Jack Whyte - The Sorcer part 2 - Metamorphosis

From his broad, strong shoulders, a dark-red cloak hung, fastened in the Roman manner through the breast rosettes of the metal cuirass he wore. He wore a quilted, knee-length tunic of thick, white wool, and an officer's kirtle of heavy, armoured straps was belted about his waist. The red cloak showed clear signs of having been carefully repaired in several places, and the relief work and decorative rosettes on his metal breastplate were worn almost smooth from years of polishing. The same polished lustre of loving care betrayed itself on the worn scrollwork of the bronze sheathed sword and dagger at his waist.

I returned my gaze to his eyes, which, as he stared back at me, betrayed nothing of his thoughts. I nodded, keeping my own expression benign, if noncommittal.

"Welcome, " I said quietly, "although you may doubt my sincerity at this point. May we know your name?"

He sucked in one cheek, biting it as he gazed at me, narrow-eyed, and considered his response. "Call me Abductus," he said eventually, his voice betraying no emotion.

I nodded, twisting my own mouth to hide an admiring smile. "Hardly accurate," I responded mildly. "You were not really abducted, nor were you taken prisoner. You were merely invited—"

"Forcibly..."

I nodded. "Forcibly, and I suspect tacitly, but nonetheless invited, to attend us here for purposes of mutual examination. You still wear your weapons, no? Prisoners and abductees are seldom permitted that."

The black eyes were flat and unreadable. "Who are you, and what do you want of me?"

"We'll come to that, but first I have to ask you why you were spying on my men."

"What?" He spat the word in disbelief, then struggled with his anger before he could school his face once more to show nothing. When he resumed, his tone was flat again. "Your men were on my land, among my crops, trespassing close to my home."

"I see. You live alone, farming so many fields?"

I saw him frown, but my eyes had returned to the worn shortsword by his side. I knew that I was being foolish, allowing it to distract me, no matter what I thought I saw in it.

"Does it surprise you that I should farm my own fields?"

A clever answer to an unexpected question, but I pressed on. "Dressed as you are, yes, it does. You are no farmer. Your armour makes a liar out of you."

He looked down at himself, then back at me. "I wear this seldom, nowadays. I am a farmer, first and foremost, as were the soldiers of Rome in ancient times. I take up the sword only when I need to. The presence of your people gave me cause. And as a soldier, I have given you all the information you will receive from me. "

"Very well. " I could feel the others all looking hard at me. "I shall respect your wish to remain silent. But would you mind showing me your sword? I'm sure you realize, " I added, seeing the sudden suspicion in his eyes, "that had we wished to harm you, you would now be dead. May I?"

I held out my hand, and he hesitated for only a moment before unhooking the shortsword and passing it over to me. I held it up close and examined the scabbard, then eased the sword itself partly from its sheath. Sure enough, as I had expected, there was a tiny "V" stamped into the top of the blade, just below the hilt.

"How did you come by this?"

He frowned again, clearly wondering how such a thing could have any importance, and then he blinked and shrugged his shoulders.

"It was my father's. And before that, it was his father's. "

"So it belonged to your grandfather. Where did he obtain it, do you know?"

He had decided to humour me, it seemed, yet when he spoke his voice betrayed contempt. "How could I know that? He was an old man when I was born. Grandfathers are, you know. "

"Yes, I know. " I ignored his truculence completely. "But I had good reason for asking the question. My great uncle made this sword. His name was Varrus. He was a sword maker, but some of his weapons, a very few—his special, finest works—he stamped with his personal mark, V for Varrus. He gave those only to his friends. This is one of them, so your grandfather and my great-uncle must have known each other. Look for yourself. "

I tossed the sword back to him and he caught it deftly, pulling the blade partway out and peering at the mark, twisting it to catch the fire's light. He stood gazing at it for a space of heartbeats, then straightened up, sheathed the blade completely and clipped the scabbard back onto his belt before looking back at me.

"I don't know what you are about, " he said. "But I don't believe you. I don't believe in coincidences—not like that. You looked first, and then made up the rest. "

I was ready for him, however, and had already undipped my own sheathed dagger. "There's no coincidence. I simply recognized my uncle's handiwork. Look at the scrollwork on that sheath, then look at the V. " I tossed the dagger to him as I spoke.

He looked at it as I had told him to, then handed it back. He cleared his throat, his expression, for the first time, suggesting uncertainty.

"My name is Caius Britannicus, and I have some excellent mead in the headquarters tent. May I offer you some? I think we two have much to talk about. Thank you, gentlemen, " I added, looking around at my men. "You may leave us now. "

I turned on my heel and walked directly to the single large tent in the middle of our encampment, knowing without looking that our visitor was walking behind me, and trying to imagine what he must be thinking.

The tent was brightly lit and empty for the moment, although I did not expect that to last for long. Philip, as Officer of the Watch, would be returning shortly and would have need of the table and the lights. I poured a cup of the amber liquid for myself and my "guest" from the flask of mead kept in a chest by the Officer of the Watch for special occasions. He took the cup I offered him and sat in the chair I indicated, moving slowly, his eyes on mine. Then he sighed quietly and sipped at the drink. Only after he had savoured it, rolling it around on his tongue, did he allow himself to relax slightly and lean back. I sat opposite him and waited.

"So," he said, eventually. "You are Caius Britannicus. I am Appius Niger." He raised his cup in a small, ironic salute. "My thanks for the welcome. What do we do now?"

I smiled. "We talk."

'To what end?"

'To an end of hostility, I should think. We have much in common."

He pursed his lips and his eyes flicked from me to the appointments of the tent in which we sat. It was high and roomy and four cornered, six paces long on each side with a twin peaked roof supported by poles and guy ropes, and it was made from score upon score of uniform panels of soft leather, assiduously stitched together with strong, waxed twine so as to be both waterproof and windproof. It could hold a score of people in comfort and was military in every respect, clearly a command point for a mobile expedition. To his credit, my guest made no comment on any of that, unwilling, I assumed, to volunteer any information even by comparing what we had to what he might not have. Instead, he confined himself to responding to what I had already said.

"Our names are both Roman, but the Romans are long departed. Beyond that, I can find little in common between us."

"Well then," I offered, "let me make a suggestion. We are both of Roman descent, as you say, and we live here in Britain. That means we both have learned to live in amity with the Celts here. And that sets us both squarely against the newcomers who have been swarming over Britain since the armies left."

He sat without moving for several moments more, then sniffed. "The newcomers. You mean the Picti, the Painted People from beyond the Wall in the north?"

"Aye, in part, although I doubt they come this far south in any organized manner. But I also mean the Danes and the Saxons."