Modianus was standing by the gate as he came through. He held Tanet's bridle while Severinus dismounted.
'Better, Commander?' he said.
'You were waiting for me?’ Severinus patted the mare's neck.
'Aye, sir.' The centurion hesitated. 'A courier's just come in. From the governor.'
'How could –?' Severinus stopped in time to save himself from sounding foolish; of course, the message could have nothing to do with Homullus. His own messenger would take days to arrive. 'He rode all night?'
'Not quite, sir. He started from Camboritum.'
'Did he indeed?' Severinus handed Tanet over to a trooper and led the way to his office. The staging post at Camboritum was only a few hours away to the north-west, but it would still mean a pre-dawn start.
Whatever the courier was carrying was important.
The man was waiting in the outer office, chatting to the duty orderly. He drew himself up to attention as they came in.
'You've come direct from the governor?' Severinus asked.
'Aye, sir.'
'How is the campaign going?'
The man grinned. 'We'll get there, sir, don’t you worry.'
Severinus nodded, satisfied. The ordinary squaddie might know nothing about strategy but he had a feel for how a campaign was progressing. If this courier was happy then Paullinus was doing well. 'So,' he said. 'What have you got for me?'
The man took a sealed message tablet from the pouch at his belt, handed it over and stood at attention. Severinus broke the seal, opened the tablet and read the first lines...
Mothers! The fool! The purblind fool!
He looked up. The courier was still waiting, his eyes politely blank.
'Was this the only message you had to deliver?' he said.
'No, sir. I'd one for the commander at Duroliponte and I'm to carry on from here to Caesaromagus.' The man shifted uncomfortably. 'Orders were to make the best speed I could, sir. Begging your pardon.'
Severinus closed the message tablet. He was trying, without much success, he thought, to keep the anger from his face and voice. 'Get a fresh horse and some breakfast,’ he said. ‘The reply will be with my orderly.' He turned to Modianus. 'Centurion. A word in private, please.'
'Sir.'
He led the way into his office. Modianus followed and closed the door behind him. Severinus threw himself into his chair.
'We're ordered to join the governor for the push against Mona,' he said.
Modianus stared. 'Beg pardon, sir?'
'You heard. The Foxes are ordered west.'
'What, the whole cohort, sir? All of it?'
'The whole cohort. I'm to leave a scratch garrison. "As small as I consider commensurate with security and under competent command". Presumably Duroliponte and Caesaromagus get the same. And that's just through the one courier. Paullinus is stripping the province.'
'There's still the Ninth at Dercovium, sir.' Modianus was pale with shock. 'The governor won't touch them.'
'They might have been enough three months ago, but if Homullus stirs up the Iceni they'll have their work cut out. And there's enough discontent among the other tribes already for trouble to spread. Jupiter Almighty, what a mess!'
'Aye, it is that.' Modianus hesitated. 'So what do you do, sir?'
'There's nothing I can do. We're ordered out by the governor himself. "With all possible dispatch". That means as of yesterday.' He tossed the message tablet on the desk. 'I don't even have the time for a bloody query!'
'The governor won't know the situation, sir. He won't have your report for days yet. And if he's already worried about security –'
Severinus turned on him. 'Modianus,' he said, 'I'm just one very junior commander, and I've only held that exalted rank for about five minutes. How do you think an experienced general like Paullinus will react if I tell him I'm not taking my cohort anywhere and suggest to him that he let the commanders at Duroliponte and Caesaromagus plus whatever other auxiliary troops he's called up off the hook as well?' Modianus said nothing. 'Exactly. Blowing the whistle on Homullus is one thing. Disobeying a direct order from the commander-in-chief is another. I might as well slit my wrists now and be done with it.'
'The governor may change his mind. Countermand the order.'
'And pigs may fly.' Severinus blew out his cheeks. 'You'll forget this conversation, Centurion. It never happened.'
'Understood, sir.'
'Very well. Instructions. The cohort's to prepare for immediate departure, first century excepted. That's a fifth of our strength and as near the wind as I can go. You're to command.'
'Very good, sir.' Modianus's face was a frozen mask.
'One more thing. I want a signal station on the Coriodurum road, manned day and night. Beacon fire.'
'That's bad country for watch stations. Too flat, too many trees. We could put it at Derusentum. There's a scrap of higher ground there that might do at a pinch. Better than nothing, anyway.'
'Derusentum it is. Give it priority.' Severinus sat back. 'That's all. Give me a moment, then send Lucius in, would you?'
'Sir.' Modianus saluted and left.
Severinus stared at the closed door for a long time. He felt sick.
He had had no choice. None. But he knew that, if the Iceni rose, a garrison of eighty men blocking their path was not going to make much difference, even with what advanced warning the signal station could give them. He might have just passed a death sentence.
Modianus knew it, too.
22.
The Colony was a different world.
Senovara felt stifled as she rode through the gate. She had never been inside the Romans' town before. The place was all straight, hard lines with no space between, as if the ground on which it stood was an irrelevance. The buildings crowded together in weary ordered rows like moulting birds, each a copy of the last down to the identically-placed shuttered windows. The smells, too, were different. Even those which ought to be familiar, like dung and wood-smoke, were muted and strange, drawing their character from their surroundings. And always there was noise; not the noise of the Dun but harder, more angular sounds; the rumbling of iron-bound cart-wheels on gravel and the impersonal buzz of too many people crowded into too little space.
Most of the faces that stared at her as she passed were alien, too: shuttered like the houses, the men's obscenely naked with their shaved upper lips and close-cropped hair, the women's flour-white with splashes of red at the cheeks and the eyelashes unnaturally black. Colourless, both, in dull cloaks and tunics or ridiculously swathed in mantles, the women veiled, creeping about as if apologising for existing.
How could people live like this?
Ahead of her was the new temple, a huge ungainly mass of stone without grace or beauty, already dominating the ruined land around it. She knew that the Romans worshipped their dead emperor as a god, but the why still escaped her. Gods were gods, people were people; the smallest child on the dun knew the difference between them. And how could you trap a god, even a sham one, between four stone walls?
Insane. But then, the whole Colony was one monstrous insanity.
'Are you looking for someone, Lady?'
She glanced over her shoulder. The man was Trinovantian, although he wore a tunic instead of trousers. He was carrying a basket loaded with iron nails.
'Aye,' Senovara said. 'A Roman woman. Uricalus's daughter.'
'Uricalus?' The man set the basket down. 'Then you're properly astray. His house is by the market, at the other end of town. Turn right at the east gate, ask for the biggest house and you've found him.'
'My thanks.' Senovara turned the pony's head. The man moved closer, and set a hand on the bridle.
'You're the chief's daughter, Lady, are you not?' he said.
'Senovara. Aye.'
'Then tell your father that Inam Lugotorix's son presents his respects. Tell him his shoulder's sore carrying nails for Romans instead of a spear. Tell him he is not the only one, either.'
The man released his grip and stepped back. Senovara dug her heels into the pony's flanks and galloped down the hard straight road towards the gate.
The house was massive, twice the size of her father's. On a bench in front of it a man sat shelling dried peas into a bowl. As she dismounted, Senovara tried to conceal her disgust: he was obviously a Celt, but his upper lip was naked pink, shaved clean of hair. He would be a slave, she thought, using even in her own mind the Latin word. Romans did nothing for themselves. They even bought someone to open the door to guests.
How could you buy another person?
The slave had seen her coming. She felt his eyes move over her, taking in the British cloak and dismissing the wearer.
He set the bowl down.
'Yes?' The word was Latin.
'This is Uricalus's house?' Senovara spoke in Celtic, knowing the man would understand her.
'Aye, it is.'
'Then I've come to see his daughter Albilla.'
'And what business would a Dunswoman have with Uricalus's daughter?' The man spoke the Celtic of Burdigala as if it burned his tongue.
Senovara's head went up. 'My business is my own,' she said.
'Is it so, now?' He picked up the bowl again. It was a cheap-looking thing of shiny red clay with stiff, lifeless figures moulded onto the surface. 'Then you can keep it for yourself, woman. But I can tell you the mistress isn't taking on servants at present.'
'I'm no servant.' Senovara felt the blood rush to her face. 'My name is Senovara. Daughter of Brocomaglos, chief of the Trinovantes.'
The man’s thumbnail ripped a pea pod apart, and the dried peas rattled against the baked clay like bones.
'Well, Senovara chief's-daughter,' he said, 'you're still too early. Come back later when the mistress is awake.'
Senovara's temper snapped. 'Do you think, smooth-lip,' she said, 'that I've come all the way from the dun to swap words in the open street with a half-man?'
The slave stared at her open-mouthed, his colour rising; but before he could move Senovara had leaned forward, gripped the neck of his tunic, and pulled him to his feet. He grunted in surprise and the bowl slid from his knees to smash on the paving slabs. Shelled peas ran in all directions.
The shuttered window above them opened.
'Justus!' Albilla shouted.
Senovara looked up, relaxing her hold.
'Good morning, Albilla,' she said in Latin.
'Senovara! Oh, marvellous!'
Senovara did not smile in return. 'Is this the way Romans greet their guests?' she said.
'No! Of course not! I'm –' Albilla glanced behind her, then back. 'Wait. Please.'
She disappeared inside. Senovara wiped her hand on her mantle and turned away. The slave was staring at her, his face now the colour of skimmed milk.
'My apologies, Lady,' he said. 'I didn't understand.'
Senovara ignored him. She tied her pony’s rein to the hitching-post in the house wall and stood waiting.
The door opened.
'Senovara, I'm sorry.' Albilla was still in her night tunic, with a cloak round her shoulders. She turned to the slave. 'Justus, you will apologise!'
'He has apologised already.' Senovara spoke in her slow, careful Latin. 'The matter is forgotten.'
'It most certainly isn’t! I'll have him whipped.'
Senovara's stomach went cold. 'That you will not,' she said. 'I've no wish to see a man shamed for something that is less than nothing.'
'But –'
'We whip dogs, Albilla, not men. Let there be an end of it.' She turned her back on Justus. 'How is your arm?'
Albilla smiled. 'Better. It doesn't hurt any more when I move it. Look.' She tried and the smile slipped. 'Well, almost better. Come inside. Please.'
Senovara followed her in.
It was the first time she had been to a Roman's house, except for Aper's villa, and then there had been other things to distract her. She felt its strangeness close around her: the painted walls, the cold polished stone floor hard beneath her feet, the niche with its bronze god. He had wings on his ankles and hat, but he was as stiff and dead as the figures on the broken bowl. My little Ahteha could make a better clay-man than that, she thought. The artist should be ashamed.
'Father's out already and mother isn't up yet.' Albilla smiled at her. 'I'm sorry. They would have liked to thank you themselves.'
'For what?'
'For saving me, of course.'
'Saving you from what?' Senovara laughed. 'It was only a broken arm and a bumped head. You said yourself you were better already.'
'Almost better.' Albilla opened one of the doors off the lobby corridor. 'We'll sit in here. Have you had breakfast? The slaves can bring you porridge and milk. Or bread and honey if you'd prefer.'
'I've eaten, thank you.' Senovara looked round the room. It was like the corridor outside, cold and formal. Dead. Even the air smelt dead. And the furniture and decoration were gauche and ugly. 'How is your fiancé?'
'Marcus?' Albilla frowned. 'I don't know. He hasn't written. Sit down, please.'
Senovara sat on one of the three couches. Albilla settled herself opposite, full length, leaning on her right elbow.
They stared at each other across the intervening table, a massive, gaudy thing of polished wood and gilt. Albilla, Senovara thought, was quite pretty without the paint and powder that Roman women used to cover their faces. She could almost be a Celt...
But then of course she was.
'Your father's from Gaul, is he not?' she said.
'Yes, from Burdigala. Mother, too.' Albilla laughed. 'So you see, Senovara, I'm not really a Roman. Very few people are. Especially here.'
'Yet you speak no Celtic?'
'Only a very little. But father and mother do, and my grandparents. We always spoke Latin at home, even in Burdigala. Father thinks it's more civilised, and anyway –' Her hand went to her mouth. 'Oh. I'm sorry.'
'No need. Gaul is not Britain. And you have had the Romans there far longer than we have here. Perhaps in another fifty or a hundred years we, too, will be...civilised.'
'I hope not.'
Senovara's eyes widened. 'You hope not?'
'You haven't been to Gaul, have you?'
'No.'
'It's nice, but it's sad, in a way. Neither one thing nor the other. And the people are so frightened of Rome.' Her brow furrowed. 'No, not frightened, it’s the wrong word, much too strong. But they respect her too much. A Gaul would never have behaved as you did with Justus outside. He'd just have gone away.'
'Then he would have been a fool and a coward. I am neither.'
'Exactly. You see?'
Senovara nodded slowly. 'Aye, I see,' she said. 'I'm surprised, though, that you see it too. That is interesting.'
'How do you come to speak Latin?'
The question took Senovara off guard. 'My father thought we should learn it, my brother and I. Although my brother has forgotten his, or pretends he has. I was taught by my uncle's wife. She's an Atrebatian, from Calleva.'
'You have a brother?'
'Aye. A younger brother. Two years younger.'
'What's his name?'
'Tigirseno.'
'He lives with you? On the dun?'
'No. Not at the moment. He's' – Senovara hesitated – 'away. And I've a very young sister, Ahteha. That is what you call a pet name?' Albilla nodded. 'She's really Branocovera.'
'They sound lovely. Could I meet them some time perhaps?'
'Aye. Perhaps.' Senovara felt uncomfortable talking to a Roman woman about her family, especially about Tigirseno. He would be in the mountains now, fighting Roman men. If he was still alive. 'How is your mare?'
'Lacta?' Albilla scrambled to her feet. 'Oh, of course! The sprain! Would you like to see her? She's in the stables.'
'Gladly.' Senovara got up too, relieved. 'She's a good horse. One of Moricamulos's best.'
'A pity she doesn't have a rider to match.’
Senovara looked at her sideways
. 'You apologise too much, Albilla,' she said.
'Do I? I'm s – '. Albilla caught herself, and laughed. 'Yes. Perhaps I do.'
'It's not necessary. And it's unusual in a Roman.'
'But I'm not a Roman. Not a proper one. I told you.'
'Aye,' said Senovara. 'So you did.'
The groom Catti was mucking out. When he saw them he straightened, a forkful of dirty straw poised above the barrow.
'This is Senovara, Catti,' Albilla said. 'She found me, remember? The day of the accident?'
'Aye.' Catti dumped the straw, leaned the fork against the stable wall and wiped his hands on his tunic. 'I'm honoured, Lady,' he said in Celtic.
'She's come to see how Lacta is.'
'A...sprain, wasn't it?' Senovara spoke Latin, stumbling over the word.
'Aye, Lady, but she's fine now. Better than fine. See.'
Catti led the way to the stall at the far end of the range. The mare was pulling hay from the rack. She turned easily as they came in and nuzzled Senovara's shoulder.
'She remembers you!' Albilla said.
'Oh, we're old friends, Lacta and I.' Senovara's hand was on the mare's neck, smoothing it while the horse's lips nibbled at her shoulder-brooch. 'My father has had horses from Moricamulos before, and I was at this one's foaling.' She bent to examine the leg, searching it for any sign of swelling. There was none, and the hoof-joint moved smoothly between her hands, with the mare showing no discomfort. 'That is good. What did you use on it, Catti?' she asked in Celtic. 'A comfrey poultice?'
The old man grinned. 'The Lady is a horse-doctor,' he said, then changed to Celtic himself. 'Aye, madam. Witch-hazel first, to draw out the heat, then comfrey in a boiled mash. There's no weakness there now. You could gallop her to London and back and she'd take no harm.'
Senovara stood up and smoothed the hairs on Lacta's muzzle. Like the rest of her coat they were immaculate, shining like fresh milk. 'You're fortunate, Albilla,' she said. 'Both in your horse and in the man who cares for her. You're riding again now?'
Albilla shook her head. 'Not yet. I – ', she hesitated, 'I've been out with Phoenix once or twice. Phoenix is the pony I had before. But no, not Lacta.'
Senovara frowned. 'Your father, then?'
The Horse Coin Page 15
