He was taller than I by a good handsbreadth, I estimated, and he was wider-shouldered, broad of back, and massive through the chest. His hair was dark brown, shot through with wide bands of a lighter, golden color, and his eyes were unlike any I had ever seen, the irises golden yellow, flecked with black. He was standing close by my side, gazing up at me as curiously as I was staring down at him, and when his gaze met mine he nodded to me, his expression grave but civil, and I saw a hint of something stirring in his eyes just before he spoke again, something that I thought might have been humor, although I had no reason to expect anything of the kind. When he did speak, however, it was to the man Bedwyr, although his eyes never left mine.
“But if he fights you afoot, Beddo, then win or lose, he will tell us nothing about these strange-looking spears of his, and while that might sit well with you, it would please me not at all. Those things look to me to be more than they seem at first glance. I suspect their like might never have been seen, here in Britain. Am I correct, Stranger? Is this a new weapon?”
I shook my head. “No, it is a very old weapon, but your suspicion is correct. There is none like it in Britain—or in Gaul for that matter.”
His eyebrows rose in polite disbelief. “Do you tell me so? Then where do they come from?”
I waved a hand casually, indicating the horizon. “From far away … a world away from here. They were made in a land a full year’s journey eastward from the Empire’s eastern border.”
His eyebrows had come down, and they stayed down at this additional piece of information, but his eyes narrowed as he gazed at me, assessing whether or not I was bluffing him. “A year’s journey beyond the Empire’s eastern borders? That seems unbelievable.”
I shrugged. “Believe it or not, as you will, it is the truth. The man who brought them back from there is my old teacher. His name is Tiberias Cato.”
The big man was staring now at the spears. “What kind of wood are those shafts made from?”
“A kind that does not grow within the known world of the Empire. It is called bamboo and is very light and very hard. We know nothing like it.”
He waited, watching my eyes, and then, when it became clear that I was going to say nothing more, he nodded his head. “I see. You have nothing more to say on the topic. So be it then. But I fear, in light of that, that you will have to fight and best our Bedwyr here before you can proceed.”
I looked over to where the man Bedwyr stood glaring at me and shook my head slowly. “No, I think not. There will be no fight between your bully Beddo and me.”
“Why not?” There was genuine surprise in the Magister’s voice.
“Why should I fight him?” I rejoined, turning back to him. “What have I to gain from it? Bruises do not seem like worthwhile rewards to me, nor does the prospect of providing entertainment for the rest of your crew—particularly when I have the option of refusing to do both.”
Bedwyr spoke up then. “If you win you can go on across the bridge.”
I looked at him again, sidelong. “The water in the brook is barely fetlock deep for the most part and I can make my way across anywhere, without fighting, as you pointed out.”
“Are you afraid to fight, then?”
“No, sir, I am not afraid to fight. I simply choose not to fight you, and I do not do so out of fear.” I turned back to look again at the Magister. “I will fight you, however, upon the clear understanding that when I win I will be allowed to go on my way without further trouble.”
There was a chorus of gasps at that, and sounds of growing outrage, but the Magister laughed aloud and quelled them all by the simple expedient of raising his hand. Then, when the noise had died down, he spoke to me again, his hand still upraised, enjoining silence from his men. He was smiling at me openly now, his teeth even and startlingly white between wide lips.
“Let me feed you back your own medicine now. Why should I fight you and run the risk of injury, when I can order any of my men to do it for me?”
I was ready for him, however, and answered him almost before he had finished speaking. “Because you are their leader—their Magister—and I am challenging you directly. Besides, if they attack me, singly or in any other way, you will never learn anything more about my wonderful spears.”
His grin grew wider. “What is to stop us from simply depriving you of them now? It would be no great feat, with eight of my men against you alone. I would not even have to be involved.”
“Very true,” I agreed, finding it easy to smile back at this man. “And there really is nothing to prevent you doing as you wish, if that is what you wish. But even when you have the weapons in your hands you will know nothing of them, or of what they were designed for, or of how to use them. I have only four of them, and you could never duplicate them.”
“Never? That sounds like bluster to me. What do you mean we could never duplicate them? Wait! Wait … Of course, the shafts … bamboo, you said?” He fell silent for a few moments, then resumed. “A few moments ago you said .that if we attacked you we would learn nothing of the spears. That implies, then, that if I myself agree to fight you we might learn something of them. Am I correct?”
“You are. That is what I meant.”
“Dismount then, and let’s try a bout, but I hope you have strong bones and a hard head.” He turned toward his men. “Who has the training swords? Bring them forward.”
There were mutterings and mumbles among the others, but they quickly stilled as I leaped down from my horse and hung my thin bundle of spears from a hook on my saddle before moving to face their leader, who stood waiting for me with a longsword made of heavy, wooden dowel in each hand, extending them toward me hilt first. He was even larger, seen from this level, than I had thought at first, fully half a head taller than me, broader in the shoulders and longer of arm and leg. An intimidating adversary.
“These are our standard training swords,” he said, quietly. “They are made from ash wood, so they have resilience, as well as strength and weight. Choose whichever one pleases you more.”
I reached out and took one in each hand, hefting them and feeling for balance and weight. “They are heavier than I am used to, and much longer.”
“Aye, they are half again as long in the blade as a spatha. Do you normally use a spatha?”
“I do.”
“We don’t, in Camulod. Our swords are longer—stronger, too. Hence the heavier weight of these, based on the principle that a training weapon should be twice the weight of a real one. Will this be too much for you?”
I looked him straight in the eye and managed a smile for him, then crouched into the fighting stance and began the circling dance of the blade fighter half a step before he did the same. Before we had made half a revolution, the others had surrounded us, silent but watchful, plainly expecting to see their leader teach me a lesson in short order. I felt the difference in the practice sword immediately and straightened slightly, realizing that the increased length and weight of the weapon would call for a different technique in handling the thing. It felt utterly alien in my grasp, cumbersome and ungainly, but I noticed, too, that the hilt was twice as long as the hilt on my spatha, and that told me that that the swords these people wielded could be gripped with both hands and swung ferociously.