Looking to the left, he saw the church, Holy Trinity, where he had been baptised and took Mass until he left. Beyond it was the wall where he had played as a child. It was huge, a rising rampart supporting the masonry, and as a mason himself he could only wonder at the labour that over the years had created this enormous ring of stone about the city. The wall was crenellated, and must have been eleven feet thick at the base, narrowing to perhaps six or seven at the top. It was a wall that could hardly have been bettered by any other in the land.
But it wasn't the wall which attracted his attention. He could not stop his eyes from moving back to the gate to take in the three wizened, blackened shapes hanging up by the gate itself. They were good and high, so that they should be out of reach of people attempting to move them, but positioned where all could see them, for these were men who had ben accused of treachery to the King after the most recent wars, the fights between the Lords Marcher and the King's friends, the Despensers. There were only the three, all of them knights, and each of them a loyal servant of his own master, whoever he might have been. Up and down the kingdom there were similar hideous shapes hanging or stuck on spikes. They would remain there until they had disintegrated, so that the King's justice could be seen by all.
The King's justice, Thomas sneered to himself. It was an amusing concept, here where a King could choose a man's fate, whether he should live or die, on a whim.
Still, at least his own father wasn't there any longer. His body would have rotted and fallen away many years ago now.
Aurelius knelt beside him [...] The man, so close to death, recognised his uniform and insignia. 'Legionary,' he whispered.
Aurelius moved even closer. 'Who are you?' he asked.
The man moaned in pain; evety breath was costing him terrible suffering.
He answered, 'I am Flavius Orestes.'
Aurelius shook with emotion. 'Commander,' he said, 'oh great gods Commander, I'm with the Nova Invicta Legion.' And that name ne'er defeated! seemed a bitter mockery.
Orestes was shivering and his teeth chattered as the chill of death invaded his body. Aurelius took off his cloak to cover him. That gesture of pity seemed to hearten the man, restoring a glimmer of energy. 'My wife, my son ' he said. 'They've taken the emperor! I beg of you, tell the legion. You must free them.'
Aurelius lowered his head. 'The legion has been attacked by overwhelming forces. I had come to ask for reinforcements.'
An expression of profound discouragement was painted on Orestes' face, but as he stared at Aurelius with tear-filled eyes, his voice still trembled with hope. 'You save them,' he said. 'I beg of you.'
Aurelius couldn't bear to meet the distressing intensity of his gaze. He looked away, saying: 'I am all alone, Commander.'
Orestes seemed to ignore his words completely. With his last bit of strength he tried to pull himself up and gripped the edge of Aurelius's cuirass. 'I implore you,' he panted. 'Legionary, save my son. Save the emperor! If he dies, Rome will die. If Rome dies, all is lost.'
[Sarissa] swam as a fish swims, supple and swift, down and down into that realm of dim green shapes and rippling weeds, lit with sudden flashes of light: sun rising, fish leaping. She passed out of the sun's light, but there was light below her, a gleam in the river's darkness.
Just as she knew that her breath must fail her, her outstretched hand touched the thing that lay on the river's bottom. It was hard, colder than the water, and caught fast in a tangle of weeds and clay. She grasped the end of it and thrust against the current. Her lungs had begun to burn. But she would not let go.
The earth fought for the victory, but the water in its current caught Sarissa and swirled her suddenly upward. Blind, half-unconscious, lungs afire, she burst into the light.
She fell on the green bank with her prize caught beneath her. Out of the water, it was a massive, icy-cold thing, but its heart was fire.
She lifted herself to her knees. A sword lay in the grass. It gleamed as if it had come new from the forge, grey rippled steel like the water that had begotten it. Its hilt was plain silver without adornment, but for a white stone set in the pommel.
As she knelt in front of it, Tarik flowed out of the river, licking cat-whiskers, flicking a fish's tail that flowed and stretched and transmuted into a cat's. He inspected the sword with approval. The water had done well, his glance said, and the sun's fire, forging a blade for a champion's hand. If indeed there was a champion in the world, and if, once chosen, he would do what he had been sought out to do.
Tarik, when he was a cat, had a cat's irony. But it was a fine sword, as solid as earth, and as palpably real. Sarissa trusted that the same would be true of the man for whom it had been wrought.
