The drummer had climbed atop the fence which kept the crowd safe from the riders, and
was now speaking again, calling out over the riders with a clear, carrying voice. He was minus
his drum now, the thud of the horses‘ hooves and the wicked swishing of the swinging lances the
only accompaniment he needed.
―See!‖ he cried. ―The Trojan king re-creates the walls of Troy. Seven walls, seven
circuits to defeat the Greeks! Will the Greek king defeat him? Will he penetrate the Labyrinth of
Troy‘s defence?‖
Harold was leaning forward now, his eyes gleaming. ―By God,‖ he said, ―see their skill!‖
Caela was staring at the performance before her, her face expressionless, her hands
carefully folded and very still in her lap.
The two leaders, the ―kings‖, controlled the tempo of the dangerous dance. It was they
who sped up, or slowed down the rhythm of their followers, and each had to keep a wary eye on
the other. If one slowed down too soon, or too late, or if one did not take speedy note of what the
other commanded, then his line of warriors would be broken by the lances of his foe. The two
lines of riders were now interweaving at an impossible pace, the tips of their lances gleaming in
the sun, sweat dripping from shoulders, horses snorting as they fought both for balance and for
breath.
The crowd had begun to scream for their favourites. ―Greece! Greece!‖ or ―Troy! Troy!‖
and, among the acclaim, it was most apparent that the screams for Troy were the loudest.
Then, as it appeared that the speed of the dance could not possibly grow faster, or the
swinging of the lances more dangerous, there came a surprised grunt from one quadrant of the
arena as a horse, turned too tight, lost its balance and collapsed, throwing its rider under the
flashing hooves of those who came behind.
Instantly, there was mayhem. Horses and riders collided everywhere, the rhythm of the
dance was entirely lost, and the crowd shrieked in appreciation as the blood spattered through the
air.
Then, stunningly, from out of the melee, came one line of riders still in perfect formation,
their lances flashing back and forth in a controlled manner, their riders untouched save for their
sweat.
It was the line led by the Trojan king.
They cantered in a line across the back of the arena, their foes lying mostly unhorsed and
bleeding in the centre of the square, then all turned in one beautifully co-ordinated movement so
that they faced into the arena, looking toward the royal stand at the far end.
The Trojan king raised his sword, then pointed it toward the stand. The line exploded
forward as the horses, still perfectly in line, galloped towards the royal stand.
As they met the confusion in the centre of the arena, each horse leapt in perfect alignment
with its neighbours so that, for an instant, the entire line was suspended high in the air, then
every horse thudded back to earth, their vanquished foes safely behind them, and galloped to the
end of the arena, beneath the royal stand, where their leader brought them to a beautiful,
perfectly controlled halt.
Harold leapt to his feet, shouting, punching his fist into the air, applauding the victor.
Caela sat, still motionless, expressionless, staring at the Trojan king, now sitting his horse
directly before her.
The man‘s chest heaved as he fought to get air into his lungs, and his face was mostly
hidden by his helmet—but still nothing could hide his great toothy smile.
―My lady,‖ he cried, brandishing his sword. ―I hand you Troy!‖
FIFTEEN
CAELA SPEAKS
Istared, gape-mouthed. I have no idea what had come over me. I felt disembodied,
dislocated, disorientated.
―Climb up!‖ cried Harold beside me, and I swear I leapt almost a foot, he surprised me
so. ―Climb up and accept your prize.‖
At least he‘d broken the trance which had claimed me. I managed to look at Harold: he
was bright-eyed and flushed, flashing a brilliant smile.
―By God, Caela,‖ Harold said to me as the Trojan king was clattering up the wooden
steps that led to the small platform before our seats, ―never before have I seen such skill! Such
horsemanship!‖
And then the man was with us, his heat and his sweat and the powerful presence of his
body commanding my attention. He stood before us, and bowed deeply.
―You honour us, sir,‖ said Harold. ―May we know your face? Your name?‖
That great toothy grin flashed again in the darkness behind the faceplate, and the man
lifted both his hands to his helmet (his sword already taken by one of Harold‘s men-at-arms) and
raised it from his head.
I must confess, my heart was racing. Who was it?
―A stranger to our shores, by your countenance,‖ Harold said. ―Who are you, and your
allegiances?‖
For the moment the man did not reply. He was staring at me, and I at him. The instant
he‘d taken the helmet from his head I felt overwhelmed by a strange disappointment. His face
was familiar—
Almost the face of the man who had come to me in dream, and who had almost but not
quite kissed me.
—and yet not. Not the face some part of me seemed to have been expecting.
Oh, but he was handsome! He had dark skin and black hair. Very long, very curly.
Regular, strong features…and that smile: it was stunning. The only discordant note in his entire
aspect was the leather patch over his left eye, yet even that lent him a rakish air which moderated
his otherwise overpowering presence.
―I am Silvius,‖ said the man, replying to Harold but not taking his eyes from me, ―and I
am truly King of Troy. My allegiance? Why, that belongs to your lady here, to the queen, my
heart.‖
And he lifted his hand, took mine, and kissed it before any could move to stop him.
Harold laughed, but it held a trace of tenseness in it now, and, glancing at him, I saw that
his smile had died.
―Well, then,‖ he said, ―welcome, King of Troy. I admit myself envious of your military
skills.‖
Now this man Silvius did look at Harold. ― Oh, I have had many years in which to hone
them, my lord. Very many indeed.‖
―Your prize, good man,‖ I said, collecting myself. I turned, ready to take the gift of a
finely woven and embroidered mantle from Judith, who stood behind me (and, by heaven, she
was staring at this strange King of Troy as if she were trapped by his masculinity as well!), but
before I could lay hold to it, Silvius spoke again.
―Nay, my lady. Lay that aside, I beg you. It is I who shall gift the prize, I who shall award the honour.‖
―A most strange man,‖ said Harold, watching Silvius warily.
I noticed that several men-at-arms had moved quietly closer.
Silvius reached into his helmet, then withdrew from it the most beautifully worked
bracelet that I think I have ever seen. ( Yet some part of me insisted that I had seen it in another time). It was of twisted gold, and set with a score of cut rubies.
―In my world,‖ said Silvius, his voice now very soft, ―it belonged to a princess and a
great queen. It deserves no better home now than on your arm, gracious lady.‖
He reached forward, then stopped as both Harold and the men-at-arms laid hands to their
swords. The mood was now very tense among us, and I wondered at that, at what had changed
between us that Harold should now be so alert.
―Madam,‖ Judith said very softly behind me, and in that word she somehow managed to
convey both reassurance and the message that I should, indeed, accept the gift.
―Ah,‖ I said, smiling a little too brightly at Harold, ―put away your sword, brother. Shall
this bracelet bite? Shall it sting? Nay, of course not.‖
Then, to Silvius: ―This is most gracious of you, and I shall not be so churlish as to
refuse.‖ I held out my left hand, stretching it slightly so that the sleeve drew back from my wrist.
Silvius reached it forth and, just before he snapped it closed about my wrist, he said, ―It is
very ancient, my lady, and contains many memories.‖
It clicked shut, its metal cold about the heat of my skin, and I blinked, and looked at
Silvius.
And saw before me, not Silvius, but a man very much like him but with, if possible, an
even more powerful presence, and whose face made my stomach clench.
It was the man from my dream, save with long hair and dressed as Silvius was now
dressed.
And with golden bands about his limbs where Silvius wore scarlet wool.
Then the man who was not Silvius spoke, and he said, ―I am Brutus, and I am