved to meet new needs." Picus stopped short and then looked at Equus, and from him to me. "And I have just told myself why I am going to say nothing about this to anyone."

"No, Picus." My interruption was quick and sincere, for I knew what he was going to say next and I knew also that he was wrong. "You cannot do that. You have a duty to Stilicho, if not to your Emperor, and above all that you have a duty to your troops. If this new long-sword can improve their battle strength, you have to get it for them as quickly as you can."

Picus nodded and then glanced from Ullic to Uric. "What do you two think? Is Varrus right?"

Ullic held up his hands, palms outward, his expression one of entreaty and mingled fear and anger, and although it was clear that he was jesting it was equally clear that he was not speaking completely out of mockery.

"Leave me out of this, I want nothing to do with it! Why should I vote in favour of arming Romans better than ourselves? It might come back like a ghost to haunt me someday."

Uric watched his father in some awe, a smile in his eyes, but ventured nothing.

Picus turned back to me. "I will say nothing more on this now, Uncle, but I believe you are correct: this is a better weapon than anything we have, or are likely to have in the near future. I think I am duty-bound to give it to my armourers to play with. My men need this weapon in large numbers."

"So be it, Picus," I answered him. "You have talked yourself right into it, answered your own doubts. Now, let's get over to the house and try that jug of wine."

The wine was excellent, and by the time we saw the bottom of the jug, we had prepared a plan of action for the future that would see our combined forces — Ullic's, Picus's and our own colonists — working closely together in the coming months.

Ullic told us that he now had Cymric and four other bowyers working full-time at fabricating more of his great bows: a lighter, modified version of his original giant weapon, but still a mighty bow. He believed that the time would come when the Long Bow of Ullic, as he grandiloquently termed it, would become commonplace among his people. In the meantime, Uric, he had decided, would spend half of the year with us in the Colony, learning our tactics and the way we made war, and the other half teaching what he had learnt to his own people. Uric, however, was quick to point out that his mountain people were not the type that great cavalry troops were made from, nor were their horses. The Celts' mountain-ponies were admirably suited for their own terrain, but they offered little hope of organized weight of the kind we were developing in the Colony. And by the same token, he pointed out, our own great horses were simply too big and cumbersome to function satisfactorily in the mountains.

It was agreed, therefore, that Uric would study with us from a new viewpoint, that of a liaison officer who could combine the two methods of warfare, theirs and ours, to make the best use of both when both were needed together. But we all agreed, in a spirit that was only half jocular, that his first priority should be to sire a son — a living symbol of the bonds between our two peoples from this time on. Uric blushed crimson, but smiled and found the confidence to say shyly that he had already begun to work on the matter.

Picus was the one among us with the greatest problems. He was intensely frustrated by the role his troops were being forced to play in the north, along Hadrian's Wall. Picus felt, and correctly so, I believed, that he and his forces were being exploited, used as morale-builders for the garrisons up there in that inhospitable country. His troops were part of the forces of South Britain, headquartered in Londinium. He had been placed in a political crucible by requests from the military commander at Arboricum in North Britain for the specialized help of his mobile forces in dealing with marauding bands of infiltrators from above the Wall. These requests had come, in a highly concentrated form, at a time of relative quiet in the south, and against his own better judgment Picus had agreed to a temporary secondment to northern duty. He had then spent the ensuing three months gnashing his teeth in fury, galloping his men across the northern expanses of rock and moorland chasing small bands of marauding, fleet-footed Picts, while the solid barrier of the Wall itself prevented him from making what might have been a decisive impact by attacking into the enemy's territories.

He had been recalled, eventually, when the Saxons began making their annual springtime raids in the south, but it was his belief that the Wall in the north was doomed as a frontier. There were not enough men stationed up there to handle the kind of pressure the garrisons were being subjected to, and morale was lower than it had ever been. The soldiers on duty there knew that the Wall was far from impregnable; it had fallen back in '67 and had been breached to a lesser extent several times since then in several places. The garrison troops on the Wall felt they had been handed a useless and thankless task in defending it, and they knew that the seaborne raids to the south would continue to guarantee that they would receive no permanent reinforcements.

Even Stilicho's consular army of ten thousand men was of no help to them, for it was employed in strengthening the coastal areas, mainly along the Saxon Shore in the south-east, and in the east itself.

Picus would be returning to duty the following day, he informed us. He would go straight to Londinium and from there he expected to be dispatched directly to the south-east.

"Dispatched?" I asked him. "I thought you were your own commander?"

"I am, but where the raids are coming heaviest, there I go, most of the time at the request of military headquarters. It's a formality, Uncle Varrus. I'd be going there anyway."

"I have no doubt of that, but aren't you concerned that they might grow accustomed to directing you through these requests?"

He smiled at me, a very pleasing smile.

"Not really. If conflict ever should arise, I shall do what my mind — and my prime directive from my commander — tells me is correct, based upon the best input I can accumulate. After that they can all complain to Stilicho."

"I see," I said. "And you have no plans to return to the north?"

"None at all, unless the fates play me truly foul. You know, Uncle, it seems very strange, but the only person I ever knew who enjoyed northern Wall duty was Claudius Seneca."

"Seneca?" I could hear my own astonishment. "You jest, surely?"

But Picus was shaking his head. "I swear, Uncle, Seneca was like a different man up there. Even his soldiers noticed it. They would do anything he called on them to do, and he called on them to do things that he had never done before. Things I would never have expected him to do."

"Such as? Give me an instance."

"Well," he paused, but only for a fraction of a heartbeat, "he volunteered his troops and himself for night-pursuit duty, in foul weather, on several occasions. Believe that if you can. I had difficulty with it myself, and I was there."

I was gazing at him, open-mouthed.

"It is true, Uncle, I swear. Seneca behaved like a man. Like a professional soldier. Like a leader."

"Why, I wonder?"

"What?" Picus was blinking at me, not understanding my question.

"Why, I asked. Why would Seneca suddenly start acting like a responsible officer after so long?"

That, of course, was a question to which two honest, unimaginative soldiers like Picus and me could provide no answer, lacking the subtleties and insight of politically minded men. We pursued it no further, but each of us tucked it away in his head to study further at a later time.

Picus soon bade us farewell to return to the fort and check up on his men. His father walked with him to find his horse, and Ullic watched them both leave the villa with a curious expression on his face that I would have quizzed him about at any other time. The memory of what I had seen the day and the night before, however, was fresh enough in my mind to make me watch my tongue, and so I said nothing. Ullic, however, was under no constraints.

"He's a good man, that one."

"Who? Caius?"

"No, not Caius! Picus."

"Ah, Picus! Yes, he's one of the best. His father's son. Have you just realized that?"

Ullic threw me a look of disgust and spoke to me in the tones one reserves for dull children.

"No, Publius, I have known it for a long time. I have simply never remarked on it aloud before now."

"I see. And what makes you notice it now?"

"My sister. Uric, would you bring us some more wine?" He watched Uric walk away and then turned back to me, signalling with his head for me to get up and follow him to the furthest end of the big room, out of earshot of the others.

"I have this sister, Enid," he went on. I made no comment, merely waited. "It occurs to me she should have wed long since. She is overripe." I bit my tongue to distract myself from the thought that sprang into my mind as he went on. "But she's a headstrong wench whose one, true man was killed by a marauding bear eight or nine years ago, just before we met, you and I. He died saving her life. She watched him being mauled and then held him in her arms until he died." Ullic sighed. "He was a good man. Too good to go like that. Anyway, Enid has weighed every other man she ever met against him, the one who died. And they've all lost. It occurred to me that Picus might be man enough to tame her. Why has he never wed?"

"The army. He's a soldier, remember?"

"So was his father, but he sired a son."

"Not before he was Picus's age!"

That gave Ullic pause. He chewed on it for a while, then: "No, I suppose you are right. Caius must have been Picus's age at least when the boy was born."

"He was. What is your point, Ullic?"

Young Uric approached us and filled his father's cup and then mine. Ullic stared into his wine as the young man moved away again.

"How can I get Picus to wed my sister?"

"Mention it to him." I tried to keep my voice expressionless and non-committal. "He might not be averse to the idea."

Ullic now looked me straight in the eye. "You think not? Even though she is not of Roman stock?"

"That is unjust, Ullic, even in jest. Especially now, when he is here at his own urging, on his own time, to celebrate the joining of our bloods."

Ullic pursed his lips and leaned against the wall. "I know it seems that way, my friend, but Legate Picus Britannicus is still a Roman officer, in spite of all that is happening here. He wears their uniform and he fights their wars. He is very Roman."

"No, Ullic." My interruption was firm and instantaneous. "This time you are wrong. Picus is Cay's son. He is one of us. His loyalty is first to Stilicho, his best friend and his commander while he is still in uniform. But after that, I'll swear his loyalty is to us first and then, only then, to Rome. I would stake my life on that."

"You already have, Publius Varrus. And you are correct, I know it. This question of Enid is a thorny one that plagues me badly from time to time. I see my son wed now, and am reminded that my duty is to find a husband for my youngest sister. She does nothing, either, to make my task easier."

"She is very beautiful, Ullic."

"Aye, she is, and very stubborn, wilful, obstinate, infuriating and intransigent. She drives me mad. Now if, as you suggest, I approach Picus and he laughs at me, what would my reaction be? I really don't know, Publius, how I might react."

"Then try it and see, my friend. I have a feeling that he might not turn you down." I could feel a slight smile growing on my face.

"Why?" Ullic was looking at me closely. "Why are you smiling? Have you seen something? Has he said something to you?"

"No, Ullic, not at all." I was laughing at his earnestness. "But I saw Picus see Enid yesterday, if you know what I mean ... He was highly conscious of the fact that she was there in the same hall as him. And Enid saw him, too."

"When? I didn't notice."

"Of course you didn't. Why should you? I only noticed myself by accident." That was almost true, I told myself.

"By God, Publius, that's encouraging! I'll watch them tonight and see how they behave towards each other. If they look interested, I'll bring the matter up with Cay."

"With Cay? Why would you do that? Why not approach Picus directly? He's a man full-grown."

"Aye, so he is. But Cay is still his father." Ullic was sounding stubborn, so I shrugged my shoulders and let the matter rest, telling myself that I was no one to balk at the proper way of doing things.

As it turned out, however, Picus had bypassed both of us and spoken directly of it to his father when the two of them went out together to the horses, telling Caius bluntly that he wished to take Enid to wife as soon as possible. It was probably one of the shortest marriage negotiations on record, wrapped up and agreed to by all concerned within the hour, celebrated that evening by firelight because everyone necessary was already present and the groom had to go to war the following day. And once again, everyone had a drunken night. Uric and Picus, early abed naturally enough, were probably the only two men in the assembly who did not have thick heads the following morning.

I know Picus was tempted to steal one extra day of love before going back, but the spirit of duty was bred too strong in him, and before noon he led his files of men off, down the winding road on the hillside and out of his new bride's life again. She watched with us from the top of the walls until they entered the distant forest and were lost from sight, and then, dry-eyed, she went to join the other women. I watched her leave and spoke to Ullic.

"We are binding ourselves closely, my friend."

"What do you mean?"

"Your sister. Now she is my niece, since my wife is aunt to her new husband. Any child of theirs will be great-niece or -nephew to me. And your son is now my son, and his son will be our grandson, yours and mine."

"True, Publius." Ullic laid his great paw on my shoulder. "Their blood will not be to blame should they not prosper. I only hope Picus comes back soon to plant his crop."

"You jest, of course! He is a Britannicus, Ullic! They are not noted for standing idly by and getting nothing done. He planted it last night." Or the night before, I thought with a smile.