Jack Whyte - The Saxon Shore

Lucanus soon emerged as the magister of the small room in his Infirmary that we converted to a schoolroom, and he throve on the responsibility. He it was who taught them basic logic and philosophy, and his keen mind was stretched further than it had ever been, he often said, when he approached the matter of how to interest such young people in simple debate and elementary polemics. He also taught them mathematics—principally the boys, although little Octavia was smartest of them all in this—and the principles of engineering based upon the geometry of Euclid, which he himself had mastered as a boy. And he recruited his own outstanding pupil Ludmilla to teach them the basics of skeletal anatomy and simple medicine.

Hector, Julia's husband and the father of Bedwyr, a councillor and an able administrator, worked with them one morning each alternate week to explain the elements of government, instructing them patiently, and with great success, on the way in which each of the various units and elements within our Colony—a working microcosm of all organised society—fed, and was in its turn dependent upon, the function of the others.

On reading what I have just written, it appears to me I might have conveyed the impression that the children were subjected to an endless litany of disciplines, but that was not the case at all. Their lives were open and enjoyable and the knowledge they acquired was gathered across the span of years. Few of the subjects they studied were ever covered simultaneously and they had ample time for laughter and for simply being children. The lessons I had learned in that regard from Aunt Luceiia and from the writings and example of Publius Varrus were yet vibrant memories.

Afternoons were for military studies and were the province of my brother Ambrose, assisted by me and by a wide range of willing volunteers. None of the boys was ever known to bewail that aspect of his learning and they learned all that we could teach them, which was much indeed.

They learned first to ride, of course, and part of that instruction was the care and maintenance of all on which their horsemanship relied: their animals, their saddlery and their equipment. They learned to groom and feed their horses, in that order, and how to mend, repair and even fashion saddlery. And as their bodies grew and strengthened, they learned weaponry, from the care and use of swords, daggers and shields to the techniques of spear handling and bow craft. They learned tracking; how to read the signs of passage left by men and animals. They learned to hunt and fish and forage, and to find dry kindling in the worst of weathers, even under snow. They learned, too, the basic elements of drill and discipline for infantry and cavalry, marching and counter-marching, forming up and deploying alongside our regular troops, both infantry and cavalry.

In years to come, Ambrose and I would teach them strategy and tactics, but in the meantime we fed their questing, eager minds with stories of adventure and of feats of arms and mighty victories. Arthur in particular was entranced by the tales of Alexander, whom men called The Great, and of his famed Companions, the noble warriors who campaigned, at their own expense, as bodyguards to the young Emperor from Macedonia seven hundred years ago and more. One day, enthralled by an account unheard before, he asked me how I came to know all this, and I told him of Uncle Varrus and his books. From that time on I would often find the boy, on rainy days, perched on a stool in the great Armoury where I had spent so much time in my youth, engrossed as I had been in Publius Varrus's accounts of days long past. And at such times I thought invariably about the gleaming sword that lay, its existence unsuspected, beneath the floor-boards at his feet. I was pleased, and more than pleased, with the boy's growth in every way. He was hungry, ravenous for knowledge, and he had the time to pursue it without disruption in his bright young life.

That thought by itself should have stirred me towards caution, but I was blind to its implications, allowing myself to be lulled by uneventful days and balmy summer evenings. I had completely lost sight of the fact that anyone familiar with the ways of hunting birds, the eagle or the hawk, should always be aware that death and destruction can come swooping from a cloudless sky with the speed and impact of a falling stone.

Never in my life, before or since that summer month of June in 440, have I been so unthinkingly careless of my duties for so long a time, and I have no excuse to offer for my dereliction other than that I was distracted by a haunting fear that peaked on the very day disaster struck. It was the most awful fear I have ever known, a crippling, dreadful burden of uncertainty and creeping terror against which I had fought so well and for so long that it was almost concealed from me in daylight, and I allowed myself to hide from it by the mere act of denying its existence. By night, however, the debilitating terror took on a life of its own that left me powerless to sleep or even to think with anything resembling clarity.

Lucanus had grown concerned for me, I know, for he had asked me several times what ailed me, and upon my protest that I felt quite well he had held up a bronze mirror to my eyes, bidding me see how haggard I had grown. My other friends knew, too, that something was amiss, but I temporized by claiming that I could not sleep at night owing to an injury, a twisted back I had sustained mounting a skittish horse. They accepted that, but I know they all watched me closely.

Then, on that terrible day, Lucanus held up another mirror to me, this time an abstract mirror of words, and all unknowing, forced me to confront my fears and make admission to myself.

It was a hot afternoon of blazing sunshine, unseasonably so for June, and he and I were seated in the shady courtyard of the Infirmary, sipping cool wine and talking about the children and how much Arthur was growing to resemble Uther, the father whom the boy had never known. That led to a discussion of men and their physiology, and how resemblances were passed from parents to their offspring, the most startling example being my own resemblance to my half-brother Ambrose; two different mothers, yet two sons like beans from the same pod.

"No." Lucanus shook his head then. "No," he repeated, quite clearly recalling something. "It's more than that, Caius, more than mere parentage, father to son. The most amazing likeness I have ever seen, apart from you and Ambrose, and one I had forgotten for many years until now, was between a young man and his mother's brother, who was much younger than she." He paused, remembering. "I said it was amazing, and it was. The son bore not the slightest resemblance to his father, for I met him, too, one time when he came visiting. It really was extraordinary, and I can hardly believe I had forgotten it. Phideas Arripas was the wife's brother's name, and he and I were students together in Alexandria, as was his nephew, who was no more than two years his junior. The two were as alike as you and Ambrose, and yet the resemblance sprang from Phideas's sister to her son. The son, by the way, was Mordechai Emancipatus."

When Lucanus spoke that name it was as though the air about me darkened. My breath caught in my throat and my heart began to hammer loudly, as though it beat against my eardrums. Abruptly, I found myself on my feet, gazing about me wildly, aware of Lucanus's expression as he stared at me in astonishment. Blindly, gasping to control the sudden nausea that racked me, I lurched away, gesturing savagely to Luke to stay where he was.

Somehow, probably because of the heat that kept most people in the coolness of their homes that afternoon, I made my way across the entire fort without attracting any more attention to myself, although I knew that I was reeling like a drunken man, and then I found myself inside the stables, where I sagged against a wall and removed my helmet. I felt better after that, but my guts were awash with churning fear. I sensed someone approaching, one of the duty troopers, and bent quickly to a trough, plunging my head beneath the cold water. The man, whoever he was, had passed on when I straightened again to gulp a breath, drenching my upper body with the water from my head. The single certainty within me was that I must leave this place at once and make my way to where I could be alone to scream aloud my grief and guilt and crawling horror. No thought was in my mind that I might fight, or ever overcome, the brutal, soul-destroying terror I could feel bludgeoning the crumbling edges of my sanity.