The Horse Coin

by David Wishart

  Camulodunum, he thought sourly. Fortress of the War God. Mothers alive! How can people live like this?

  'Nice place, isn't it?' his father said. ‘Homey.’

  Severinus grinned, despite himself. It was difficult to believe that the Dun was the largest native settlement in Britain; capital of the island's wealthiest and most powerful king, Cunobelinos, whose death seventeen years before had plunged his kingdom into the futile bickering and bloody little tribal wars which had made the Conquest possible. If Rome ever had to justify her empire and how she managed it, he thought, then Camulodunum was all the proof she’d need.

  The track bent to the right, and he saw his first Dunsmen – the first, at least, on their own ground. The men wore trousers, the women gaudy tunics and cloaks pinned at the shoulders; most watched them go by in silence much as the cattle had done. Only one, an old man pulling the feathers from a dead chicken by the roadside, reacted in any way, spitting through his thick moustaches beneath Pollux's hooves as they passed. His left ear was missing and the scalp above it was a mess of puckered flesh. Severinus glanced sideways at his father, but Aper’s single eye was fixed on the track in front of them.

  ‘Keep going, Marcus,’ he said quietly. ‘Don’t pay any attention.’

  Tanet was beginning to fidget, and Severinus calmed her, doing his best to ignore the closed, expressionless faces on either side. He could feel the hostility pressing in all around him.

  'How much further?' he said.

  'Not far now.' Aper pointed. 'The gate's up ahead.'

  Severinus looked. There was little to distinguish the Trinovantian chief's farmstead from any of the others: a stretch of rough grass behind a shallow ditch lined with hurdles, with the hut itself at the far end. As they passed through the gap in the ditch a dog leapt forwards to the end of its chain and stood barking.

  A small girl sitting in the mud in front of the hut clutching a piglet scrambled to her feet and ran inside. The piglet followed.

  Aper dismounted.

  'Leave the talking to me,' he said.

  Severinus nodded; it was an order, superior officer to junior, and he accepted it as such. He was beginning to regret, now, that he had come at all. Swallowing, he slid down from Tanet's back and waited, closing his nostrils to the midden-stench that surrounded them.

  His father winked at him, but did not smile. They tied the horses to the tethering post. The hut door opened.

  Severinus had seen Brocomaglos before, but not face to face. The Trinovantian chief matched his name, ‘Great Badger’; he was thick-set and muscular, with a badger's broad neck and shoulders and large, spade-like hands. Although he could be no older than Aper, his bound hair and moustaches were already streaked with white.

  'Quiet, Durnos!' he growled. The dog stopped barking and stood beating the air with its tail.

  'Greetings to you, Brocomaglos,' Aper said in Celtic.

  'Ah, so it's yourself, is it, Commander?' Brocomaglos changed to slow, careful Latin. His eyes shifted to Severinus. 'And your son the horseman.'

  'Durnos? "Fist" A small name for such a big dog.' Severinus spoke in Celtic as his father had done.

  'So.' Brocomaglos's shaggy eyebrows rose. 'The commander's son has a British tongue in his head.' Severinus said nothing. 'Aye, "Fist" it is. Even big dogs start small, and he's always been a fighter.' He stepped aside. 'Come inside, the both of you, and welcome.'

  The hut's main room was large and dark, but far cleaner and sweeter-smelling than Severinus had expected, with a beaten-earth floor carpeted with fresh rushes and a log fire burning in the central hearth. There were three chairs set around a low table, and against one wall a storage chest and dresser.

  Brocomaglos pointed to two of the chairs.

  'Sit down and rest yourselves, he said. ‘You've breakfasted?'

  'Aye.' Aper sat, and Severinus did the same.

  'Wait, then.'

  Brocomaglos disappeared through a second doorway curtained with a blanket woven in broad stripes. From beyond it came the sound of voices. A moment later, the curtain shifted and the girl they had seen before put out her head. Severinus winked at her and she stared back with liquid eyes, unsmiling.

  'Stop your gawping, Ahteha.' Brocomaglos had reappeared. He touched her neatly-braided hair with his hand in passing. 'Go and help your mother mull the wine.'

  The girl gave them a last stare and withdrew. Brocomaglos eased himself into the third chair. 'So,' he said. 'Be comfortable before we talk.'

  Perhaps it was no more than politeness – no native would think of asking a guest to state his business before the formalities of welcome were observed – but his eyes were guarded. Severinus wondered if the chief already knew why they had come. He looked across at his father.

  Aper ignored him. 'Your family's well, Brocomaglos?' he said.

  'Well enough. And I needn't ask about yours, my friend. Not about this one at least.' The massive head turned. 'You are welcome, Marcus Severinus, not least for the pleasure you gave me yesterday.'

  'You were there?' Severinus was surprised: natives, unless they were servants or slaves, rarely came within the Colony bounds. It was a Roman town, for citizens only.

  'How not? 'We're not prisoners here on the Dun, or penned beasts. Your father's son is a fine rider. And it's always good to hear a Celtic tongue in a Roman mouth.'

  'There are Romans and Romans, Brocomaglos,' Aper said. 'I'm half a Celt myself, as you know, and no less Roman for that. Marcus is the same. He was born in Augusta, in Belgica. The Belgic Gauls are cousins to the British, and their tongue's the same, or near enough.'

  'Cousins, is it?’ Brocomaglos’s eyes twinkled. ‘Well, perhaps they are, but their Gallic blood's grown thin since they sat at Rome's fireside. I'm told, Commander, that in the Colony the Gallic merchants even take steam baths instead of washing themselves from a bucket like civilised men. Would that be true, now?'

  'Why not?' Aper laughed. 'There's nothing wrong with a bath on a winter's morning.'

  'Aye, maybe so.' Brocomaglos tugged at his ear. 'For Romans, I agree; you're like salamanders, you need heat. We’re different. Heat dries the marrow in our bones and makes women of us. What's good for one nation may not be for another.'

  'That's nonsense. Two races can learn from each other, surely, even when there are differences.'

  'Aye, to be sure they can, when both profit equally. Our Gallic cousins taught you Romans to ride, and what do they have in return? You shave their sons' moustaches and teach them to sell olives. That is not learning, Commander.'

  Aper laughed. 'Be fair, Brocomaglos. There's more to Rome than smooth mouths and olive sellers.'

  'So you keep telling us.'

  'Are we liars, then?'

  'No.' Brocomaglos smiled, but his voice was serious. 'You are not liars. You Romans are a great people, and this civilisation of yours is a great thing. And even if it were not there is still one reason why we should accept it willingly.'

  'And what may that be?'

  'Because it's all you've left us.' Brocomaglos turned as the curtain was drawn aside and a woman came out with a tray. 'Enough. Your bellies will think your throats are cut. My apologies for this lazy wife of mine.'

  'Lazy, is it?' The woman laughed as she set the tray down. 'Honey-cakes don't make themselves, and your guests would have been served more quickly if you'd been more sparing with the last batch.'

  'The apology's mine, Matugena.' Aper smiled at her. 'We're putting you out.'

  'Oh, for me it doesn't matter.' She lifted the wine jug and poured. 'And this one never minds visitors, whatever the hour. Especially if it gets him an extra cake or two.'

  Severinus picked up his cup and sipped cautiously. The wine was hot, and it had a strange taste; not unpleasant, but unfamiliar.

  'It's good,' he said. 'What is it?'

  'Elderberry juice, fermented with herbs and honey. You've never had elder wine before?' Severinus shook his head. 'Ah, well, perhaps our Old Lady can teach your
Roman gods a thing or two after all. The cakes are at your hand, Brocomaglos. See you leave a few crumbs for our guests.'

  She left chuckling.

  Brocomaglos swallowed a mouthful of his own wine and set the cup down.

  'So,’ he said. ‘You're warm and have seen me properly scolded. Now tell me what brings the Boar and his son so far and so early.'

  Severinus was aware of a tenseness in his voice underlying the light tone. He knew then – and was sure his father also knew – that Brocomaglos had not needed to ask the question. Remembering what Aper had said about leaving the talking to him, he sat back cradling his wine cup.

  Aper took a cake. 'There are rumours,' he said, 'of a Druid in the area.'

  'Druids are forbidden the province by your Roman law. And what would one be doing so far from the mountains?'

  'That I can't say.' Aper blew on his wine. 'The rumours may be false, but if they aren't, well, my friend, you've said it yourself. The sect is outlawed and Paullinus will have to act.'

  'Meaning?'

  'To begin with, a search of the Dun.'

  There was silence.

  'That would be foolish,' Brocomaglos said quietly. 'Very foolish.'

  'Aye.' Aper was looking straight at him. 'I agree.'

  'There's no Druid here. For that you have my word. The new governor would be stirring up trouble for no reason.'

  'I know that. So does he; Paullinus is no fool. But he'll have no choice unless you can also give me your word that the rumour has no truth to it.' The other man said nothing. 'You see? He exists, and he must be caught, wherever he is. No one wants trouble.'

  'As the wolf said to the rabbit.'

  'Brocomaglos.' Aper set down his own cup. 'Listen to me. I don't make the rules. And whatever the rights and wrongs of it the rabbit is still a rabbit.'

  'And the wolf still a wolf.' Brocomaglos looked, Severinus thought, suddenly old and very tired. 'So. You expect this particular rabbit to do the wolf's work for him?'

  'If there is a Druid at work among the Trinovantes then Paullinus can't ignore the fact. The Dun is the obvious place to start. He'll send soldiers to search and ask questions, and being soldiers they will not be gentle. Eventually someone will talk, they will find the man, wherever he is, and kill him; but before then a great deal of damage will have been done on both sides. Perhaps irreparable damage. Neither of us wants that.' Aper paused. 'In this business there can be no winners, only losers. Do you understand me?'

  Brocomaglos held his gaze for a long time. 'Aye, I understand you,' he said at last. 'Even so we see things differently, you and I, and that cannot be discounted.'

  'Druids are enemies of Rome. Giving shelter to them is a crime touching the whole tribe, and it will be viewed as such. Brocomaglos, I'm sorry, but these are facts, and neither you nor I can change them. However we look at things.'

  'However we look at things.' Brocomaglos's fingers tapped the arm of his chair. 'Well enough. Good facts they may be, to a Roman. But, Roman eyes are different from ours.'

  'Eyes are eyes. And facts are facts.'

  Instead of answering, Brocomaglos stood up. He walked over to the storage chest that stood against the wall, opened it and took out an object wrapped in a cloth.

  'That may be,' he said. 'But if it’s so then look here, Roman, and tell me what your eyes see.'

  He undid the wrappings and held the object up.

  The thing was a human head, brown as a nut and leather-hard, its smoke-tanned skin stretched tight over the bones of the skull. The flaking lips were drawn back from the teeth, and the blue shell eyes glared out from their shrunken sockets. What little hair was left on the scalp had been combed and neatly braided.

  ‘Gods alive!’ Aper whispered.

  'What's wrong, my friend?' Brocomaglos set the head on the table next to the plate of honey-cakes and laid his hand on the braids as gently as he had touched his daughter’s. 'You are honoured. This is my greatest treasure. My great-great-grandfather killed him in battle. His name was Eppillicus, and he was a prince of the Catuvellauni, a famous warrior in his day. Will you not greet him?'

  He lifted the head, kissed the dry lips and held it out towards them. Severinus felt his stomach crawl.

  'Put it back,' Aper murmured. 'For the Mothers' sake, put it back!'

  Brocomaglos did not move. 'At least touch him,' he said. 'He won't bite; he's a friend.'

  'A friend! Sweet holy Mothers!'

  'What else? He is held in honour, with his name remembered. His spirit is happy and brings the family luck. Will I ask little Ahteha to come and show you how we rub him with bear-grease to keep him supple? She would consider it a privilege.'

  'No.' Aper’s mouth was a hard line. 'You've made your point, Brocomaglos. Put the thing away.'

  '"Thing".' Brocomaglos shrugged. He kissed the head again, bundled it up carefully and replaced it in the chest. 'Aye, well. "Thing" let him be. My apologies. I would not for the world have insulted a guest beneath my roof, but you had to understand this. We're not Romans, nor will we ever be. To you the Druids are criminals; to us, even if we live now under Roman laws, they are still very special, the link between us and our gods. Remember that, when you ask us to betray them. These are my facts, and those of my tribe. And they are as sound in their way as yours.'

  There was a long silence.

  'So you refuse to help?' Aper said at last.

  'No. If I did I would be as much a fool as your Paullinus is. I will do what I can, for the sake of both our peoples. More I can't promise you.' Brocomaglos stood up. 'Now go, please. Go in friendship.'

  'Sweet holy Jupiter!' Severinus could still feel his hands shaking on the reins as he guided Tanet through the gate of the Dun and down the track towards the main road. 'The man's a savage! A complete bloody savage!'

  'No, lad.' Aper was looking far older than his fifty years. 'Brocomaglos is no savage. He'd a fair point to make and he made it fairly. Each of us was asking for something that in the other's terms was too much. The problem is, we're the wolves and he's the rabbit, and rabbits must always give way to wolves. That's a fact in both our worlds.'

  They rode home in silence.

  5.

  Five miles to the south, at the edge of a broad shallow pool on the island at the mouth of the river, Brocomaglos's son Tigirseno crouched behind a screen of reeds, his eye fixed on the sloping patch of hoof-churned mud and his right hand gripping the shaft of his hunting spear. A drop of rainwater from the branch of the ash tree above him splashed against his cheek. Tigirseno felt it run down the line of his jaw and slip beneath the edge of his cloak. On any other morning he would have wiped it away, but not today.

  Today the gods were watching him.

  A shadow moved within the shelter of the facing alders. Tigirseno stiffened as the hind stepped into the sunlight. She lifted her muzzle to sniff the air and stopped.

  Tigirseno forced himself to stay absolutely motionless. Horned One, he prayed, lay Your hand on her nostrils and on her eyes. Let her neither smell nor see me. Give her to me, if that is Your will.

  Something flickered at the edge of his vision, and it took all of Tigirseno's training not to turn his head. A wren had darted from the trees to the deer's left and was perching on a reed-leaf no more than a hand's breadth from his shoulder, watching him.

  The hairs crawled on Tigirseno's neck: the wren was Taranis's bird. It seemed that not only the Horned One had heard him.

  The hind's muzzle drooped. She moved forward and lowered her head to drink. As her lips touched the water Tigirseno rose and threw. He caught a glimpse of startled brown eyes as she straightened. Then the spear struck, its blade sliding in above the breast-bone and piercing the heart. The hind, dead on her feet, stood for an instant then crumpled, forelegs first, as if kneeling to him. Tigirseno sprang forward and drew his knife, but there was no need for it: the brown eyes were already fixed and staring, and the light had gone out of them.

  Quickly, he gutted her and washed her
clean of blood. Then he lifted the carcass over his shoulder and set off for the grove.

  The wren went with him.

  He stopped at the edge of the trees, his fist pressed hard against his brow, waiting for the man who sat with his back to him to acknowledge his presence. The wren was perched on a dry yarrow stalk to one side. It was still watching him, its eye a tiny speck of black fire.

  'Father?' he said. The word stuck in his throat. He swallowed, and tried again. 'Father, I've brought you meat.'

  The Druid turned. He showed no sign of surprise, but Tigirseno had expected none.

  'A deer, Father. I killed you a deer.' Tigirseno's mouth was dry as sand.

  'So?' The man smiled. He was younger than Tigirseno had expected, no more than thirty, his short plaited beard and the hair on his partly-shaven head red as a fox's pelt. The cloak he wore was black and grey, speckled like a starling's coat and heavily stained with mud. 'My thanks. Set it down.'

  Tigirseno did as he was told, trying to control the awe he felt in the other man's presence. In his sixteen years of life he had never seen a Druid, let alone talked with one. The hairs crawled on his scalp.

  'Enter. Be welcome.' The Druid was still smiling. He was a good hand-span shorter than Tigirseno, sturdily-built with thick muscular arms and a broad face that could have belonged to any farmer on the Dun, but appearances meant nothing. Tigirseno moistened his dry lips with his tongue. Despite the invitation, it was taking him all his courage just to stand his ground.