Jack Whyte - The Skystone

"These are Celtic, " I said. "Beautifully done. Who did them?"

"I did." He took the papyrus back from me and I watched his eyes follow the designs inscribed on it as he spoke. "I copied them from a number of sources while I was in the west, in the mountains there."

"Why would you do that?"

"For the pleasure it gave me. This is the artwork of the Celtic peoples of Britain. I am a bishop of the Church in Britain. I have decided that I would like to have a plain, pectoral cross in silver, decorated in this, the Celtic fashion. A vanity, I suppose, but a more practical vanity, or at least a less pretentious one, than this."

He reached inside his robe again and pulled out a gold cross, studded with red and green jewels, which he handed to me. I took it and examined it, conscious of the surprisingly solid weight of it and of the craftsmanship that had gone into the making of it.

"This is magnificent."

"It is barbaric. Sybaritic. I find it gross."

I scratched it with my thumb-nail, feeling the richness of it. "Where did you get it? May I ask?"

He looked at it musingly. "In Rome, last time I was there. It is eastern, made in Constantinople."

"Yes." I turned the thing over. The back was covered with oriental scrollwork. "I've seen this work before, but never in a cross."

He snorted. "The Church is growing wealthy. It has become the accepted fashion for bishops to wear such things."

"But you find it gross."

"Yes. I do."

I handed it back to him. "Was it a gift?"

"It was."

"Why did you accept it, if you find it so distasteful?" He looked at me as if I had lost my wits. "Because of its value, of course. I saw it’s worth. I intend to sell it in Londinium. The price I get for it will aid me in my work."

"God's work?"

"The two are the same." There was no hint of censure in his voice to counteract the cynicism in mine.

"I see. When were you in Rome?"

"Three years ago."

"Why haven't you sold it before now?"

"I did not have to. Now I need the money."

"For your work?"

"For my work."

I cleared my throat, deciding the man was telling the absolute truth.

"Tell me about this silver cross you visualize. Why do you want that?" He pursed his lips. "As a token. A symbol."

"Of what? Forgive my bluntness, but I do not understand. Why should you need a symbol? Of what? Your faith? Your position?"

"Both of those, but more." He picked up his cup of wine and looked into it, and then he got to his feet and began to move about the room, sipping occasionally at the wine.

"I see the Church here in Britain, Master Varrus, as lacking an identity, a local flavour if you like, that would make it more acceptable to the people here. The pectoral cross is an excellent badge of office. I have no doubt of that. It is large, easily visible and unmistakable. The garishness of that gold one, and of the others I have seen, however, suggest a foreignness and a preoccupation with worldly wealth and power that offends me. You see? I spoke of vanity and here I am, in my own vanity, decrying the vanity of others. Anyway, my thought is that a plain, silver cross, stark and simple, adorned only with inscribed Celtic designs such as I have shown you, would serve the double purpose of defining my function to my people here and dedicating their art, their traditions and their abilities to the glory of God. Does that make sense?"

I picked up the jewelled cross again from where he had left it on the arm of his chair. "Aye, Bishop, " I said. "It makes sense, I suppose. But why silver? Why not plain gold? Why not wood, for that matter?"

"Why not? I understand what you are saying. Let us just say that there is a modicum of vanity involved. Wood does not appeal to me. Silver does. It has a beauty, a purity, that is unique. It is pristine."

I raised my hand, palm outward. "I can't argue with that." I handed the cross back to him again and this time he replaced it inside his robe. "But why have you come to me? I'm not the one to make your cross for you. There are silversmiths by the squad in Londinium, any one of whom could do that in his sleep."

"No, Varrus. There is your error." He placed his empty cup on the table. "I'll take no more of your time, but let me leave you with this thought. You may never have worked with silver, and you may care little for its delicacy, as you say, but you are a man who respects integrity, whether it be in a man or in a metal. I have been asking people about you. You are also, by your own admission, a man who responds to challenge. I am on my way to Londinium. While I am there I will convert this golden bauble into money. If you will, please think about what would be involved in making this cross for me, respecting the integrity of the metal, of the design of the cross itself, and of the decoration you would add to it. Consider, too, the challenge of the silver. I will return within the month. If you tell me then that you do not want this commission, I shall respect your decision. Is that fair?"

I shrugged my shoulders, bewildered. "Aye, I suppose it is. I'll think on it. But I make you no promises."

"I want none. Now I must go." He made a move to rise, and, on an impulse, I stopped him. He waited, looking at me in silence as I struggled with the question that had risen, unbidden, to the tip of my tongue. After several seconds had passed, I found the words to frame it; more accurately, I found a minor question that would allow me to work towards the question that concerned me.

"Please, " I said, "if you can spare me a few more minutes, I would like to ask you something about the Tribune, Commander Britannicus." He settled back into his chair and crossed his hands on his stomach.

"What would you like to know, Master Varrus?"

"Nothing that will embarrass either of us to discuss, Bishop, but I could use some enlightenment on a thing that has been bothering me. Have you known the Tribune long?"

He nodded. "All my life. His family and my own are close and have been for many years."

"I thought so. Are you Roman born?"

"No, I was born here in Britain, as was Caius."

"What can you tell me about the enmity between him and Primus Seneca? I know it is deep and bitter, but I have never been able to discover the cause of it."

"Have you asked Caius?"

"Commander Britannicus? No, I have not. He has spoken of it, but I have asked him nothing. Our relationship is not one that would allow such intimacy."

Alaric smiled. "I think you are wrong, there, Master Varrus, but I appreciate the reason for your thinking that way. You would regard such a question as impertinent, but Caius Britannicus would not. He regards you as a friend, not as a subordinate. I think he would gladly tell you the story himself, were you to ask him."

I thought about that for a second, and then responded, "I could not do that."

Alaric smiled. "All right. Theirs is a blood feud — a family feud, the origins of which have been forgotten while the virulence remains and seems to grow."

"All the Senecas hate all the Brittanici? Is that what you are saying?"

"Almost." He was frowning slightly now, thinking. "Caius Britannicus is the next-to-last of his line. He has a sister, Luceiia, a son, Picus, of whom he is very proud, and three other young children. There are no other members of the family Britannicus left alive, not even cousins bearing the same name. The Senecas, on the other hand, are. a prolific breed. Primus is the first of seven brothers, all of whom are soldiers save the youngest, who is a ne'er-do-well. The family is fabulously wealthy, you understand, and has been since the days of Julius Caesar when Seneca the Elder, the banker, was estimated to be the wealthiest man in the world."

I nodded, to show that I was aware of the Seneca legend.