Jack Whyte: The Eagles' Brood

It was on another such occasion that I asked him which weapon in the room was his most valued treasure. He looked at me in silence for what seemed the longest time that anyone had ever looked at me and then he stood up and towered above me.

"Cay," he asked me, "do you know what a secret is?"

"Yes, Uncle," I answered him. "A special thing that you must never tell to anyone else, no matter how hard it is, or how much you want to tell it."

He smiled at me then. "That's exactly what a secret is, Cay. Exactly. Because the moment you give in and tell the secret to another living soul, no matter who it is, you have destroyed the secret. It is a secret no longer."

"I know, Uncle."

"I know you know, Cay. That's why I am going to share a secret with you. A secret between us only. Are you ready?"

I nodded, my breath suspended in anticipation. He looked at me, narrowing his eyes, and then went on. "I have one secret, Cay, that I share only with my partner Equus. Now I shall have another that I share only with you, and it is this: my most valued treasure in this room is one that cannot be seen. It is hidden from men's eyes."

My eyes darted all around the room, peering into every dark corner. "Where, Uncle?"

"That is the second secret, the one I share with Equus, but I will share it with you, too, some day. Some day soon, I promise. That will make you the third person in the whole world who knows that secret. But before that happens, you and I have some things to talk about." Some day. Soon. Not today. My disappointment must have been written on my face, because he smiled at me again and tousled my hair. "One day soon, I promise. How old are you now, Cay?"

"Seven, Uncle Varrus," I said, knowing he knew.

"And when did you learn to read?"

"When I was five."

"In truth, you were only four. Do you like to read?"

"Yes, Uncle." Why was he asking these questions? He knew how I loved to read.

"And what do you like to read most?"

"Grandfather Caius's books."

"Would you like to read my books?"

I felt my eyes grow wide. What a silly question. I had been asking for months if I could read his books! "Yes, Uncle. Please."

"Very well, then. I'll make you another promise, here and now, man to man, between the two of us. You can start reading my books tomorrow. As you do, we'll talk about them and you can ask me anything you like. I'll answer all your questions. D'you understand?" I nodded, not daring to speak. "Good. Now, this is very important, so listen carefully. There is one question, one very important question, that I'll be waiting for you to ask me, and when you are old enough...No! Let me put that in a different way, for this is really important...When you understand enough to ask me that one question, I'll show you my most valued treasure. Does that sound just?"

I nodded again, almost sick with disappointment. That "when you're old enough" had rung in my ears like a death knell, but I did my best to hide my feelings. A seven-year- old boy's best. "Is there a lot to learn in your books, Uncle?"

He laughed out loud, his big, deep, booming laugh. "Aye, Cay, I think there is," he said. "But I'm sure you'll learn it all quickly, won't you?"

"Yes, Uncle. I will."

"Good lad! Now, come and kiss me good night. It's time you were abed, and tomorrow you start to read my books."

I slid down and hooked my left foot into the loop in the strange chair, swung my right leg over its high back and stepped down to the floor. Uncle Varrus hoisted me high into the air and kissed me on both cheeks the way he did every night at this time. Then he took my hand in his own hard-skinned palm and walked with me to find Uther and Occa, the servant who slept in our room with us.

I have many such memories of Uncle Varrus. He would talk to me, and with me, which is not at all the same thing, for hours on end. He taught me all he knew of weaponry and armour and warfare, including siegecraft. He told me of Alexander, whom men called The Great, and of Alexander's father, Philip of Macedon, and how the two of them conquered their world. And he enthralled me with tales of ancient Rome and the great Republic where, for the only time in history, a man could make of himself what he wished, secure in his right to be what he desired to be, and free to bear arms to protect that right. He used all his wiles to teach me how the Republic had been warped by men and twisted to suit the designs and desires of a privileged few, and how the resultant Empire had become cancerous, doomed by its own wasting sicknesses. He also taught me the lore of iron and of what he himself referred to as "the other, lesser, metals," including gold and silver, and I spent one entire winter in his forge, when I was nine, learning to handle iron and to make the metal work for me, since that, he convinced me,, was the secret of the master smiths. And because he was my uncle Varrus and my god, I listened avidly to his words, absorbed his lessons and devoured his writings.

I never knew my grandfather Caius Britannicus, but I grew up seeing this land of Britain through his eyes, thanks to his skills in writing down his thoughts. From him and from Uncle Varrus, I learned the reasons for the destruction of the Empire before I even knew what the Empire was. I was aware of Armageddon long before I knew that I dwelt in Armageddon, and I saw the High King's destiny before his parents ever saw each other. And through all of this, through all the years of being a sponge, soaking up every scrap of lore that came my way, absorbing the essence of the great Dream dreamed by my grandfather and his friend Publius Varrus, I was protected from the world by the life I led and by the self-contained society that had been built around me. We in Camulod thought of ourselves as Britons, rather than Romano-British or Celtic people, and in my youth, because of Publius Varrus, I imbued the word with a unique, metallic significance, imagining a Briton to be a carefully crafted alloy, a tempered fusion of the strongest properties of Roman and Celtic greatness.

Beyond our Colony, however, outside the sanctuary of Camulod, in the separate, other world of Britain and beyond its shores, the disintegration of Rome's Empire hurtled on.

Our land never recovered from the loss of the legions Stilicho recalled in 401. Five years later, the few legions that remained, feeling forgotten and abandoned there, elected a man called Marcus as their emperor, but he was murdered by a rival faction who elected another, Gratian by name, to lead them. Short months later, he too was dead, and a third prospect, Constantine III, was proclaimed Emperor in Britain. This was the man who dealt the final blow to Roman Britain. Mustering all the troops that he could find, he assembled a fleet of ships from all the ports of the land and crossed with his army to the continent, leaving Britain abandoned at last. We in the Colony called Camulod, the only place in Britain prepared for this development, remained unaware of the event for several months, and when we did hear of it, we were thrown onto the verge of panic, expecting to be victims any day of massive invasion forces.

For a long time, however—almost four years—there was no great increase in the raids, for there were few who really believed that the Romans would not return. But then weeds began to grow on the great roads, and the camps began to show the wear and tear of time and neglect, and as they crumbled, the predators stepped up their raids. The word was passed that the way to Britain lay safely open. The Jutes, the Danes, the Angles, the Saxons, the Picts and the Scots came in ever swelling numbers, and Britain knew pillage on a scale hitherto undreamed of.

II

I was eight years old when I first knew real terror and real awe. Both of these new experiences came on the same day, within moments of each other, and both left indelible impressions upon me.