Jack Whyte - The Singing Sword

I had been pouring wine and sampling the honeyed wheat-cakes while this last exchange was going on, and now I spoke through a mouthful of food. "Tragic it may be, but it's not unusual." I handed each of them a cup of wine. Caius sipped at his before answering me.

"No, Varrus, it's not unusual. We are unusual. We are determined to adapt, and so we shall survive. Your daughter's wedding next spring to young Uric Pendragon will mark an official bonding of two peoples. The fruit of that bond will mark a new beginning in the history of this island of Britain. Your grandchildren, Publius, my great-nephews and great-nieces, will be set apart by their blood."

I demurred. "I don't often argue with you, Cay, but this time I think you're exaggerating a little. Romans have been marrying the women of Britain for as long as there have been Romans in Britain."

He shook his head, dismissing the validity of my comment while apparently agreeing with what I said.

"Of course they have, my friend. We all know that. But it has never happened at this level before. This is a monumental step, don't you see that?"

"No, Caius," I said. "I don't. What 'level' are you talking about?"

"The highest level."

"What's so different about it, in God's name? They're just two young people who are being wed by their parents. They're no different from any of the other young people who have done the same thing, gone the same way."

"Publius Varrus!" He shook his head impatiently, a frown of annoyance on his face. "Have you no sense at all of the order of things? There is no Celtic blood in my family that I am aware of, nor is there any in yours. Is there?"

I shook my head, twisting my lips into a grimace of unconcern to show it was matter of complete indifference to me. "No, not as far as I know, although I haven't made an issue of investigating it."

He pounced on that. "There you are, then! We have been bred in Britain, it is true, but our blood is pure Roman. Unsullied Roman blood, Publius. Republican blood. And it is a matter of great pride in our friend Ullic that his own blood is, as he would put it, untainted by Roman impurities. His race is regal, Varrus. He is pure Celt. His people have ruled this part of the world for centuries, long before the Caesars came to power. And you say you can't see what this means?

"When your daughter weds Ullic's son, it will be the start of a new bloodline — the same thing that excites Victorex in his breeding of horses. And breeding is what we are talking about here, let us not lose sight of that. We are causing the creation of a new breed of man by mingling Veronica's pure Roman blood with Uric's pure Celtic blood. Forget the others that have gone before. That was miscegenation. Roman legionaries have not been pure Roman for hundreds of years. They are a mongrel creation of the Empire, romanized, perhaps, but never Roman."

He swung on his son, whose face was as blank as mine. "Picus, don't tell me that you had failed to mark the significance of this match?"

Picus shook his head slightly in bewilderment. "No, Father. I hadn't thought much about it at all, and certainly not from that perspective."

"Then think about it now! And think about it from this time on. Your cousins by this union will be the progenitors of a noble house of unique qualification."

Picus's lip quirked upwards. "Yes, I suppose they will, when you put it like that."

"No suppositions! They will be!" Caius looked from Picus to me and then raised his cup. "Now! Join me in a toast to the unborn. To the sons of Veronica and Uric, the future rulers of this Colony and this whole land, for we will raise them to a legacy of strength and freedom that has not been seen by men for centuries. To our heirs!"

It was a fine toast and a stirring thought, and we drank to it gladly, although I had to resist shaking my head in wonder at my own lack of perception. There were times when Caius Britannicus could make me feel like an absolute bumpkin.

"Why are we all still standing like idlers on a street corner?" Caius finally asked. "Let's sit and enjoy the fire. There is a nip in the air tonight that reminds me of my multiplying years." He sat by the fireplace and we joined him, pulling our chairs closer to the flames as he spoke again to Picus.

"So, let's talk of strategy. Is the invasion turned?"

Picus nodded. "Yes. We believe so. The indications are all there. Reported raids have decreased greatly in the last few months."

"How significant is that?" I asked him.

"Highly significant. No raids at all in the last two weeks. Prior to that, only three in three weeks. In the three months before that only twelve, and six of those occurred in the first month of the three."

"That is still a lot of raids," said his father. "You really feel justified in claiming that to be a significant decrease?"

Picus leaned forward and toasted his palms in front of the glowing coals for a few moments before answering. Finally he said, "Yes, Father, I do. Very definitely. In the same period last year, there were more than forty raids. In any man's language that has to be a significant difference."

"Yes, I suppose it is." There was silence for a time and then Britannicus went on. "Your technique, here in Britain — how has it developed?"

"I'm not sure of your meaning, Father. From what viewpoint?"

"How has it improved over the past two years? What have you learned? What have you done? What have you initiated?"

Picus smiled. "Much. A great deal on all three points, Father. I think perhaps the first thing we learned is that, laced with an enemy whose strikes are unforeseeable, the last thing one can hope to do is operate under the normal conditions of warfare. No, let me rephrase that." His speech slowed perceptibly as he enunciated his thoughts with much greater precision. "The last thing one can hope to do is operate as though the accepted traditional ways and methods have any application. They do not." He paused and drank deeply before going on.

"We were forced to accept, right from the outset of our campaign in Britain, that we could never hope to react in time to have any preventive effect upon this type of enemy incursion. We had to evolve new tactics to deal with new conditions, and so we split our forces, our cavalry forces, regionally, into five central bases: one in Eboracum, one in Glevum, one in Verulamium, one in Dubris and one in Noviomagus. Using each of these bases as the hub of a wheel, we set up lines of observation — outposts of infantry — tending signal-fires along lines radiating from the centre. Once these lines were established and in place, the news of raiders passed as quickly as the visibility of the fires. Sometimes the ancient methods are still the best — we simply adapted the signal-fires to our own needs, and used more of them. And while we were setting up these beacons, we also set up relay stations along the same lines, fully staffed and equipped with fresh horses. We split our active troops into self-sufficient squadrons with one centurion in overall charge of each, two decurions and forty troopers. Our reasoning in this was that one longboat could contain anywhere from thirty to fifty men. Two boatloads would double that potential, and so on. Our arithmetic considered one squadron of disciplined cavalry to be at least the equal of two boatloads of raiders, so each relay station was stocked with eighty-eight horses, kept in a constant state of readiness.

"Each outpost was responsible for the building and the maintenance of groups of five signal-fires, set up side by side in a straight line and far enough apart to avoid any confusion. One fire meant one boat. Four fires set alight simultaneously meant more than three boatloads — a heavy raid. Five simultaneous fires means more than six boats — a major invasion fleet. It works very well, for our whole operation is predicated upon the advantage held by a double squadron of heavily armed, well-mounted, disciplined troops over a body of men on foot numbering twice their strength or even more. When four signal-fires are lit at once, for example, three squadrons are dispatched in response. Two of these ride at speed to catch the enemy on land, at work, and keep him from retreating to his boats. The third proceeds more slowly, in reserve, backed up by a full cohort of infantry moving at a forced march."