Jack Whyte - The Lance Thrower

We arrived back in Verulamium before noon the next day, having been absent for five days, and we were traveling very slowly, painfully aware of the agonized sounds coming from the rear of the cart at every bump in the surface of the ground. Once within the town, however, it was the work of mere moments to deliver Perceval to the building that Bishop Enos had dedicated to permanent use as a hospital. There, a tall and gaunt old priest called Marcus, who had once served as a military surgeon with the legions in Africa before the invasion of the Vandals in 429, took Perceval off our hands and promised he would have the finest care anyone could have. Father Marcus stripped off the splints Tristan had applied and examined the work that we had done to repair the leg, and was lavish with his praise for Tristan. We were grateful to be able to leave our friend and brother in his care.

I made my way directly to Bishop Enos’s quarters to inform him of what had happened to Perceval, only to find that the Lady Demea was there, deep in conversation with the bishop. I slipped away without either of them having seen me and went outside, where I found young Maia sitting on a concrete water conduit, her long shadow stretched out before her, her slender feet bare in the gutter by the side of the road. She was completely unaware of my presence as I walked up behind her.

“Maia,” I said, “I’m not angry at you, so there’s no need to run away from me.”

She jumped to her feet as I spoke and spun around to face me, her face flushing hotly, and after a few moments when she was plainly searching for words, she said, “I’m not afraid and I’m not running anywhere.”

“Good, I am glad to hear that, because I need to talk with you. I would like you to come by the basilica tomorrow when I am practicing with my spears and show me how you threw that one. I am not at all upset about that, I promise you. In fact the opposite is true. So will you do that? Will you come tomorrow?”

“I can’t. I won’t be here.”

“What do you mean? You won’t come to the basilica?”

She shrugged, her face regaining its normal color. “No, I mean I won’t be here in Verulamium tomorrow. We are leaving for home in the morning, returning to Chester.”

“You are? That’s very sudden, isn’t it? Why?”

She shrugged her shoulders, the movement emphasizing how thin and insubstantial she appeared to be, and yet I knew she was as strong and lithe as a whip, despite the impression she conveyed of being like a young deer or a newborn foal, all eyes and long, unsteady legs. “Because the King and Queen’s prayers have been answered,” she replied. She spoke without inflection, and nothing in her demeanor indicated that she might hold any opinion of any kind on what she was reporting, but there was something impossibly subtle about her words that made me look at her more closely, wondering if there was really cynicism in her speech. She paid me no attention, however, and was already continuing. “Saint Alban has interceded in Heaven on their behalf and Queen Demea is now with child and so we must go home now. That is why I am here. I’m waiting for the Queen. She is talking with Bishop Enos.”

I continued to stare at her for the space of a few more heartbeats, then told myself not to be so silly. The child was only twelve, after all. That was a marriageable age, certainly, but only for rare unions between young girls and very old men whose mortality was questionable. It was no indicator of either womanhood or intellect.

“I see,” I said, nodding slowly. “Has she been there long, with the bishop?”

“No, not long. Why?”

“Oh, no reason. I’m sorry you are leaving so soon. I shall miss you.”

“ I’m not. I can’t wait to go home.”

“I don’t suppose you would care to show me how you threw that spear right now, would you?”

She cocked her head and looked at me strangely, her elfin face with its enormous piercing blue eyes unreadable. “Now? But you have no spears.”

“True, but they’re nearby. I can have them here in moments. What say you, would you like to try for that target again?”

Her eyes sparkled, and as she straightened her back I noticed again how tall she was, unusually tall for a girl her age, and thin as a sapling tree. She smiled, very slightly, white teeth gleaming briefly behind wide red lips. “I don’t know if there’s enough time.”

“Of course there is. There’s always time for what we love to do. Stay here until you see me cross the street over there, then follow me into the basilica. It won’t take long for you to show me how you throw.”

I had been right the first time I saw her. She threw naturally and without thought, uncoiling into the cast reflexively and following through perfectly and simply because she had that kind of grace in her normal range of motion. She threw three spears, and two of them hit their targets. I was full of praise and I could see she was delighted with her own prowess. But she never lost sight of the fact that she ought to be sitting outside the bishop’s house, waiting for the Lady Demea, and so I thanked her for her demonstration and allowed her to go on her way. She flashed me a dazzling smile and darted away like a deer toward the door, where she hesitated and looked back at me, lingering.

“What? Say it.”

“Where did you learn to throw spears like that?”

I shrugged and grinned at her. “Like what?” I was being facetious, but she took me seriously.

“Like magic, the way you do, with the cord wrapped around the shaft. I’ve never seen that here.”

“No, you wouldn’t, not in Britain. I learned to do it in Gaul, across the sea.”

“I’ve never seen anyone who throws better than you. I have never seen spears like those, either.”

“That’s because there are none. These spears have no equal.”

“I shall call you Hastatus,” she said then, sounding very grown up and sure of herself. “It means a spearman. Do you mind having a new name?”

“No,” I said, smiling again. “Not at all. Not if it is bestowed by someone as skilled and gracious as you are, Lady Maia.”

A flicker of something that might have been annoyance crossed her face, and I thought I had offended her with my levity, but then she nodded. “So be it, then. You shall be my Hastatus. And I’m glad you don’t like Cynthia. I don’t either, but most people simply can’t see beyond her face.” She flicked a hand in farewell and was gone, leaving me somewhat astonished by her last words and even more so by her unexpected percipience. I had been sure that no one suspected my dislike of her sister, Cynthia, because I had gone to great lengths to conceal it, for reasons that I could not define even to myself. And yet this Maia, a mere child, had seen through all my dissembling and had clearly identified my dislike of her sibling. That, in itself, was surprising enough, but upon further thought I began to perceive for myself that young Maia was much wiser than I would ever have suspected, and mature far beyond her years. At an age when most girls were besotted with outward appearances of beauty and attractiveness, this child was astute enough to know, to her own satisfaction, that physical, facial beauty is a mere façade, an external coating, and one that few people ever try to see through or beyond. I found myself smiling in admiration and wonderment as I followed her out of the building, hoping to speak with her again, but she had long since vanished.

In the morning we turned out to bid farewell to Symmachus and his party, and I was surprisingly reluctant to see them go. Cynthia, I noticed, had apparently changed her mind about me, for she did not address a single word to me, and she left for home without deigning to glance in my direction. Maia the Brat sat beside her, and although she did not smile upon me either, she at least rewarded me with a tiny, private flip of the hand as her carriage pulled away.