Jack Whyte - The Saxon Shore

"Her name is Ludmilla," I answered, waiting for the anger I knew must be inside me to come boiling to the surface.

"I know that, I heard you call her that, but who is she? Does she have a husband?"

Suddenly, inexplicably, instead of feeling anger or jealousy, I found myself on the point of laughing, and a part of me wondered how I could possibly find any humour here. "Not yet," was all I said.

"Ludmilla . . ." He was looking at me, but his thoughts were elsewhere.

"Aye," I said, "Ludmilla. What was it you wanted to discuss with me?" His eyes widened in surprise. "You said there was something you wanted to talk to me about."

"Oh, yes. It was a thought I had about Uther's people and their bows. Do you think we could arrange to have some of them stationed here permanently?"

"Permanently? You mean living here in Camulod? I doubt it. Why?"

"Because I would like to start training them to fight with our men, tactically. It would be easier if some of them were based here. Why do you doubt it? Wouldn't you want them here?"

"No, it's not that, not at all. I simply doubt they'd come down out of their hills, particularly now that Uther's dead. I don't even know who will rule in his place now, but it's quite possible that whoever does might wish to have no more to do with Camulod."

He frowned. "You think that's likely?"

"No, but again, I don't know. It is possible. Uther rode to war for Camulod, rather than for Cambria, although Lot moved against Cambria, too. More to the point, unfeeling though it may seem, the fact is that most of those men lost their bows along with their lives, and Uther's people have never had enough bows to be able to afford to lose any of them. It is against their law for any man to own a bow."

"What do you mean? I don't understand."

"I know you don't, but it's quite simple. The Pendragon bow, as they call it, is a new weapon. It is made from a specific wood, a wood that has never been in abundant supply, and each individual bow takes years to make. For every bow made, there are a score of men waiting to use it, so each man takes custody of one bow for a year and has the responsibility of caring for it, but he must share it with others. The Druids are growing yew saplings everywhere throughout the Pendragon lands today, but that is a new development and the trees grow but slowly. There must have been hundreds of bows lost in Uther's campaign against Lot. They will be difficult to replace, and impossible to replace quickly."

Now my brother looked quite crestfallen and I reached out to clasp his shoulder. "Look, I may be wrong. They may have more resources than I thought. In the meantime, however, they have to replace a king and recover from a war, as we do. When Donuil and I return from Eire, we will journey to Uther's land and talk to whoever rules there. The alliance of Pendragon and Camulod is advantageous to both parties. We will work at it and build upon it."

As I spoke, the rear door opened again and Lucanus came back into the room. I swung to him immediately. "How is he, Luke?"

He stepped to his table and sat down, reaching out to pick up the small box he had been so concerned about earlier. He gazed at it, as though wondering what it was, and then replaced it on the tabletop.

"Popilius Cirro is dead. Respiratory failure." His voice was flat and emotionless, but then he turned to look at me, although even as he spoke his gaze drifted away over my shoulder. "I am sorry, Commander, there was nothing I could do for him. He was in paralysis when I arrived, and I was powerless to help him. He died almost immediately, while I was trying to clear his windpipe."

"Clear his windpipe?" My voice sounded strange to me. "You mean he choked to death?"

"No," he said, shaking his head distractedly. His eyes were fixed on some infinity within his mind, and for several moments he said nothing more, then resumed in a normal tone. "No, he did not. His trachea was unobstructed. He died of some kind of internal convulsion, probably related to the pulmonary condition—the pneumonia he had been suffering from." Lucanus paused and pinched the bridge of his nose between finger and thumb. "Anyway, he's gone . . . What will you do now?"

"Do? What d'you mean?"

"About leaving today. I imagine this changes things."

"Oh." I had not even thought that far ahead. "Yes, yes of course it does. I couldn't even think of leaving now. We will stay here a few more days and honour Popilius Cirro with the funeral he deserves." It was too sudden, too final, too brutal to be true. How could death come, so swift and unexpected and so final, lacking war or violent strife? And yet Popilius was dead. I could see Lucanus was as shaken as I was. "May I see him before I go?"

He rose to his feet again immediately, his face expressionless, set in lines of distant coldness that I knew to be the detachment of his professional persona. "Certainly, come with me."

The primus pilus still lay in the cot where I had seen him last, but he looked very different now. The shape beneath the coverings was still the one I remembered, but the once-familiar face was now hideously lifeless, the skin chalk white except around the blue-lipped, sunken mouth and cheeks.

"Why is his mouth blue?" I found myself whispering.

"It's a condition caused by the way he died, the respiratory failure. We call it cyanosis, because of the blue coloration it produces. Much the same result is seen in death caused by cyanide poisoning."

I glanced at him sharply. "He was poisoned?"

Lucanus shook his head, a tiny, weary smile twisting his lips. "No, not at all; I merely said the effect was the same."

Popilius's right arm lay on top of the covers and I reached out and took his hand in my own, finding it still warm as I had known it would be although already I fancied I could feel the chill of death beneath the skin. It was a large, old hand, calloused, hard and heavy. Anguish swelled in my throat, hurting so that I could not swallow.

"Old friend," I said to the recumbent form, "I will undertake your last commission." I had to stop, waiting for the end of a surge of grief that robbed me of my voice. When it had passed, I spoke again. "You built an armed camp at the bottom of our hill and held it for us in the face of Cornwall's thousands. Later, you tore it down again, but not until all danger was long past. Tomorrow, on the spot where you built the praesidium in the centre of that camp, you will be buried, alone with the glory you have earned, as befits a primus pilus, yet in a place of honour among the others who fell in that battle. Farewell, Popilius Cirro."

I turned on my heel, with a nod to Lucanus, and went to begin the arrangements for the funeral. Outside the sick ward, in Lucanus's office, Ambrose was still waiting, presumably for me but more hopefully, I guessed, for Ludmilla's return. I reached out and grasped his shoulder in passing, pulling him into step with me. "We have a funeral to arrange," I told him. "Your first, but not your last in Camulod. As well you accompany me now and find out how we do it, because sooner or later you're going to have to arrange one on your own."

As we emerged from the Infirmary and swung towards the administration block that housed my office and those of Titus and Flavius, we came face to face with Peter Ironhair. He stopped, stock-still, several paces in front of us, his face setting into a scowl as he saw me and then betraying shocked amazement as his eyes went from my face to my brother's. Unsure of what to say or how to react to the evidently unexpected sight of two of me, he drew himself to his full height. I gave him no chance to recover from his shock.

"Ironhair," I said, acknowledging him. "You've been away, obviously. You have not yet met my brother, Ambrose Britannicus. Ambrose, this is Peter Ironhair, one of our smiths and a member of our Council."