Jack Whyte - The Skystone

I shook my head, still unable to believe what I was being told. He raised an eyebrow at me, a half-smile on his face. "Come now," he said. "I speak only of possibilities, not of certainties."

I finally found my tongue, and my understanding. "I hear you, Commander, and I understand what you are saying, but..."

"But what, Varrus?"

"Nothing, Commander. We can but hope you are wrong, and that the command of the Forty-first has changed hands."

"Exactly. Then we are in agreement."

"Yes, Commander. But... what if you are correct?

What if this man is still in charge? And if he does decide to use this situation to personal advantage? What then?"

He looked hard at me for a long moment, chewing on his inner lip, before answering.

"Then, Centurion Varrus, we must hope that he is accompanied by others who can sway him to behave as a Roman legate and not as a vindictive Seneca."

"Is that likely, Commander?"

"I have no idea. But I suspect we will not have long to wait to find out. Here comes our rescuer."

I turned to see the officers of the Forty-first returning accompanied this time by their senior tribune, Tertius Lucca. We returned to the head of our command as they approached, and I had to bellow at our men to keep them properly silent in the ranks as their natural relief and excitement threatened to overflow.

Tertius Lucca rode ahead of his officers as they came towards us, and in response to some signal unseen by us, they reined in and held their position just over a hundred paces short of where we stood, leaving Lucca to advance in company with one other, the junior tribune, Barates Placidus, to whom I had spoken earlier. When these two had come half of the remaining distance towards us, they stopped and dismounted. I glanced sideways at Britannicus, but he gave no reaction.

"I think they are waiting for you to go to them, Commander."

"Obviously. Well, there seems to be little point in not doing so. At least they haven't shouted at us. Come with me."

I walked one pace behind him on his right as we made our way forward to meet our rescuers, and we stopped within three paces of them. Neither pair of us made any effort to salute the other. Lucca and Britannicus faced each other impassively, neither man's face revealing anything of his thoughts. A worm of dread squirmed in my gut. Britannicus had been correct; we were in trouble with our own people. I fought to keep my facial expression non-committal.

Tertius Lucca was a dark-faced, good-looking man in his late twenties, and his uniform seemed opulent next to our rags. He wore a corselet of burnished bronze plates, cunningly attached so that they overlapped to hang loosely and seemed to shimmer when he moved. His armoured skirt straps and his helmet bore the same sheen of expensive bronze, and his leather harness had that deep, glossed polish that only servants can produce. His cloak and his tunic were of creamy, white wool, decorated with a Greek border in dark green, and the crest on his helmet was of white egret plumes. I noticed, too, that he wore white leggings of the same rich wool beneath his sandals. It was he who broke the silence.

"Have you no salute for me?"

Britannicus shrugged. "I would have, gladly, if I thought you might return it, but I think you might not."

"You are perceptive." The Tribune pursed his lips. "And correct. I could not."

"Could not? On what grounds?"

"On the grounds that you have been found guilty of desertion and are hence beyond the recognition of a soldier."

"I see."

I was biting my tongue. I could hardly believe the coolness of Britannicus's voice.

"Desertion. Not killed in battle. Not presumed dead at all, even though no one has seen me since the fall of Hadrian's Wall. There is no doubt in the official mind, it seems. I did not die in battle. I deserted. With all my men. Look at me, man!" His voice cracked like a whip. "Do you believe I am a deserter?"

"What I believe or disbelieve has no relevance. You stand convicted —"

" Inabsentia!"

"In absentia, as you say. That state of affairs is not uncommon in cases of desertion."

"So," and still Britannicus maintained that calm, even tone, "what is your next step, Tribune?"

"I am unsure..." Lucca's eyes narrowed as he gazed at Britannicus and then turned his glance on me. "I know what it should be... what it should have been. I am guilty, even now, of wrongdoing in speaking to you like this, but this meeting, and the form of it, has been... unexpected."

Britannicus held his peace and Lucca continued. "Had your men been deployed other than the way I found them upon our arrival, I would have joined battle instantly. I suspect you were aware of that?" Again, he received no answer. His next comment was unexpected.

"You owe this courtesy, small as it is, to one of your former officers, a friend of mine who served with you in Africa, years ago. Julian Symmachus. He is not here today, but I remember the fervour with which he defended your name and your honour when he first discovered you had been proscribed for desertion. He swore that you had to be dead, that you were incapable of desertion. He swore too loudly, fought too well on your behalf and made a nuisance of himself. He was transferred.

Britannicus was smiling. "I remember Julian well. I shall thank him for that. Where is he now?"

"He is dead. He was killed in a skirmish with a band of Scots." There was no reply to this. Britannicus simply lowered his chin to his breast.

A large bee appeared from nowhere and began buzzing somnolently around Lucca's chin, attracted by the perspiration that coated his face in the growing heat of the summer sun. He flicked at it without looking, and so fast was his hand's speed that he actually knocked the insect away, whether to the ground or not I did not see. He undid the clasp beneath his chin and removed his helmet, resting it against his hip and wiping the sweat from his brow with his free hand.

"It was Julian's defence of you that I recalled today when Barates told me that Caius Britannicus awaited me. I determined then, right or wrong, to speak with you before taking action against you, and to do so, upon my own authority, with only one witness to our discourse. This was in tribute to Julian Symmachus only, understand. I have no wish to come to grief over you as he did, but neither did I wish to condemn you out of hand without even having tried to assess the accuracy of his judgment. Will you surrender yourself and your men to my authority?"

"As what?" Britannicus raised his head and looked Lucca straight in the eye. "Do you intend to treat us as deserters?"

"I have no choice. I must."

I heard again the sharp sound of my commander sucking air between his teeth, a sound that betrayed to me the perplexity he was going through.

"Do you believe, Tertius Lucca, as a professional soldier and a man of reason, that, being guilty as charged, I would present myself and my command so meekly to the wrath of Rome?"

"You might." Lucca was close to smiling, I thought. "Symmachus often talked of the various kinds of effrontery you have shown in the past, as a resourceful leader. A move such as this might be a master stroke of sheer duplicity."

The worm in my gut was whirling rapidly now, but Britannicus's next words astounded me. "What if I were to tell you I can prove total loyalty to Rome, on my own behalf and that of all my men?" He was standing fully erect, seeming to peer right over Lucca's head. "How would you react?"

"With amazement." Lucca was smiling openly now, but there was no malice in his eyes. "Can you do that? Can you prove your loyalty?"

"I believe I can, if given the opportunity. Even to Primus Seneca."

Lucca made a wry face. "I doubt that. The Legate has no patience with convicted felons."