Without waiting for any sign from me, he turned on his heel and strode away with a curious, bobbing gait that I recognized ruefully as being not too different from my own. I followed him for about a hundred paces until he stopped and gestured forward with a wave of his free hand.
"There's a mark. "
I looked. About a hundred and twenty-five paces from where we stood, a large conifer had been blown down by a high wind, and the flat base of its root-pad formed a huge, brown, circular patch against the trees behind it. Just in front of it, I could discern a white, upright staff.
"The white stake? What is it?"
As I spoke, he hoisted his bow and loosed an arrow. The shot grazed the white upright and angled off to the right; I saw the bright scarlet of its feathers lodge in the earth of the root-pad that served as a backstop.
"It's a shovel. Lodged in the earth. Let's see you hit it, then, with that great thing you have there. "
My first arrow missed, although not by much, and so did my second. The little man said nothing, contenting himself with the silence he knew must irritate me. I stifled my anger at myself and thought about what I was doing wrong. And the answer came immediately: I was still shortening my pull, concentrating on delicacy rather than strength. Bearing that in mind, I made some mental adjustments and drew again. My arrow nicked the edge of the white upright and, deflected, landed close to his first shot. I said nothing.
"There's better, " he said, hoisting his bow again and letting loose without seeming to aim. This time his shot hit square on target and we both saw the white stake split. He grunted. I was amazed. It was either an incredible shot or an equally incredible piece of luck.
I forced myself to sound non-committal. "Not bad, " I said. "Could you do it again?"
He did, immediately, and I was left without a word to say as his previous arrow, which had been held in the cleft of the split shaft of the shovel, spun through the air and fell to the ground. The target was destroyed. To have attempted to hit it would have been foolish, and I said so.
"Try it anyway, " he grunted.
I sighted carefully and loosed. My shot was close, but we had no way of judging how close.
He turned to me with another of his grunts. "Delicacy, boyo, that's what you lack. That great thing of yours takes too much pull. You can't be accurate with a great thing like that. Delicacy's what you want, there's all!
Who are you, anyway?"
I smiled and leaned on my bow. "Varrus is my name. Publius Varrus. I am a guest of Caius Britannicus. "
He drew in his breath with a hiss. "Guest, is it? Roman you are. " He pronounced the word as another would pronounce "toad" or "serpent. " I laughed. "Aye, I'm Roman. What did you think I was? And who are you?"
"Cymric. I took you for one of us, there's blind of me!" His way of talking was unlike any I had ever heard. I decided that he must be one of the local Celts. "Are you from around here, then?"
"No. " His eyes were on my face, weighing me against some kind of private measure in his head. Finally he resumed speaking. "No. I live here. Around here. But I am from the hills. The mountain land. Over yonder. " He indicated the far horizon to the north-west, where I could see no mountains, and then he narrowed his eyes and I looked to see a man approaching us from the house.
"Master Varrus, " he said as he drew close, "the Lady Luceiia is preparing to leave. "
"Thank you, " I said. "Please tell the lady I shall be there presently. " As he walked away I spoke again to Cymric. "Wait here. " I paced out the distance from where he stood to the shattered shaft of the shovel stuck in the ground in front of the root-pad of the great fallen tree. I had gauged it correctly. It was a hundred and twenty-six paces to the shovel, which I pulled from the ground, noting that the blade was still quite bright where it had been dug in, and another twelve paces to the surface of the root-pad. It towered above me as I stood at its base and wedged the shovel, its blade upturned, securely against the sandy clay of its surface. That done, I returned to where Cymric stood watching.
"Now, friend Cymric, " I said with a smile, "I have added twelve more steps to the distance, but the mark is wider, and far shorter. Let's see you hit it now. Six arrows. "
He looked at me with a pitying scowl and began to shoot. Four of his arrows sent back loud noises to announce their arrival on the shovel blade, but I had wedged it well and it stayed in place. I stood behind him as he shot, lining up six of my best arrows with their points in the ground. As his last arrow, his fourth hit, clanged its arrival on the mark, he turned back to me and saw what I had done. I could not read the expression on his face as I waved him aside. He moved without speaking, fastening his eyes on the gleam of the distant shovel blade.
"Well done, Cymric, " I said. "Four out of six is fine shooting. Delicate shooting, as you say. Now, watch this, and note the lack of delicacy. " I went into my smooth, practised manoeuvre, pulling all the way back to my ear and loosing all six arrows so fast that there was always one in flight as I released the next. We heard five sounds, one a clang similar to the sound his arrows had made and the other four quite different.
"Five, " I grunted. "Come. "
I heard him walking behind me as I led the way to the mark, knowing what I would find and positioning myself so as to hide the mark from his eyes with my back. I stopped about two paces short of the mark.
"Well, Cymric?"
I had my revenge for his scoffing and scorn when he walked past me and then stopped, silent, his eyes on the mark. His six arrows and two of mine were sunk well into the sandy base of the root-pad, around the head of the shovel. The shovel's surface showed four scratches where his points had hit and been deflected, and one deep gouge where one of mine had done the same. Four of my arrows, however, had pierced clean through the metal of the shovel and pinned it against the clay.
I spoke to his stiff back. "Not delicate, Cymric, but effective. " He turned to me, and his eyes were wide as he looked from me to the bow I held. He nodded once, and I accepted that as his recognition of a superior weapon. I stepped forward and began to collect my arrows, working them backwards through the holes they had made in the iron.
"I will be at the Villa Britannicus. If you care to visit me there, I'll be glad to see you. " I packed the arrows into my quiver. "Until then, farewell.
" I offered him my hand and he shook it, still without saying a word. I was conscious of his eyes on my back all the way back to the villa. As I entered the courtyard, I saw Luceiia, Veronica and Quintus standing outside the main door of the house beside a brightly decorated, four-wheeled cart harnessed to a matched team of grey horses. There were no servants that I could see, not even a wagon driver, and I found this surprising, although I wasted no time thinking about it. They all smiled as I walked towards them.
"You must pardon me if I have kept you waiting, " I called out as I approached them, "but I was involved in a matching of wits and arrows with one of your people, Quintus. "
"You have not kept us, " Luceiia answered. "There is no rush. Who was your opponent?"
I reached them and shook Quintus's proffered hand. "Cymric, " I said.
"What does he do?"
Quintus laughed. "Cymric does nothing he does not want to do. Cymric simply is Cymric. He comes from Cambria, from the mountains, and does whatever needs to be done around here until he grows tired of it, and then he moves on. "
"I see. " I looked at Luceiia, trying not to appear too besotted with her.
"I asked him to visit me at your villa. I hope that was not foolish of me?" She laughed. "Not at all. He may even come, if he likes you. He likes few Romans. "
"I got that impression. At least he respects me, that I know. "
"La! And so he should. " She was mocking me, I thought. I looked around me. "You are ready to leave. My horses and my gear are in the stables. I'll go and get them. "