Legacy (19 page)

They were in a clearing, noisy with the nocturnal fauna of Earth's middle northern latitudes. Through the trees a galaxy of campfires could be glimpsed. Sarnac inserted his light-gathering contact lenses, and the distant campfires became ample to see by. He took a deep breath of the warm air. "Smells like home."

"Yes," Tylar nodded. "I suppose it does to you. You come from well beyond the age of hydrocarbon-burning engines. If I could arrange for you to step through a temportal to a busy city street of three centuries before your time, you would imagine yourself on a planet with a toxic atmosphere—and you would not be far wrong. If a person from that time came to this one, he would find the air disconcertingly clean-smelling."

Tylar turned toward the portal, and it vanished. He then picked up the little device that generated it. As usual, he did and said nothing, merely held the metallic object in his hands . . . but it began to writhe and ripple, stretching out into a heavy dagger, or short sword.

Sarnac had seen the instruments of Tylar's people do this before, but he still felt a need to moisten his mouth.

"It seems smaller now," Tiraena said, in a voice whose steadiness did not fool Sarnac for a second.

"Mass remains constant, but not necessarily volume. Density can be varied within limits, you know." Tylar slid what was now a crudely forged blade of low-carbon steel into a scabbard such as Tertullian might carry for self-defense in these perilous times. "Shall we go?"

They proceeded through the trees, toward the campfires, the contact lenses automatically reducing their light-gathering efficiency as the need for it decreased. They finally emerged into the cleared area, entering surreptitiously behind a tent. Tylar then led the way into the camp, and Sarnac got his first look at the people of this era.

They were
small
. He had been barely of average height in his own milieu, but he was clearly going to be counted as a tall man here. Tylar, who was a little taller than he, was very tall by contemporary standards. And Tiraena, who could practically look him straight in the eye, must be truly towering among this era's women—none of whom were in evidence among the campfires. Sarnac's "memory" of his Balkan campaigning told him that there was an area where camp followers, and the local talent from nearby Nantes, plied their profession.

Tiraena's presence had to be the cause of the stares they drew—any obviously respectable woman would have drawn them, even without Tiraena's stature and exoticism. But Tylar was obviously a familiar figure, and the troops went back to sharpening their weapons, their games of chance, and all the rest of the camp's ordinary activities.

As they walked, Sarnac began to notice a subtle change in the troops around the campfires. The red and white tunics were only part of what gave their dress a uniformity which was lacking elsewhere in the camp—and, he suspected, in most armies of this place and time. In some indefinable way, they carried themselves like members of an elite outfit.

Tylar halted before a large tent. "Wait here. This is Sidonius' tent. I'll go in and tell him that I've found an applicant for the bodyguard job, and that my niece has arrived."

"But," Sarnac said, "I thought you were going to have to talk him into telling you to stay on with Riothamus after he goes home."

"Oh, my! It's the problem with tenses again. You see, at this point, that's already been done. I came into this time about a year and a half ago in terms of my own consciousness, and took care of it. Of course, that was only yesterday here; Sidonius last saw me about twenty-eight of his hours ago." He stepped forward, exchanged a greeting with a guard, and entered the tent before Sarnac's mouth had closed.

They stood for a few minutes, gazing around. Tiraena continued to attract interest, and Sarnac concentrated on looking menacing. He found that the glances slid away when he met them.
Of course. I forgot. Amazing what a difference it makes when you're a big guy and can forestall trouble just by standing around with a no-nonsense expression! It must affect your whole personality—you don't have to be glib. I wonder if Tylar took account of that?

Oh, well, he keeps telling us he knows what he's doing.

Tylar finally emerged from the tent. "It's settled. He wants to meet you, Lucasta."—they used their cover names at all times once on the ground—"Just be polite and address him as Prefect. People still call him that, even though he's no longer City Prefect of Rome. And he doesn't rate an ecclesiastical title, as he hasn't been elected Bishop of Clermont just yet."

"Elected?"

"Oh, yes. The Catholic Church isn't nearly as hierarchical an organization as it will later become. A bishop is elected by the substantial people of his diocese. He's as much a civic leader as a religious one, stepping into the power vacuum of these times and interceding for his flock. But come, let's not keep the future bishop waiting!"

They stepped through the flaps, and their contact lenses automatically adjusted to the glare of the numerous candles. Sarnac's pseudo-memories told him how much candles cost in this era.

Two men sat on folding camp-stools at a game board that looked to be the ancestor of backgammon. One of them was slightly plump and seemed to be settling well into middle age. Sarnac recalled that Sidonius Apollinaris was thirty-seven.

"Ah, Tertullian, do introduce us to your charming niece." Sarnac had to concentrate to follow the civilian Latin.

Tylar introduced Tiraena, who inclined her head as was appropriate. Sarnac almost wished the curtsey had been invented, if only to relish Tiraena's gritted teeth. Sidonius responded graciously, then turned to Tylar.

"Tertullian, you didn't tell me what a striking young lady Lucasta is! Like an Athena of the East, divinely tall! Don't you agree, Excellency?"

The other man, older-looking than Sarnac suspected he actually was, chuckled and shook his head. "There you go again with your pagan allusions, Sidonius! What will we do with you when you're a bishop?"

"I shall depend on my older and wiser colleagues to correct my errors . . . especially you, Faustus old friend," Sidonius replied with a serene good nature that seemed habitual. "But correct literary form requires that we follow the modes of expression laid down by the ancients. And surely there can be no harm in it, so long as we recognize the fables as mere fables, by which our ancestors lighted, however dimly, the darkness before the coming of the Word. . . ."

Tylar harrumphed softly, interrupting what was evidently a long-standing debate. "Ah, Prefect, you asked to see the bodyguard I interviewed."

"Oh, yes." Sidonius motioned Sarnac forward and greeted him with grave courtesy, clearly rooted in deeply held convictions concerning the obligations he owed his social inferiors. "Bedwyr, isn't it? Well, Bedwyr, guard my secretary with your life! Tertullian, I still don't know why I let you talk me into letting you stay on here, especially when Mars is about to burst the . . . ahem!" He reined himself in before launching into the excesses of the classically educated. "At any rate, it is likely to become quite dangerous in this vicinity soon! Especially in light of the news from Angers." He gestured vaguely toward the southeast. "Tertullian, remember to write faithfully. I want an ongoing account of what I confidently expect will be Riothamus' triumphs . . . with God's help of course," he added with a glance at Faustus.

"Yes," the bishop nodded. "A most remarkable man. My earlier misgivings at the prospect of meeting him have been quite laid to rest." Sarnac recalled Tylar mentioning something about Bishop Faustus' British dynastic connections. He also recalled his jitters at the thought that the present incumbent might see him as a potential rival, despite the older man's years. Tiraena undoubtedly knew the details from her implanted historical background; he'd have to ask her . . . but no, she was about to leave for Britain.
Which is probably a better place for her than here, if Sidonius is right about what Mars is about to do
, he thought. The archaic protective impulse surprised him. Were the surroundings getting to him?

"Well, Tertullian," Sidonius said, "do what you think best as regards the arrangements. I depart at first light for home—and Papianilla." A faint sigh? "I'll try not to let my affairs get into too much of a muddle in your absence! And, Tertullian," he added as Tylar bowed himself and his companions out of the tent, "do be careful and don't cut yourself with that thing!" He gestured at the short sword that was a device far beyond his capacity to imagine miracles, and smiled affably as the flaps closed.

"I kind of like Sidonius," Sarnac remarked as they walked through the camp toward Tylar's tent.

"Yes," the time traveller nodded, and a sad little smile played around his mouth in the light of the campfires. "Almost everybody likes Sidonius. He's a snob and a literary
poseur
, but he's a thoroughly nice fellow, living in an age that isn't at all nice." The smile departed, leaving only the sadness. "He's one of the last men to really believe in the Western Roman Empire, and it is his fate to watch it die. As Bishop of Clermont he will lead his people's resistance to repeated Visigothic sieges—not an unusual role for a Bishop in these times. But he'll fail in the end, and die a broken-spirited old man of forty-eight." A ghost of the smile returned. "At least he'll get posthumous recompense in the form of canonization."

"In the form of
what?
"

"Oh, yes, he becomes a Roman Catholic saint. I didn't mention it before because I knew you'd be unduly impressed. It isn't really all that much of a distinction in these times; sainthood seems to have been a kind of celestial retirement benefit for early churchmen of any note." He suddenly looked alarmed. "Oh dear, I hope I'm not giving offense!"

"Nope," Sarnac reassured him. "Lapsed Catholic."

"Well, perhaps you can nonetheless join me in wishing that Sidonius will find peace, if not beyond the grave, as he himself believes, then perhaps for some little time before it." Tylar's voice dropped to a barely audible whisper. "I hope it may be so."

Sarnac wrapped his cloak a little more tightly around his shoulders against a chill that had nothing to do with the summer night. For he had had a glimpse of the sorrows of those who rode the timestream, buffeted by the waves of fate. What induced them to do it? He was still contemplating this, unable to quite articulate the question, when they reached Tylar's tent.

Once inside, with the flaps securely tied, Tylar laid the sword on the ground, where it shape-shifted into the little device that distorted reality. The insubstantial portal appeared, and a man of Tylar's people waved a greeting from the dimness beyond, before stepping through.

"Lucasta, this is Ventidius, your intended." Tylar smiled, as did Koreel, who gave Tiraena a small bow and shook hands with Sarnac, according the customs of their respective peoples. "He'll keep you concealed," Tylar went on, "until enough time has passed for you to have plausibly made the journey. You can make use of the time by bringing yourself up to date on affairs in Britain."

"Yes," Koreel spoke up, "there have been a few changes. Ambrosius is back earlier than expected."

"Oh, dear, that could be awkward! As regent during Riothamus' absence, he's been making a circuit of the Saxon settlements to keep them properly submissive. We were hoping he'd be at it a little longer. He and the queen . . . well, you'll find out. Right now, you'd better go."

Tiraena hoisted her satchel and squeezed Sarnac's shoulder with her free hand. "Take care of yourself. Don't wear yourself out with high adventure . . . and with the local tavern wenches, or whatever they're called."

"Fat chance! You'll probably see a lot more excitement than I will. With my luck, I'll end up as latrine orderly in this army!"

"Come, come!" Tylar was fidgeting. "Can't keep the portals activated forever, you know." Koreel was already through, and beckoning.

Tiraena gave Sarnac a quick, hard hug, and then turned to the portal and stepped into Britain.

"So long," Sarnac called after her. "Give my regards to Queen, uh . . ." He was groping for the name, and Tiraena was opening her mouth to supply it, when the portal vanished, leaving the tent seeming perfectly normal save for the metal object that was stretching and reshaping itself into a short sword.

"Tertullian, what
is
the name of Riothamus' old lady? I don't think you ever mentioned it while telling me about—"

"Ah, here comes Basilius," Tylar cut in, peering through the crack between the tent-folds. "He's Sidonius' chief clerk, and he'll be here to see about getting you on the payroll. We'd better let him in."

He did so, and in all the bustle, the question fled Sarnac's mind.

They topped the ridge and looked down at the valley of the Loire.

"I was here on vacation once," Sarnac said wonderingly. "I mean, I will be here . . . or . . . well, you know what I mean!"

"You'll find it quite different now," Tylar smiled. "None of the grand chateaux have even been thought of."

It spread out before them toward the east, with the Loire on their right, flowing toward its confluence with the Maine, beyond the village that was their destination. They could see the Maine in the distance, snaking away to the north where, five or six miles from here, lay the fortress town of Angers—and its besiegers.

Tylar and Sarnac had spent only a short time in the camp outside Nantes, while Riothamus had held court for the benefit of his Armorican subjects and cleaned out the Saxon raiders from south of the Loire who plagued them. Then had come the news that the Saxon chieftain Odovacar had launched a massive offensive across the Loire, fifty miles to the east. He was advancing up the left bank of the Maine, toward Angers, trusting in the Maine and his swarms of flat-bottomed boats to shield his flank from the allies.

So the Britons had set out along the north bank of the Loire. Delays in getting the cumbersome alliance forces moving had caused them to grumble, complaining that they'd be better off going it alone, without the bloody Gauls. (Tylar had been at a loss to understand Sarnac's stifled laughter.) But finally the advance had begun—not a day too soon, in Sarnac's opinion, for they had already tarried longer than any army of this sanitation-innocent era was well advised to remain encamped in one place. He recalled having read that the Second World War had been the first war in history in which enemy action had surpassed disease as a cause of death. Now he could believe it.