The Horse Coin

by David Wishart

  Severinus felt slightly sick. Braniacum was a border posting, at the edge of Icenian territory, less than a day's ride from the royal dun itself; quiet enough at present, but if the Iceni did rise then the Foxes would be first in line, perhaps even before the legion at Dercovium or the other auxiliaries to the west had time to intervene.

  'Gods!' he murmured. 'Sweet holy gods!'

  'Aye, exactly.' Aper picked up the lamp and examined the labelled jars carefully. 'Well, at least you're forewarned. Now we'd best find that Falernian quickly or your mother'll think I'm explaining the facts of life to you.' He grinned suddenly. 'Don't worry, boy. You can handle it, and if you do well you'll be on your way to a Wing.'

  'You think I should talk to Albilla? Postpone the engagement?'

  'That's for you to decide.' Aper had found the jar. He pulled it out from the rest by its handles and blew off the dust. 'Or perhaps for her. If it were up to me I'd say no, just as I've no intention of saying anything about this to your mother. Not for the time being, at least. There's no point in worrying either of them before it's necessary.'

  'You think the Iceni will rebel?'

  'Maybe, maybe not.' Aper swung the jar on to his shoulder. 'Who knows? It's in the gods' hands. Paullinus could be right. When the campaign gets under way in the spring he's leaving the Ninth intact, and an Eagle on your doorstep's a bloody big disincentive to trouble. By all accounts Queen Boudica's no fool, and she'd think twice before breaking the peace. Now forget about it for the moment, Marcus. I'm sure you've other things on your mind today than politics.' He winked. 'Come on. Let's get the best cups out and toast your future health properly.'

  14.

  There were four of them in a circle around her, all men, their faces a blur but their hands very real, lifting her off her feet and pulling in different directions. Albilla screamed and struggled, but her arms and legs were held as if by ropes. She lifted her head. At the edge of the circle a fifth man stood waiting, a knife in his hand. He moved forward. In desperation, Albilla drew her right foot back as far she could and kicked out hard...

  Her foot crashed against the corner of the bed-frame, and the noise and the shock of the blow jerked her awake. For a long time she lay trembling, staring around the familiar room, disoriented. Her sleeping tunic felt cold and clammy against her bare skin.

  Finally, she drew a deep breath and shuddered.

  Killing pigs! she thought. Yuch!

  She untangled herself from the sweat-soaked blanket and put the dream out of her head. The day had been worth a nightmare. Oh, yes. And her parents had been pleased with the news, even Mother: Bellicia had always seen Julius Agricola as an outside chance. Albilla smiled to herself. When she'd told the tribune at dinner that she was engaged to Marcus he'd congratulated her without a blink. Agricola was Rome at her coldest. Thank Juno she'd spoken to Marcus before her mother could take things any further. Facing Marcus had needed all the courage she possessed, but it had been worth it.

  Engaged!

  Light was showing round the edges of the closed window shutters. Ignoring the chill that cut through her sodden tunic, she got up and crossed the room. Its marble floor was ice-cold beneath her feet. When she and Marcus were married she would make sure that their bedroom had a wooden floor with thick native rugs.

  She opened the shutters and looked out across the red tiled roofs of the Colony. Cold air and grey light flooded the room, bringing with them the scent of snow, wood-smoke and new bread. It was barely dawn, a bright, fresh morning with hardly a cloud. The slaves in the blacksmith's shop opposite were filling the charcoal bunker and blowing the fire to a red heat. One of the bellows had a hole in it, and for a moment the breathy wheezing reminded her of the pig in Mori's yard. Only for a moment: Albilla was too happy to think of nightmares. Down the road, her father's door slave Justus stood chatting to the carter who was making his usual morning delivery of flour to the bakery on the corner. From the direction of the market came the creak and rumble of wagons.

  The Colony was waking up.

  Marcus would be awake, too: she knew that in the early morning he always took Tanet out for a gallop across the open land between the marshes and the river. If she hurried she could catch him.

  Albilla dressed quickly: her mother wouldn't mind her going out alone, even to meet Marcus. Not much, anyway. Not now they were engaged...

  She hurried down to the stable. The old groom Catti was snoring among the straw: the bout of rheumatism had passed, helped by the change in the weather and the wintergreen ointment that he made himself. Albilla woke him and had him saddle Lacta.

  This was the difficult part, the essential part. She pulled herself up into the saddle and sat with her eyes closed, feeling her head swim and fighting down the fear that pinched her stomach. Albilla knew she was no rider and never could be. If Marcus hadn't been so obviously impressed with the new mare – and if Albilla had not wanted so very much to impress him – she would never have bought her.

  'Are you all right, miss?' Catti was looking concerned.

  'I'm fine.' She shook her head to clear it and tried to smile down at him. 'She is big, though, isn't she?'

  'Aye, she is that.' The old man patted Lacta's flanks and the mare shifted and tossed her head. 'Lively as a barrel of eels into the bargain. A real madam. I can still saddle Phoenix for you, or if you were wanting company...'

  'I said I was fine!'

  Catti shrugged and stepped back. 'Suit yourself. You just be careful, that’s all. You've only one neck to break, and that one's capable of doing it for you.'

  Before she could change her mind, Albilla wheeled the mare round and out of the yard.

  The estuary road was deserted. She bit her lip and tried to control the shaking of her hands on the reins Look at the world through the horse's eyes, Marcus had told her again and again. Read it like she does, and she won't surprise you. All right, she thought, I'll try. She forced herself to urge Lacta into a trot. The breeze in her face freshened with a scattering of powdery snow, and she tightened her thighs against the mare's flanks. Lacta responded at once, and Albilla, moving already as fast as she was used to, fought down her panic, resisting the urge to grip the mane. She's no different from Phoenix, you idiot, she told herself. Just bigger and stronger. You can manage her. You can!

  As the fear began to slip away Albilla raised her head. She was almost at the bridge that led over the narrow stream half way to the marshes, and Lacta was moving at a steady canter, as fast as Phoenix could have galloped. She grinned. She was doing well; Marcus would be proud of her.

  Lacta's hooves thudded on the slats of the bridge. Beyond it to the left the woods opened out into fields and grassland, and Albilla could see almost to the estuary. In the distance was another rider.

  Marcus. It had to be Marcus.

  Albilla laughed, and waved. There was no response, but he would have seen her, too. Conscious of his eyes watching, she slowed Lacta, then pulled the mare's head round, digging her right knee into her flank and sending her off the road, over the ditch and across the open country towards him.

  She realised that the rider was not Marcus just at the moment when Lacta's left foreleg plunged into a dip hidden by the covering snow. The horse stumbled and lurched sideways, throwing her from the saddle.

  The world turned over. She stretched out her hand to ward off the ground as it rushed up to meet her. Someone shouted. Pain lanced through her left arm and shoulder and her head thudded against a stone.

  Then there was nothing.

  Senovara had stopped to watch the lark.

  It had sprung from the grass almost under her pony's hooves, a small unremarkable bundle of feathers that had bored a hole in the sky above her head and poured its music into it. She listened and watched entranced as the bird climbed, higher and higher into the clouds, its song still clear when its body had long since vanished. Her mother would have said that it was singing now for Taranis, and Senovara half-believed it: larks were Taranis's poets, a
nd there was no greater honour for a human poet at death than to be reborn from a lark's egg.

  Romans, she had heard, ate their tongues.

  The last notes faded, and Senovara rode on.

  The shrine in the marshes was difficult to find, especially in the pre-dawn dimness, and she had never been here before. Like the groves further inland, it had no altar and no image; the place itself was what had made it holy since before the tribe's memories began, not whatever nameless little god or gods possessed it. There were only the twists of ribbon and strands of women's hair tied to the reeds and bullrushes to distinguish it from a thousand other spots along the estuary's banks.

  Senovara felt her skin prickle as she slipped down from the pony's back. The faint mist rising from the water was curving into spirals that broke and reformed independently of the breeze, and she could feel eyes watching her. Aye, she thought, shuddering a little, this place is special right enough.

  The pony dropped his head to drink, then lifted it again as his lips met the salt. Senovara unfastened one of her braids and pulled out nine strands of hair, counting them carefully before binding the braid up again. Then she waited patiently for the sun to rise.

  He came up over the marshes, a red curve of fire fringed with purple clouds, sending streamers north, south and west. On any other morning she would have stood and watched, but now there was no time. Quickly she tied the nine hairs around one of the reeds and stepped back.

  'Keep my brother Tigirseno safe, wherever he is,' she prayed, knuckling her brow as she spoke. 'Bring him home alive.'

  The reed shook in the dawn breeze. The strands of hair fluttered, and suddenly the eyes seemed all around her.

  Senovara turned. Without looking behind her she caught up the pony's reins, remounted and rode quickly away.

  She had almost reached the road that led to the Roman port when she saw the girl fall.

  Albilla woke. Something was pressing against her forehead where the pain lay, something soft and cool that leaked water into her eyes. She shifted her left arm, then screamed as new pain, far worse than the other, shot through it. There was a small grating sound. She could not feel her fingers.

  'Rest quiet,' someone said: a woman's voice, low and firm. The pad of moss against her forehead was moved away, then replaced. She opened her eyes, blinking the water from the lashes.

  She was lying on her back. Inches from her she could see Lacta's muzzle. The mare's head was drooping and her reins trailed in the grass.

  'Is she all right?' she said.

  The girl moved round into sight while still keeping the pad pressed to Albilla's forehead. Her eyes, green and cool against the whiteness of her skin and her thick red hair, flashed with sudden amusement.

  'You break your arm and you think of a horse?' she said. 'There's hope for Romans yet. She'll do well enough. A...twisting.' Her brow had furrowed. 'That's the word? Nothing worse.'

  'You speak Latin.'

  'A little. Or have you Celtic?'

  'No.' Albilla tried to sit up. The pain came again and she turned and vomited into the grass. 'I'm sorry.'

  'About having no Celtic? Or about the sickness?' The girl laughed. 'Neither matter. I told you, rest quiet while your soul comes back.'

  Albilla felt the tears begin to prick against her eyelids. She forced them away. 'Marcus,' she said. 'I want Marcus.' Even to herself she sounded like a sulky child, but she was past caring.

  'Your husband? Brother?'

  'Fiancé.' The girl's brow had furrowed again, as if two strong lines had been cut there with a chisel. Albilla chose an easier word. 'Betrothed.'

  'Ah. He's near here? He lives near here?'

  'Yes. Marcus Severinus. Julius Aper's son.' Albilla's ears had begun to buzz, and she felt as if she were speaking through soft wool with a mouth that had suddenly stopped being hers. Someone else's voice said: 'Could you fetch him for me? Please?'

  The girl's lips moved, but no sound came. There was only the buzzing in Albilla's ears, and then, again, blackness.

  When she woke for the second time it was in a bed that was not hers. A face –not the girl's – was looking down at her.

  'Marcus!' she said.

  'Who else?' He bent forward and kissed her forehead next to the dressing that someone had put on it. 'Well, you made a proper job of that, didn't you?'

  'Yes. I'm sorry.' Albilla tried to smile. 'Where am I?'

  'Home. My home, that is. Senovara brought you here an hour ago. Dad's sent Trinnus into town for the doctor.'

  'Senovara? That's the girl you –'

  'Brocomaglos's daughter.' Marcus grinned. 'Aye. You want to see her? She's still here.'

  'In a moment.' Albilla swallowed. 'Marcus, I'm sorry.'

  'What about?'

  'The accident was stupid. My fault completely. I was –'

  'Not now. It'll keep.' He closed her mouth with a finger. 'Tell me later.'

  'But I –' The tears came again, and this time she could not stop them. 'She isn't hurt, is she? Your mare?'

  'Lacta's fine. A sprain. I've put a poultice on it. And she's not my mare, she's yours.'

  'No.' Albilla shook her head. 'I can't ride her. Not well enough. She's too good for me.'

  'That's nonsense!'

  'It isn't nonsense. I tried. I tried my best. I'm sorry.'

  Her eyelids felt suddenly heavy, too heavy for the effort of keeping them open.

  She slept.

  . . .

  'Thank you for bringing her back.' Severinus looked across at the tall girl with the red hair and green eyes leading her pony from the paddock.

  Senovara shrugged. 'It was nothing,' she said. 'Luck. And I'm glad to pay the debt.'

  'What debt?'

  'For Eisu. At the shop.'

  'There was no debt.'

  'Was there not?' The girl laughed. 'Then there was no repayment. My congratulations, Marcus Severinus. You have a fine' – she hesitated – 'fiancée.'

  They had been speaking Celtic, but she used the Latin word. Severinus grinned. 'Aye, well,' he said. 'My thanks in any case.'

  'You're welcome.' Senovara mounted her pony and turned his head towards the gate and the road that led back to the dun. Severinus watched her until she was out of sight.

  15.

  Braniacum, the Place of the Crows, was well-named. As Severinus walked with Clemens towards the headquarters building the sound of their cawing was all around him.

  'Are they always this noisy?' he said.

  Clemens returned the salute of the guard on duty and mounted the wooden steps onto the verandah. 'The birds? Oh, aye. These buggers never shut up. Give it a year or so and you won't notice.'

  ‘Really? That soon?'

  'Let's just say it's yet another thing I won't miss about the place.' Clemens opened the outer office door. The young military clerk behind the desk rose as they entered, stifling a cough. 'Here we are, home sweet home. At ease, Lucius. How's the cold?'

  'Coming along nicely, sir.'

  'That's good. Bloody climate.' Clemens opened the second door and stepped aside. 'After you, Severinus.'

  Severinus looked around. The inner office was small and sparsely furnished with a desk and three chairs. A window opened on to the parade ground at the building's front.

  Clemens closed the door behind him and took his place behind the desk.

  'Don't stand on ceremony,' he said. 'Have a seat. It'll be all yours from tomorrow, anyway, Lucius's cold and all.'

  Severinus sat down on one of the other chairs. He felt a little in awe of Clemens. The outgoing commander wore his own uniform as naturally as if he had grown into it and he was as compactly solid as a marble block, with hard eyes that looked far older than his thirty years.

  'The men seem happy enough,' he said.

  'Oh, you'll have no trouble with the Foxes.' Clemens's face split in a grin that made him look ten years younger. 'Especially since the nearest place for a drink or a bit of female company is half a day's ride away, and eve
n then it only has beer. The hunting's better than fair if you don't get sick of boar-meat, but as far as entertainment goes that's your lot. We're pretty well cut off here.'

  'I don't mind,' Severinus said. 'In fact, I'm looking forward to it.'

  'Is that so, now?' Clemens laughed. 'Jupiter! Well, I said the same myself when I started. Give it six months and you'll be climbing the walls like the rest of us.'

  'It can't be that bad.'

  'Oh, it is, it is. And if you're wise you'll hope it stays that way.'

  'You mean the procurator's assessment?'

  Clemens's smile disappeared. 'So you know about that?' he said. The light tone had gone completely from his voice.

  'Aye. Adaucius Montanus is a friend of my father's. I've known of it for months.'

  The other man grunted and leaned back in his chair. 'Well, it saves us a bit of time, anyway,' he said. 'It was something I wanted to talk to you about before I left. The gods alone know what game Catus is playing, but if he isn't careful his so-called assessment will set our friends across the border by the ears good and proper, and that'd be bad news for all of us.'

  'You've been given a date?'

  'I've been given several these past two months. Montanus has been dragging his heels, and good luck to him. We've been expecting his men to pass through here any of a dozen times, but every time he's called off at the last minute. Thank the Mothers someone has a bit of sense. If his boss thought with his head rather than his backside he'd countermand the order altogether.'

  'You think there'll be trouble?'

  Clemens pulled at his ear. 'You know the Iceni yourself, by reputation at least. They're a touchy lot, proud as hell, and for all her better qualities their queen's no exception. Her chief adviser has no time for us, either, and he's a smart beggar who knows what he's about. Yes, I think there'll be trouble. I'd be a fool to expect otherwise.'