"Bronze? But it's silver."
"No, Caius. It is beaten silver over bronze."
I held out my hand and he returned the Sword to me. I held the hilt up to my face and looked at it again, closely and carefully. There was no sign of any seam or joint. "How did you say this is named, Uncle?"
"What? The technique? It has no name that I know of, but my grandfather wrote that the people of Africa and Asia Minor who deal in such things apparently call their moulds 'qalibr.'"
The word sounded strange and exotic in my ears and the small hairs on my arms stirred. "Qalibr," I said. "The hilt came out of a mould. Ex-qalibr. That's where you got the name!" I tested it with my tongue, knowing by the goose- flesh on my arms and neck that it was the perfect name. "Ex-qalibr!"
"Excalibur." My uncle smiled, humouring me. "I'm glad you approve, Caius.
VI
Once I had seen Excalibur, it was never out of my mind. The other swords I had admired and wanted for so long became dull and clumsy in my sight. I had a long-bladed wooden sword that was my own treasure, and I carried it with me everywhere I went that summer, slung over my shoulder in the style that had been adopted by our horsemen. I was holding it in my hand, I remember, when the cry went up announcing the return of my father and his men from another of their endless patrols. I ran to watch them clatter up the road and into the fort, admiring again the sheer size and bulk of my father, their General. Titus rode with him, as did Flavius and several others I had come to know among his officers, and as soon as I had seen that they were all there, I ran to my uncle's Armoury, hiding my wooden sword among his books and pretending to read, for I knew that my father and his officers would come here to make their first report to Uncle Varrus before going to the baths.
Uncle Varrus himself arrived shortly after I did and busied himself at his writing table, paying no heed to my silent presence. Minutes later came the sound of nailed boots approaching, and my father strode into the room accompanied by Titus and Flavius. They were accompanied by three troopers, each of whom carried a burden which, at a nod from my father, they placed on the floor and then left.
"Greetings, Publius," said my father, pointing to the objects on the floor. "Look at these. Familiar?"
I watched from lowered brows as my uncle approached the three items on the floor, his eyes wide with surprise. "The boy's saddle-chair!" There was wonder in his voice.
"These are the same device, but larger. Where did you find them?"
"Under three Franks. They strap them to their horses' backs and ride in them. Tried them ourselves. Useless. No sense in them."
"How so? What do you mean?"
"You have to climb onto them! Not possible to mount them any other way. You put your foot in the device—that hanging loop there—and swing your leg across the horse's back. We thought that might be so when we got the first one years ago, remember? We assumed the boy rider was crippled. Never occurred to any of us that whole men might need steps to get on a horse. Once you're up there on the thing, the raised part at the back sits strangely against your rump. Uncomfortable, and you can't grasp a horse's barrel through it. The thing's too thick."
My uncle appeared perplexed, his face furrowed in thought. "And yet you say these people all ride in these things?"
My father sat down heavily in a chair, his leathers creaking. "Aye, it appears so. Saw seven of them, but only caught three. With Uric's bowmen, we could have had all seven."
My uncle was shaking his head, an expression of incomprehension on his face. He crossed and touched one of the cumbersome saddles. "This is strange, Picus. I wonder what the benefit of using these things is? There must be some. Benefits, I mean. Wouldn't you think so?"
"Aye, you would think so," my father agreed, speaking slowly and clearly. "But whatever they might be, none of us could guess at them. We tried, but we were no more successful in divining their usefulness than we were at mastering them. We decided that these Franks are just poor horsemen. But I suspect that's far from the truth."
"Did you ask the prisoners to show you?"
"No prisoners. Fought like wild men and all died. Brought these back for your collection. No use for them, throw them out."
My uncle shook his head. "They're of no use to me, Picus. I already have one, small as it is. I've no need for the larger ones." He knelt by one of the strange devices, running the flat of his hand across its seat, his brow knitted in thought as he tried to make sense of the thing's purpose. Finally, however, he gave up and rose to his feet again. "How did the remainder of your patrol go?"
My father was pouring wine for himself and his officers. He shook his head as though dismissing the question. "Smoothly enough. Nothing except those Franks. Four got away, as I said. Apart from that, a long, peaceful and uneventful sweep. I'm ready for a hot bath. Feel I've got half the lice in Britain mating in my hair."
"Go then, all three of you, and wash the travel off. Welcome back. I will tell the cooks to roast a deer tonight."
"Do that," my father said, smiling one of his rare smiles. 'Tell them to cook something for the others, too!" All four of them left the room, carrying their wine and laughing among themselves, leaving me alone. I crossed to the strange "chairs" that had been left on the floor and examined them. They were exactly like mine, but bigger, man-sized.
On a balmy afternoon in the following spring Uncle Varrus came into the Armoury to find me perched upon my sideways chair, swinging my wooden sword at imaginary foes who swarmed around me. Since I had discovered that the chair was really a riding harness of some kind, I had attached a rope to serve as a bridle, looping it around one end of the saw-horse on which my chair was mounted. I heard my uncle say "Great Mithras!" in a shocked voice before I was aware that he had entered the room and I scrambled from my chair in alarm, prepared to be punished for indulging in levity here in this hallowed room.
"Go back, Caius! Back onto your chair." There was no anger in his voice, merely an urgency I could not define. Surprised, I clambered back to my seat again as he continued speaking. "Do what you were doing when I came in." I gazed at him in confusion, but I could see from his face he meant what he said, so feeling peculiarly foolish I began to wave my wooden sword around half-heartedly. "No, no, no! Not like that! You were fighting, killing men. One of them was down by your left foot. Kill him again, as savagely as you did before."
Deciding that I would never understand the inconsistencies of adults, I did as he bade me. My feet were firm in their two supports, and I was almost standing upright, my "reins" in my left hand. Tightening my grasp on them for balance, I swung my sword with all my strength down across my front to the left, where I had imagined an enemy grasping my ankle.
"There! That's it!" he said in a strained voice. "When did you start to stand upright like that?"
I blinked at him. "I don't know, Uncle. I never could, before. I couldn't reach the supports with my feet. I must have grown tall enough to reach them."
"Aye, lad. To reach them and to stand upright in them! And standing upright like that, you're standing on a platform!" His last words meant nothing to me, but he spun on his heel and almost ran into the passageway outside the doors, shouting for attention at the top of his lungs. A wide- eyed servant came running to see what was amiss, followed by an equally alarmed soldier, My uncle pointed an accusatory finger at the soldier. "You! You're the man I want! Find General Picus and get him here immediately, and be sure he comes alone! No one else! Quick now, or I'll have the hide off your back!" The man left at the run and my uncle turned to the gaping servant. "What's the matter with you? The General will be here shortly. Bring wine! Move!" He turned back to where I still sat dumbfounded in my chair, looking at me with narrowed eyes and then shifting his gaze to sweep his eyes around the walls of the room until they came to rest on a light, but metal-headed club. He crossed to where it hung and removed it from the wall, bringing it back to where I sat watching him.