Jack Whyte - The Singing Sword

"Here, let me lead the way. I've been here before." I guided Germanicus down into the bushes, following a trail he knew as well as I did. As we descended, the bushes grew taller and closer around us, brushing against us as we wound down into the centre of the hilltop. Picus was right behind me as Germanicus turned to the right, and suddenly we were in a tiny jewel of a valley, a natural amphitheatre ringed by rock face on three sides and by the dense growth we had come through on the fourth. The whole place was less than fifty paces wide in any direction. Straight in front of the path by which we had entered, a deep pool was fed by a silent cascade of water that glided down moss-covered rocks from the cliff above and fell free the last three feet to splash on a large, upthrust rock shelf so that the sunlight made rainbows in the spray. Along to the right of where we were, a bank of mossy turf looked as inviting as a down-filled couch.

"How did you find this place, Uncle Varrus?"

"By accident. You like it?"

"I've always liked it. It used to be mine." He smiled widely at my open-mouthed consternation. "I grew up here. I had my first girl there, right on that bank. And several others after."

I felt my eyebrows go up in shock. "You did, did you? And here I thought it virgin. Not to speak of you!"

He laughed, a great, booming sound. "I was sixteen! And before that I'd been — aware? — for six whole years. It was a soldier I wanted to be, remember, not a priest."

"Well, then, welcome home. Again. Let's take a rest."

We dismounted and threw ourselves on the grass. I noticed Picus looking around him as though searching for something along the small beach at the side of the pool.

"What are you looking for?"

"Ashes. Can't see any. It looks as though no one's been here for years."

"No one has. Except for myself and my family. Why would you look for ashes?"

He looked at me in surprise. "You've never fished here?"

It was my turn to be surprised. "Fished? No, I haven't. Why should I fish? I come here to escape, not to eat."

"Oh, Uncle Varrus." He shook his head in mock regret. "You have missed one of life's greatest pleasures. When I was a boy I would come here for whole days at a time. I pitched my leather legionary's tent here, where we're sitting. I'd have my bow and arrows, my sling, some fishhooks and a line, my salt and bread and my fire-starting box. I was totally self-sufficient. I caught my food right here and cooked it on my own fire."

"What kind of fish?"

"Trout. Succulent, beautiful trout."

"Are they hard to catch?"

"Sometimes. But they are never impossible to catch."

"Really? What else did you catch? Fish would be a monotonous diet."

Picus shook his head gravely and with total conviction before lying back on the grass and crossing his hands behind his head. "Not trout, Uncle Varrus! Trout is never boring. But sometimes I'd catch a rabbit, and sometimes a pheasant, or maybe a duck. But mostly rabbits."

"You shot them how? With arrows, or with your sling?"

"It depended on how far away they were when I found them. Arrow or stone, it all depended on distance."

"Ever miss?"

"Most times, at first." He laughed and sat up, remembering. "But hunger can do wonders for improving the aim."

I lay back, flat on the grass. "I found this place one day because my horse brought me here. He seemed to know where he was going, so I just let him take me. It was a pleasant surprise."

"Was it a grey horse? Old?"

"Yes. Was he yours?"

He nodded, smiling. "We came here often, he and I. His name was Cupid. Silly name for a horse. He must be dead by now."

"Yes. Five or six years ago. During the winter. I remember, because I found him one morning dead in the paddock."

He grunted, a note of regret in the sound. "He was an old horse even when I was a youngster. It seems a shame that horses have to die. They're often worth more than men, in terms of their nature."

"Aye, it can seem that way sometimes, I suppose." I nodded at his own mount, which stood cropping the grass beside us. "That's a fine horse you have there. I noticed all your men were mounted well. Where do such horses come from? He must be four good hands bigger than mine, and mine is a big horse."

He eyed Germanicus with a horseman's eyes, then looked back at his own horse. "Aye, he comes from Gaul and he has good lines — I would even say beautiful lines. The Gauls breed big horses, Germanic forest horses. They use them as draft animals on their farms. I don't think there are any bigger in the world. Of course, they're shaggy brutes, with long, rough hair that is almost impossible to groom, but they are phenomenally strong and surprisingly gentle, considering that they run wild in the forests. We're breeding horses now all over the Empire." He paused, considering a question that had obviously just occurred to him, before turning to me. "When did you start your program here in the Colony exactly?"

I sat upright. "Exactly? I don't remember. It was about ten years ago, I think. The idea was your father's, naturally. We had been talking about the Adrianople slaughter and about Alexander's Companions, and we were always talking of the Saxon pirates. Your father thought it might be worth our while to train some men to fight the way you do, as heavy cavalry and not merely mounted bowmen. It worked, as you know."

A wood-pigeon exploded out of the trees across from us, disturbed by something prowling below it. I looked at the sky. "Well, it looks as though the rain is going to stay away today, at least. We'd better be heading back to the villa. It's almost mid-morning."

An hour or so later we were all assembled in the forge, examining the results of the most recent experiments in weaponry carried out by myself and Equus. Picus had picked up the very first of Equus's efforts and was swinging it around, testing its weight and balance, when he noticed some specks of rust on the blade and drew my attention to them.

"This is unusual, Uncle Varrus. A rusty blade, here in the temple of metallic perfection?"

I grunted. "Blame Equus. He'd rather not have to look at that one at all, let alone keep it in good condition."

"He doesn't like it? This? Why not, in God's name?"

"I don't know, lad. He made it. Ask him. He took a dislike to it before it was even finished and he has done nothing like it since then."

"But it's the best of the lot! Look at it. It's versatile — cut and stab! The long blade ... I've seen nothing like it before. Uncle Varrus, this thing works!"

"Tell that to Equus. He thinks it's a disaster."

"But why? It's cumbersome, but it has something that none of the other spears have. This shaft is solid. Heavy. I think it's just too long. If it were shorter, so that it could clear the chest and let a man swing it across his body all the way, it would be formidable. A horseman could change hands at will, with no awkwardness. No, I like this." He turned to Equus. "Equus, I think you had a fine idea here and let yourself lose it."

"Don't talk crazy," growled Equus. "I changed my mind because I saw how stupid the idea was. How can a rider shift his spear from hand to hand? What's he going to do with his shield in the meantime? Hang it from his bottom lip?"

Picus, however, was not to be so easily discouraged. He held the weapon aloft and looked at it, moving it around so that the light played upon the blade. "Equus, if I could have something like this, with the weight and the balance this has, that I could use in either hand, on either side of me, I'd be tempted to throw my shield away."

"Hah!" Equus's voice was filled with disgust. "And then where would you be? You'd get skewered like a rabbit on a spit by the first pikeman you came up against."