Jack Whyte - The Sorcer part 2 - Metamorphosis

Philip and the others might think of these farm folk as a breed apart, but I knew that opinion to be a vessel that would not hold water. Most of the soldiers of Camulod, and the majority of our most worthy Colonists, had been drawn from this region and from the ranks of these same people. We had been forced to close our gates against the others, immuring ourselves for our own protection and welfare in the face of the impossibility of feeding and protecting everyone in Britain. This was something I had always known and accepted, from my earliest boyhood. Why then, I asked myself, should I be feeling guilt and anger at myself now?

I was still thinking the same discomforting thoughts as I made my way to my tent, but there was to be little sleep for me that night. I had barely begun to unbuckle my armour when I heard a minor commotion outside. I refastened my harness and made my way back out into the firelight, wondering what was happening. At first I could see nothing, although the rising sounds of voices and approaching feet told me that I would, soon. I started towards the centre of the encampment and saw the crowd come into view: at least half a score of men carrying spears and looking purposeful.

Philip had emerged from the headquarters tent and was moving towards them, but as I approached the central fire I heard my name being called quietly and saw Dedalus coming towards me. He held up his hand to silence me before I could speak, and, taking me by the elbow, he steered me away from the fire again.

"We have a prisoner."

"A prisoner? Ded, we're not at war."

"Well then, we have an unwilling guest."

"Who is he?'

"I don't know. A local, I suppose. Falvo's people picked him up, on the far leg of their patrol. He was alone, and armed. He tried to run and they surrounded him. Didn't know what to do with him, so they brought him back."

"Very well, then, what was it about this man that made Falvo decide to bring him in? I'm presuming the man's no ordinary farmer, otherwise, knowing Falvo, he'd have knocked him on the head and left him there asleep, where they found him. And yet you said the fellow's local."

"Well, that's my guess, but he's no local Celt. I'm sure of that. He's Roman or I'm a barbarian. And judging from his clothing and weapons, he's wealthy."

"What d'you mean, Roman?'"

The answer was preceded by a snort of impatience. "What should I mean? He's short, squat, arrogant, black eyed, clean-shaven, and he's got a beak like an eagle. He's as Roman as I am."

I sighed. "Hmm. Roman, well dressed, well armed and wealthy. Well, we haven't seen much evidence of his like around here. So let's go and meet him." I paused, looking across the fire to Falvo's patrol. "Before we do that, though, perhaps you should tell me exactly what happened."

The knot of men surrounding the newcomer was no more than ten long paces from where Ded and I stood watching, and I could see the glint of firelight reflecting from their spearheads. Philip, who was Officer of the Watch, was huddled there with Falvo, slightly apart from the group, his head down as he listened. I looked beyond them, hoping to find a glimpse of the stranger, but I could see only my own men. Dedalus, in the meantime, had launched into his account.

"Falvo and his troop were at the far end of their sweep, about ten miles from here—"

"Ten miles? What in Hades was he doing that far away?"

Dedalus shrugged. "What he was supposed to be doing, scouting. He had good reason to be there, too. Falvo will tell you all of it himself, in his patrol report, but I think you should hear the gist of it now, before you speak to our pris—, to our guest. They were about five miles out, on a normal, uneventful sweep, when one of Falvo's men remarked that the fields they were riding through were very different to those they'd passed earlier. They were bigger, and more of them were under cultivation. Falvo realized the man was right and that the further they went, the more fields they saw, but they'd seen no farms, no houses, no people. He was curious, and so he decided to keep riding. Within a few more miles, they were riding through the richest farmland Falvo has ever seen. He says it looks as though someone has organized land holdings out there at least as big as ours in the Colony.

"They were riding in an arc, veering eastward and following a river valley, looking for any signs of life they could find, and they saw none. It was about mid-afternoon, and Falvo told me he was starting to grow itchy—not because he was afraid, but because he knew he was well beyond where he ought to be, out of touch with us. Anyone he met out there would be hostile—because they'd think he and his men were up to no good. And he was beginning to realize, too, that trouble could come in large numbers. Hundreds of fields, hundreds of angry people.

"Falvo decided to finish his sweep then and there by swinging east. There's a road there, which leads directly south again to join this one just outside Corinium. Then he discovered that there's a mile thick belt of forest between the fields and the road—obviously a screen to discourage visitors. As they approached the edge of the trees, riding in skirmish line abreast, one of his men, Samuel Cato, flushed our visitor, by sheer accident. The fellow's a fighter, that much is obvious. He attacked Cato on foot immediately he was discovered. Charged right at him with only a shortsword. He should have died right then and there, but he succeeded in frightening Cato's horse and unseating him. He ran then, making no attempt to injure Cato once he was unhorsed, but before he could get away the troopers on either side caught up to him and one of them, seeing what the fellow was wearing, tripped him by thrusting a spear between his feet. Knocked the wind out of him, apparently, and by the time he recovered they had him in custody."

"What was he wearing?"

"Armour—Roman armour."

"Hmm Quick thinking on the part of the trooper who tripped him. He should be commended. Was Cato badly hurt?"

"Only in his dignity. He'll be more careful in future. Anyway, as soon as Falvo saw what this fellow looked like, he thought you might like to talk to him, so he brought him in under guard, although he did permit the man to keep his weapons. Fellow was on foot, and only had a shortsword and a dagger, but he seemed honourable. That was Falvo's word. It impressed me, coming from him. Anyway, Falvo spoke to the fellow in Latin, told him he wasn't really a prisoner but that he'd have to come along, and asked him for his parole not to attempt escape, in return for being able to ride behind one of the men. I met up with them a couple of miles from here, down where the road forks, and the rest you know. And now, if you're going to ask me what I think you should do, I've no idea."

I smiled. "We have absolutely no idea who he is?"

"No, nor where he comes from. Only thing we know is that he was either there alone or he has very pusillanimous friends."

"Hmm," I grunted again, my thoughts racing. "Well, let's find out."

As we approached the group on the other side of the fire, I saw the stranger notice me and fasten his attention on me. The others fell back on either side, and Dedalus stopped a few paces to my rear. Soon I stood facing the newcomer, taking his measure as he was taking mine.

Dedalus was right. This man was a fighter—it was stamped into his bearing. And there was no mistaking his Roman heritage, even had he not been wearing the telltale armour; his Romanness leaped from his face and form as though written there in letters of light. His stance and bearing showed that he was accustomed to deference and to obedience—more than a mere fighter, this was a leader of men, and the fact that I towered over him by a full head and more made absolutely no difference in my assessment of him. Publius Varrus, years earlier, had described the Emperor Honorius's regent, Flavius Stilicho, as a Vandal hawk; the man who faced me now was the same type, radiating menace, self confidence and absolute competence. He was young, on the lighter side of thirty, his well formed muscles full of the vigour of prime manhood. High, sharp cheekbones defined a lean face with a wide mouth, narrow lips and deep, dark, sunken eyes on either side of a dominating, sharp ridged, aquiline nose. The breadth of his high forehead was emphasized by the sharp widow's peak of hair that bisected it, reminding me fleetingly of Lucanus and drawing my attention to the raptor like quality of the face beneath. He was clean shaven, and his hair was close shorn in the Roman fashion.