The Horse Coin

by David Wishart

  The man had not moved. 'There's nothing to fear,’ he said. ‘I don't bite. Come and sit a while.'

  Carefully, as if he were walking barefoot through thorns, Tigirseno stepped into the clearing.

  'Your name?'

  Tigirseno's head went up. 'Tigirseno. Son of Brocomaglos son of Decovicos, of the line of Imanuentios, chief of the Trinovantes.'

  'So. So.' The Druid did not offer his own name, and Tigirseno did not ask. 'A good name. A warrior's name. My thanks for your gift, Tigirseno. Fresh meat is always welcome. How did you know I was here?'

  'The whole of the Dun knows. By tomorrow my whole tribe will know.'

  'Indeed. And the Wolves?'

  'No, Father. And they will not, either.'

  'You're sure?' The dark eyes were watching him with what Tigirseno suspected was amusement. He felt his cheeks redden, and hoped the Druid had not noticed.

  'Who would betray a Holy One?' he said.

  'Aye. Just so.' The corner of the Druid's mouth lifted. 'I hope you're right. I like my privacy.'

  Tigirseno frowned. He had not expected a Druid to make jokes, and the man's accent was strange, difficult to understand, the words flatter-sounding and more drawn-out than was common in the south. Even Druids had tribes, although they were not bound by tribal loyalties. Perhaps he was a Brigantian, or from somewhere beyond the mountains; from Mona itself, even.

  He gathered his courage to ask the first of his questions.

  'The marshes are cold in winter, Father,' he said. 'Will you not come back with me to the Dun? My tribe would be –'

  'No.'

  Just that; a single syllable, spoken quietly but with complete finality. Tigirseno tried to keep the disappointment from his face. He had imagined, all the way to the island, the honour of bringing the Druid home. Even his father could not refuse a Holy One the protection of the tribe.

  The Druid was waiting patiently. Tigirseno swallowed, and asked his second question.

  'Is it true, Father, that the Wolves are planning to attack Mona?'

  'It's true.'

  'The Holy Island?' Tigirseno felt his eyes widen. 'And the gods would allow it?'

  'Perhaps. Perhaps not. Perhaps they want only to test the people's faith.'

  Tigirseno hesitated. 'Father, forgive me, but if they wanted to test the faith of the tribes then would they choose that way? You know how strong the Wolves are. Surely –?'

  'Tigirseno, are you questioning the wisdom of the gods?'

  Tigirseno felt the fear rise from his stomach like vomit.

  'No,' he said. 'No, of course not. Never. But –'

  'We have warriors of our own, and the Wolves are not a mountain people. The mountains will break them, as they did before.'

  'What warriors, Father? They say the Silures are beaten, and the Ordovices and Deceangli are no more than broken reeds. The new chief of the Wolves is a better mountain fighter than even the last one was. How can you –?'

  Without warning, the Druid reached out and laid a finger to Tigirseno's lips. Tigirseno felt his tongue freeze, stiff as a block of wood, and he gagged, terrified.

  Slowly, the Druid lowered his hand. He was not smiling now, and his eyes were chips of stone.

  'So,' he said. 'The stories are true after all. The tribes of the east and south are become women.' Tigirseno reddened and tried to speak, but the spell held him fast. 'Perhaps I came too late, and there are no warriors left between the mountains and the sea. Perhaps the gods have thrown you lowlanders to the Wolves, and you are no longer worthy to be called their sons, or when you die to take your place beyond the River. Perhaps it would be better to leave you in the darkness. Is that, then, Tigirseno, how you would have it, you and your folk?'

  Tigirseno’s eyes bulged as he choked with the effort to speak. He knew what the Druid was threatening. For him – for any Briton – it was the worst fate of all: to be cast out from the family of the tribes and live on cursed, set apart from men and gods alike, and after death to wander cold and alone on the near side of the River with no hope of rebirth. He sank to his knees and pressed his forehead to the earth.

  Strong hands gripped his shoulders. He felt himself lifted and stubby fingers force themselves between his teeth, prising his jaws apart. He choked, coughing on his own spittle as the iron bands around his throat slackened and life returned to his tongue.

  The Druid watched in silence until the racking spasms eased. Tigirseno bit hard on his lip and wiped his streaming eyes, his whole body shaking.

  'Father, I'm sorry,' he said. 'Tell me what to do.'

  'That is better.' The man was smiling again. 'And spoken like a warrior. The gods have not abandoned you, or your tribe. Taranis has already shown me. Now let him show you, and through you the Trinovantes. Come. His messenger is waiting.'

  The Druid stepped back. Tigirseno looked up and round, his eyes wide.

  The wren had been sitting patiently, watching them. Now, as the Druid moved, it flew across the clearing towards one of the trees at its edge.

  'Go where he leads,' the Druid said. 'Don't be afraid. There's no danger.'

  The bird did not stir as Tigirseno walked towards it. At the base of the tree, beneath the branch on which it had perched, was a thick pile of rotting oak leaves.

  'Look closer.'

  Tigirseno looked, and the breath caught in his throat. Lying half buried among the leaves was the skeleton of a wolf, picked almost clean of flesh. The skull with its yellowed fangs and empty eye-sockets pointed towards the mainland.

  The hairs rose on Tigirseno's scalp.

  'Father, there are no wolves on this island,' he whispered. 'I've hunted here often and I would have seen them.'

  'No, there are not.' The Druid had not moved from where he stood in the centre of the clearing, and his voice was as soft as Tigirseno's own. 'Yet here he is all the same, dead beneath Taranis's tree. Do you still doubt the gods?'

  Tigirseno shook his head. He felt, suddenly, a great surge of joy.

  The Druid nodded. 'Good,' he said. 'Go, then. Tell your people. Tell them to be ready.'

  Tigirseno picked up the spear that he had dropped and backed away, his fist pressed against his forehead; then, heart thudding, he turned and ran from the grove.

  This time Taranis's bird did not follow.

  Brocomaglos sat staring into the fire for a long time after his guests had gone. He felt old and beaten, thin as a threadbare cloak.

  Aper was a good man, he knew; but he was still a Roman. For him there would never be the agony of having to compromise even when the act of compromising brought with it nothing but contempt; self-contempt most of all. That, in this new world which the man-god Claudius had brought, was a chief's role. On the one hand lay complete submission and the death of the tribe's spirit; on the other, revolt, rebellion and the death of the tribe itself. And rebellion would mean death, immediate death or the slow death of slavery: that Brocomaglos knew as well as he knew that the other way was equally bad, and equally inevitable.

  A log shifted in the grate and fell in a shower of sparks.

  Rising, Brocomaglos went over to the chest and took out Eppillus's head. He unwrapped it and laid it reverently on the table, wedging it upright on its spiked pedestal. Then, moistening his fingers with wine from his half-empty cup, he touched them to the open lips.

  Time passed that was no time.

  'Brother,' he murmured at last, when he had Eppillus's leave to begin, 'I need your advice.'

  The blue shell eyes stared into his.

  Why do you ask me, they said, when the answer is obvious?

  'It is not obvious. The Wolf-Commander is right. They will take and kill the Holy One whether I help or not. But if I refuse that help, then the tribe will suffer.'

  You are being foolish. A Druid is a Druid. And perhaps it is good for the tribe to suffer.

  Brocomaglos frowned. 'I don't understand,' he said.

  Do you not, then? The eyes hardened. Ah, but I think you do. You only pr
etend not to, to me and to yourself. Perhaps the tribe needs to suffer. It will remind them that they are men.

  'What use is that if they're powerless?'

  Men are never powerless. And if they suffer enough, eventually they will take revenge.

  'You're saying that is good?'

  Revenge is always good. Revenge clears the soul's account, on both sides. Brocomaglos, you know this.

  Brocomaglos sighed. 'Eppillicus, the world has changed since your day. For the tribe to hope for revenge where Rome is concerned is madness. Surely it's better to accept what she gives in the hope that it will lead to better things than to lose everything by opposing her? That is the course that the Druids would have us take, and you can see where it has brought them.'

  At least they are men. Men do not compromise. When a man surrenders his right to choose he ceases to be a man.

  'I don't agree. To see things like a blinkered horse is not to have free will but its opposite. It's better, surely, to accept what is inevitable and then try to change it from within.'

  You imagine that that is possible?

  'I hope so, certainly.'

  The new chief of the Romans. He would share your views?

  'No. But the Romans are not all like Paullinus.'

  Are they not? Have the Wolves ceased to take what land they like without asking leave? Are they paying, now, to build their own temple and keep its altar smoking? Brother, you have much to learn! You talked to the Commander of the wolf and the rabbit. Since when did wolves listen to the views of rabbits?

  'Men are not beasts, Eppillicus.'

  And the Trinovantes, by the same reasoning, are not rabbits. You would do well to remember that. It might save you trouble later. Now put me back. The consultation is over.

  The shell eyes dulled. Brocomaglos moistened the lips again with wine, kissed the head and replaced it in the chest.

  6.

  The next day was the eve of the five-day Winter Festival. Severinus stabled Tanet at the blacksmith's by the old east gate and walked towards the city centre. The pavements were crowded, and this close to the Festival they were full of hawkers selling everything from cheap jewellery and carved wooden birds and animals to hot roasted chestnuts and small sweet-pastry figurines with currants for eyes. He glanced up at the sky. At least the rain was holding off, although from the looks of the grey clouds massing in the direction of the river that would not last long. He had only two more presents to buy, for his mother and Sulicena. If he was lucky, and finished quickly, he could get down to the Cloak Street baths before the weather turned. Sulicena's was easy, although it would involve a long wait: Vegisonius's was the most popular shop in the Colony at this time of year. Ursina's present would be more difficult, a cloak brooch to replace the one she had lost a month before.

  The luxury-goods shops along Praetorian Street were packed, and the queue outside Vegisonius's stretched almost as far as Main Street corner. At its head a woman was arguing over the price of a jar of cherries in sweet vinegar.

  'Marcus, my boy! Doing your last-minute Festival shopping, I see.'

  He turned to find Uricalus with his daughter Albilla behind him.

  'Good morning, Uricalus,' he said. 'I’m trying to, at least.'

  'Quite a press, isn't it?' The little Gaul nodded comfortably and rocked back on his heels. 'Well, it's only once a year. Fortunately for our purses, eh? Were you looking for anything in particular?'

  'A jar of honeyed figs for Sulicena. I buy her one every year.'

  Albilla smiled up at him, her lively, pretty face flushed with the cold. 'You're lucky, Marcus,' she said. 'Our cook's weakness is raisin wine.'

  'Is that so, now?' Severinus grinned back. He liked Albilla. They had known each other since they were children, and she was as unlike her parents as chalk from cheese.

  'Albilla, behave yourself.' Uricalus touched her arm, then turned back to Severinus. His gold tooth flashed. 'If it's a matter of a present, Marcus, then I can recommend the quinces in syrup most highly. A delight, my boy, an absolute delight. Vegisonius has just had a consignment delivered, and honestly I don't think you'd find better in Rome itself.'

  'Father, really.' Albilla was looking as doll-like as she always did, her oval face carefully made up beneath a hair-style which must have taken her maid hours to arrange. 'It's none of our business. Marcus can choose his own presents.'

  'Just a suggestion, my dear.' Uricalus smiled at her. 'Oh, and Marcus, speaking of presents, I've been fortunate enough myself to get hold of some very choice pieces of glassware. A direct shipment from Massilia. If you haven't thought what to give your mother yet then perhaps you'd care to call in at the shop and take a look. Tell Juventius to show you the best pieces and give you an extra-special price.'

  'That's kind of you, sir.' Severinus's eyes strayed back to Vegisonius's counter. The woman had finally won her argument and the queue was shifting forwards. 'But–'

  'In fact I'm sure that Albilla would be more than happy to help you choose. Would you not, Albilla?'

  'Actually, sir, I had something in mind already. A cloak brooch.'

  'Really?' Uricalus frowned. 'Well, you know best, of course. By the bye, you and your family will be free, I hope, to drop round for a small get-together on the last day? Just a few friends, nothing formal, although I do have hopes that the governor himself will favour us with his presence. It can't be pleasant to be so far from one's family, at this time of year especially.' His fingers stroked the fringe of his mantle. 'In any case Bellicia and I would be honoured if you and your parents could join us.'

  'I don't know if we can, sir,' Severinus said carefully. He knew that what Uricalus called a 'small get-together' would be nothing of the kind. Especially if the governor had been invited. 'I'll have to check.'

  'Fine. Then we can expect you.' Uricalus beamed. 'I can promise you an excellent evening.'

  'I'm sure Marcus is looking forward to it, Father,' Albilla said demurely.

  Severinus stifled another grin.

  'That's right.' Uricalus was already turning to go. 'Well, I won't keep you, Marcus. My best wishes for the Festival when it comes. Do remember about the quinces, won't you?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'That's a good lad. We'll see you at the party, then.'

  As they crossed the road, Albilla turned round.

  'Come if you can, Marcus!' she shouted.

  Severinus bought the figs, then carried on in the direction of the Market Square. The jewellers' shops and hucksters' stalls were full of brooches, but there was nothing, he knew, that Ursina would particularly like, and he was more than half sorry that he had not taken Uricalus's advice, if only for the sake of Albilla's company. He stopped in at one of the fish stalls in the market to pick up a jar of oysters for the next day's stew, then retraced his steps to the old military baths near the south gate.

  'You're late this morning, sir.' The bath-owner, Passerinus, handed him a towel. 'Got your presents in?'

  'All but one.' Severinus handed over the jars for safe-keeping. 'I'll try again later.'

  'Aye, that's always the way.' The old legionary grinned, showing his gums. 'It's a bugger, the Festival. Did you have anything in mind?'

  'A cloak brooch. But I wanted something unusual.'

  'Try the shops outside the gate, then. I picked up a nice brooch for my youngest there. Local stuff, but good quality silver, well-made. Cheap, too.'

  Severinus draped the towel over his shoulder. 'I might just do that,’ he said. ‘Which shop did you say?'

  'Eisu's. Tell him I sent you.'

  Severinus stripped off and made his way through to the hot room. Passerinus had been right: he was late, and the wooden benches round the walls were already full. One of the bathers raised his head, and Severinus recognised Tirintius.

  'That you, Marcus?' he said. 'Dannicus, you awkward beggar, where's your manners? Give the lad a seat.' The big sour-faced Gaul to his left grunted and edged along the bench. Tirintius grinned. 'Don't mi
nd him, Marcus, he's got a sulk on. What's it doing outside?'

  'Blowing through rain.' Severinus squeezed into the space. 'And cold as hell.'

  'We're better in than out, then,' the third member of the trio, Reburrus, said. 'You should've joined us when you'd finished hobnobbing with the governor the other night, boy. You missed a good evening.' His elbow jabbed into Dannicus's ribs. 'Free wine, too.'

  'Shut it.' Dannicus was scowling. Reburrus chuckled.

  'That's enough, Reburrus.' Tirintius lifted his towel to wipe the sweat from his face. 'You heard about the Druid, then, Marcus?'

  'Aye. Bad news.'

  'Bad's right. Rumour is the governor's sending in the Eagles to search the Dun.'

  'A fat lot of good that'll do,' Dannicus grunted. 'The iron-bellies couldn't find their own backsides with both hands.'

  'Dannicus...' Reburrus murmured.

  One of the other bathers on the bench opposite had cleared his throat, and Severinus winced: the man had the broad callus of a legionary helmet beside his jawbone. Dannicus, he knew, had seen it too; but then Dannicus had always been fond of trouble.

  'You watch your mouth, horse-boy,' the man said.

  Dannicus grinned and turned towards him. 'And who,' he said, 'is going to make me?'

  The ex-legionary half rose. Tirintius closed his eyes and swore softly.

  'Sorry, friend,' he said. 'No offence. Let me handle this for you, okay?' He leaned across. 'Dannicus, you bastard, cut it out.'

  'Jupiter, I only–!'

  'Cut it, I said. We're here for a bath, and I haven't the energy.' He turned to the legionary. 'Sorry again, soldier.' The man settled back with a growl. 'You hear anything yourself, Marcus?'

  'About the Druid?' Severinus was wiping the sweat from his neck. 'My father had a word with Brocomaglos yesterday. It may not come to a search.'

  'He was wasting his time, then. You don't mess around where Druids are concerned. Nor trust to natives, neither.'

  'Maybe so, but there's no point asking for trouble.'

  'Trouble?' Tirintius laughed. 'From the Dunsmen? Marcus, Marcus! The day these lazy beggars show fight old Claudius's statue will come down from its pedestal and take a swim in the river. It's them that'll get the trouble if they ask for it. And with all respect to the commander treating them soft's a bad idea. It only leads to problems.'