"As a surgeon, I soldiered with your father on his last four campaigns, he with his sword, and I with my caduceus, my bandages, my splints and my knives and surgeon's tools. I staunched the blood and gave the wounded opium to kill their pain. I cut off limbs, set fractured bones, sewed up cuts and cauterized veins and arteries, and I saved lives almost as quickly and effectively as my companions took them. I am a sworn enemy of death in all its forms, and I will not sit still and countenance the death I see threatening all that I love today."
He had risen again and was pacing the room, gesticulating with both hands, yet not spilling a drop of wine. He swung back to face me, his back to the fire. "I have a hospital full of wounded and dying men, and I have more bodies than I have room for. I have a staff of five young trainees and two competent surgeons who are working even now, as we speak, up to their buttocks in blood and guts and pain. And we have no opium. Have had none for years. But what I really fear, Commander, the thing that turns my guts to water, is the aftermath of this struggle we have just come through. Camulod was almost destroyed! Its Commander was killed in his bed! When the pain of each person's individual, personal losses wears off, tomorrow, or next week, or next month, or next year, all that's going to be left, unless we do something about it, is hopelessness. Disillusionment. And that damnable state, Commander, is a bigger killer than war. Disillusionment kills ideas, and it kills ideals."
He had finished, for the time being, and a silence hung and stretched between us. I stared into the fire and thought about all he had said.
"So," I resumed eventually, keeping my voice reasonable, "you would have me burn my father, not bury him. What then? What purpose would be served?"
Lucanus was ready for the question. He spoke without hesitation and I knew he had been waiting for me to ask precisely that. "A sacrificial one. An honourable one. We would create a martyr, light a fire to the memory of Caius Picus Britannicus that would stiffen the sinews and the resolution of everyone who watched. And everyone would watch. A funeral pyre is a memorable tribute to greatness, Commander, as well as a call to vengeance."
"It would be blasphemous."
"Balls, Commander! To permit, or even to encourage by inaction, the demoralization of these colonists and the eventual destruction of all that Picus and your grandfather and the others that have gone before have worked for—that would be blasphemous. That would call down the wrath of heaven on all our heads."
I recognized the conviction in his tone and knew I had been wrong, and my decision was made in that instant. I stood up, smiling as though he had soothed away all my pains, which to a degree he had.
"You seem remarkably fond of balls, Lucanus."
"Not unduly." His smile matched my own. "I've seen enough of them and removed too many of them to be overly impressed by them. But they do connote a certain urgency."
"They do indeed." I offered him my hand and we shook as friends. "Lucanus," I said, "I have misjudged you, and disliked you without cause. I regret that deeply."
He grinned at me. "Forget it, Commander. You knew me as a stern and disapproving physician, and even I found me unimpressive in that guise. It's only as a surgeon that I shine."
"Then shine, Surgeon, from now on." I stopped, remembering. "But where's my aunt?"
"Oh, she'll come when I send for her. In truth, she chose not to be present for this meeting."
"Good, then go you to her now and make your report. I'll go and talk to Titus, Flavius and Popilius and get them started on the arrangements for the funeral. When do you think would be the best time to do it?"
He frowned, deep in thought. "The day after tomorrow probably, just before sunset, for the funeral pyre. Then the following afternoon for the interment of his ashes. That .should be long enough for the embers to cool, I think. Everyone in the Colony should attend both services, and you should give much thought to who will speak, and what they will say."
I nodded and turned to leave, but his next question stopped me in mid step. "By the way, how is the girl, Cassandra? Have you checked on her safety since your return?"
I turned slowly to face him. "No, I have not, so I can't answer your question."
"It was not my question; it was your aunt's. She thinks, and I agree, that you will not be able to rest easy until you have settled that." He spoke in the quiet, confident tones of his profession. "Make your arrangements with the others, and then go to her. You need not be back until noon tomorrow. I will cover for you, as your physician."
Amazed, and humbled in some strange way, I nodded my thanks and left him smiling there, not even wondering if he knew where I was going.
I went directly to the room where my father lay on the great bed of Publius Varrus. Lucanus had spoken the truth and I stood in wonder at the evidence of his skills. My father, whom I had last seen strained in the agony of violent death, now seemed to be sleeping peacefully, reclining in full armour, helmeted, and draped in his great black cloak as though snatching a quick nap before setting off on a campaign. He was pale, but there was no trace of blood to be seen on him, and the chinstrap of his ceremonial helmet covered the gash in his throat. My own throat filled with hurt and pride and my eyes blurred with tears that spilled over and down my face. Caius Picus Britannicus was at rest, and nobly so, and I left him there.
XXVI
If there is a more unpleasant or unforgettable taste than copper in this world, I have never experienced it. Once, when I was a very small boy, I held a copper coin in my hand for a long time on a hot summer's day. My hand grew moist and sticky with sweat and that small copper coin, a humble as, seemed permanently stuck to my skin. I can remember Uncle Varrus shouting at me to stand back and stay clear of the cart he was driving that day, and as the great, noisy vehicle passed me, its solid wooden wheels dwarfing and deafening me, a sawn log fell from the back of it and rolled a little way towards me. I remember thinking that I was strong enough to carry that log to where my uncle had been stacking them all day long, but I needed two hands free to lift it and so I popped the warm, sweaty coin into my mouth. I am sure it was the shock of that violent, outrageous taste that stamped the details of that incident into my young mind for ever.
I think of that every time I grow deeply, stirringly afraid, for there is something about gut-churning fear that generates an illusion of that bitter taste. The same taste filled my mouth that evening as I approached the little valley in the hills. I had ridden my horse hard, all tiredness forgotten, since leaving the fort on my usual roundabout route. Now, as I neared the end of my journey, the shapeless fears that I had refused to acknowledge for the past several days got the better of me and I knew abject terror. What would I do if Cassandra were not there when I arrived? What would I do if she were there, but had been found and harmed, perhaps even killed? I almost killed my poor horse, flogging it mercilessly over the last three miles, but then at the start of the steep, narrow entrance to the valley, I had to dismount and walk, leading the unfortunate animal by the reins.
The first thing that struck me as I entered the bottom of the valley was the utter stillness of the place, and my heart swelled with an unbearable fear that disappeared in a wave of relief and joy as Cassandra came dashing from die bushes, her face ablaze with welcome. I had been gone from her for five days, and in the isolation of her silent world she could have had no conception of what I had been doing or what had been occurring within miles of her, for which I thanked God. Nevertheless, from the welcome she gave me, an observer would have thought she had not seen me in months.