The Horse Coin

by David Wishart

'Father's an even worse rider than I am. And he doesn't have the time.'

  'So who exercises her?'

  Catti avoided her eyes. 'I do,' he said slowly. 'When I can. As much as I can.'

  'This one is no town horse, Catti. Her soul needs grass and space to run.'

  'Aye, I know, Lady.' He shifted with embarrassment. 'Only the master – '

  'Father doesn't approve of Catti riding her,' Albilla said quickly. 'He says Lacta cost him too much to risk an accident. And slaves can be clumsy.'

  'Esus!' Senovara stared at her. 'What does the cost matter? She's a horse, not something to be locked away in case it's dropped and broken!'

  'I know, but –'.

  'Knowing is not enough.' Senovara would never have believed that even Romans could be so stupid. 'A horse must be ridden. Especially a horse like Lacta. If your father tells him that he's afraid of losing what he paid then Moricamulos will take her back gladly.'

  'No!'

  Even Catti blinked at the force behind the word, and the mare tossed her head and backed away. Senovara paused, feeling her own anger drain.

  'Aye. So.' she nodded. 'That is good. Lacta is important after all. To you, not your father.'

  Albilla swallowed. 'Will you take her?' she said. 'To look after, until Marcus comes back?'

  'Me?

  'Why not?' Albilla tried a smile. 'It's the obvious answer. You're right, she needs to be ridden properly. I can't do it. Even when my arm's better I won't be able to do it. Catti isn't allowed to. And father will agree. I promise you that.'

  'Will he?'

  The smile broadened, touching the eyes. 'Oh, yes. Persuading father to do something he doesn't want to do is something I can manage.'

  Senovara looked at the mare. Lacta had come forward again and was nuzzling the girl's shoulder. She decided that, Roman or not, she liked Albilla. She liked her very much.

  'Will you take her, to keep for me?' Albilla was watching her. 'Please?'

  'Aye.' Senovara nodded. 'But when you're ready I will teach you to ride her properly. Then you can have her yourself.'

  'That would be lovely.' Albilla laughed. 'But I'm a poor student. I won't hold you to it.'

  'Nevertheless, that is a promise.' Senovara's outstretched hand caressed the mare's neck.

  23.

  Tigirseno lay flat among the bracken. Five spear-casts away, the Wolves had already passed the valley's mouth and were moving along its length; eighty of them, the scouts had said, although to Tigirseno they looked more. They were not spread out, as a normal war party would be, but in a column of fours, their shields held close. The early morning sunlight flickered on the metal facings as if on a snake's scales.

  Tigirseno's mouth was dry. It would be his first battle.

  Cautiously, he raised his head and looked round. The warriors to either side were burrowed into the undergrowth, their shields and spears beneath them. There were hundreds more scattered across the surrounding hill slopes, but these he could not see at all.

  Vepocomes, half an arm's length away, dug him in the ribs.

  'Keep down, you fool!' he hissed.

  Tigirseno swallowed and ducked his head. His bladder felt full to bursting, and he prayed to all the gods he knew that he would not disgrace himself. He glanced sideways at Vepocomes. The old warrior's eyes had shifted back to the Wolves. Tigirseno wondered if he, too, was nervous or if he was truly as calm as he looked.

  The leading Wolf had stopped, his eyes scanning the tops of the surrounding hills. Tigirseno stiffened, counting his heartbeats. Finally the man moved forwards, and his century followed.

  Three spear-casts more and the last of the Wolves would be level, inside the ring of hidden warriors. Two spear-casts. One...

  Far to Tigirseno's right the leader of the ambush rose with a yell, and the slopes on both sides of the valley were suddenly full of warriors. They poured downhill towards the Wolves, spears levelled, shields at their sides.

  Tigirseno was running too, spear in hand, shield up, his heart hammering against his ribs. The ground flew beneath him, and he no longer felt afraid. He wanted only to kill.

  Below, the rigid column was shifting, breaking lengthwise into two with a clear space in the centre, forming a double line that faced both ways at once, the movement so smooth that it seemed that a single animal was transforming itself as a moth breaks from a chrysalis. Then in the space of a single breath the two lines rippled...

  The first attacking wave broke as the javelins struck, their shouts changing to screams. Before they could recover, a second volley smashed into them and the charge faltered. Tigirseno heard a thud! close beside him. He turned to see Vepocomes stumble, vomiting blood, a javelin fixed in his throat.

  His brain went numb and he stopped running. The warriors behind cursed as they pushed their way past, trampling Vepocomes's threshing body underfoot, but Tigirseno stood and watched the old man die. It was a strange thing, but he could hear the sea in his ears, even above the shouting and the screams. Someone, somewhere had lit a fire; he could feel the heat of it on his face and neck. When Vepocomes stopped twitching, he looked away towards the Wolves. Everything now was slow and clear and somehow not quite real. The twin lines were tightening again, becoming a wall of shields; he could hear the rattle as the edges met, and see the glint of swords.

  Yes, of course the Wolves would have swords. He should have thought of that. Still, it was interesting...

  A warrior crashed into him from behind, driving the breath from his lungs and bringing him back to himself. The sea noise was suddenly gone from his ears, and with it the cold clarity.

  The battle had become real; a waking nightmare. There were no battle-cries around him now, scarcely any sound at all, only a gasping, heaving half-silence. Tigirseno stood still, shivering.He knew, beyond any possible doubt, that he wanted to live; and the knowledge shamed him.

  The Wolves' line shifted for the last time, breaking outwards and apart into eighty armed men who moved slowly and methodically forwards and outwards from the valley bottom on to the hill slopes, step by step, killing as they went. What warriors still remained on their feet broke and ran; and Tigirseno ran too.

  The sun in the cloudless sky above his head had hardly moved.

  24.

  Severinus looked back at the ordered lines drawn up on the fort's parade ground waiting for his signal: four-fifths of the cohort, four hundred men and most of the horses, the bulk of his command. He had sent a second messenger to Paullinus. It would do no good, but there was no helping that now.

  'Good luck, sir.' Modianus at least sounded cheerful, whatever his private feelings. 'We'll take care of things here, don't you worry.'

  'Let's hope you don't have to.' Severinus twitched Tanet's rein as the mare shifted beneath him. The bridle-links rattled. 'Or not for long at any rate. And make sure you keep that signal station manned.'

  'I'll do that, sir.'

  Severinus's eyes went to the empty stretch of road ahead. The Foxes would be moving at infantry speed. It would take him fifteen days to reach Deva, and a messenger changing horses at every posting station could reach Paullinus and be back before they had covered half the distance. Also there was still the chance that his first message had persuaded the governor to change his mind and new orders were already on their way.

  Aye, he thought sourly. And pigs might fly.

  Modianus was waiting for his dismissal, his broad face blank. Severinus turned back to him.

  'One last thing,' he said. 'You report any change in the situation direct to Legate Cerialis. That's clear?'

  'Aye, sir.'

  'Good. Carry on, then.'

  Modianus stepped back and saluted.

  Tanet was fidgeting, anxious to be off. Severinus wheeled her round and raised his hand to the trumpeter.

  The First Aquitanians set out for Deva.

  Seated at his makeshift desk in the poorly-lit, earth-floored room that passed for his office, Pompeius Homullus was glaring at the late
st set of reports. On the evidence of the figures in front of him it would appear that in hard cash terms the dead king's personal assets were well below the official estimate. Homullus was no fool. After his interview with the queen he was perfectly well aware that the items detailed in the reports represented only a minute fraction of Prasutagos's estate. He, and through him Rome, was being swindled.

  He tapped his front teeth with his pen.

  There was a knock at the door, and his assistant, Oppius Verecundus, came in. Verecundus was a large man, and despite the chill in the room he was sweating.

  'I’m sorry to disturb you, sir,' he said. 'We have a problem.'

  Wearily, Homullus laid the pen down. 'Another?' he said. 'What is it this time?'

  'The horse inventory, sir. You ordered it started this morning.'

  'And?'

  Verecundus swallowed. 'We can't do it, sir. The queen's denied us access to the royal stables.'

  Homullus felt his face redden.

  'She has what?' he said.

  'The doors are barred, sir. She won't let us near them. I thought I'd better tell you at once.'

  'Holy gods!' This was too much: Homullus's temper broke. 'Doesn't the woman realise we've got better things to do than pander to her silly whims? Tell her from me to –'

  'There's one more thing, sir,' Verecundus shifted nervously. 'There's...she's put spearsmen on guard.'

  Homullus stared at him. 'Spearsmen? Did you say spearsmen?'

  'Yes, sir. I could've forced the issue but I thought I'd better inform you first.'

  Homullus was on his feet now, and furious: this went beyond simple obstruction; it was out-and-out rebellion. 'You did right,' he said quietly. 'Quite right. Where is she now?'

  'In the throne room.' Verecundus backed away. 'At least I think –'

  'I'll see her myself.' Homullus reached for his cloak. 'Tell Saturius to fall his men in in the courtyard.'

  Without waiting for a reply, he pushed past Verecundus and strode from the room. This went beyond everything. It was a direct challenge to Roman authority, and one to which he knew the emperor himself would not take kindly. The Icenian royal stables were the finest in the province, and the horses, at least, would bring in some sort of a profit.

  Spearsmen! Immortal bloody gods, spearsmen!

  The throne room's dais had been removed on Homullus's instructions. Boudica was sitting on a plain chair in formal state with her daughters beside her. She looked up as he came in.

  'Pompeius Homullus,' she said. 'You wanted to see me?'

  Homullus forced himself to speak calmly. 'Madam, my staff tell me you have refused them permission to enter the royal stables,' he said. 'And that you have placed armed guards to prevent them doing so. Would you care to explain why?'

  Boudica turned to her elder daughter. 'Segoriga?' she said.

  The girl lifted her head. 'The horses are sacred,' she said.

  'That's nonsense!' Homullus snapped; he was still looking at the queen. 'They're property like any other, and will be treated as such.'

  'You would take half, then?' Boudica said. 'According to the terms of the will?'

  'The emperor is a horseman himself. He would appreciate it' – Homullus paused – 'appreciate it, I say, if the other half of the stable were set against some other part of his claim. He would wish me, I am sure, to be generous.'

  'In other words you would take all in exchange for nothing but the emperor's "appreciation".'

  The younger girl, Belisamovara, sniggered. Homullus did not answer.

  'And you ask why I set men at the stable doors.' Boudica had been speaking quietly. Now her voice hardened. 'Homullus, you never cease to amaze me. Ecenomolius warned me at the beginning, but I would not listen. I thought, foolishly, that he was too hot-headed and that if I co-operated with you I might keep your greed within bounds.' She drew herself up. 'You have proved me wrong, time and again, and this is one time too many. You are a thief, Homullus. Your master Catus is a thief. Your emperor is a thief. In Icenia we know how to deal with thieves.'

  Homullus flushed. 'You insult Rome, madam,' he said softly. 'Your husband made the will, which is subject to the strictures of Roman law. The emperor is as bound by it as you are.'

  'That is good. Then we will keep our horses and be generous in our turn. Perhaps, given his affinity for leeches, the Caesar Nero would accept an extra bog or two.'

  Both girls were grinning openly now. Homullus felt the blood rush to his face.

  'Madam,’ he said, ‘I would be grateful if you and your daughters would remember that I am the emperor's representative. I expect and demand proper respect, both for him and for me; also that you comply with any instructions I or a member of my staff may give you. Otherwise I cannot answer for the consequences.' He paused. 'I give you such instructions now. The guards on the stables will be removed. If not by you then by the troops under my command. Have I made myself clear?'

  There was silence. The girls turned towards their mother.

  Boudica stood up. Although not a tall woman, she topped Homullus by half a head. Involuntarily, he took a step back and glanced behind him. The hall was empty.

  'You talk of respect?' Boudica hissed. 'You?'

  'Madam, be careful –'

  'You plunder my kingdom.' She was close enough, now, to touch. 'You shame my folk. You take away my royalty and order me about in my own hall. You rape my women. All in the name of a perfumed half-man a thousand miles away who has stolen the world and is greedy for more. And you dare to demand respect?' She drew her hand back and brought it forward in a stinging slap across his face. 'That is all the respect you will get from me, Pompeius Little-man! Now or ever!'

  Homullus stared at her in numb disbelief. His hand moved slowly upward to his cheek. Then, without a word, he turned and walked from the room.

  Saturius, the centurion seconded to the commission from the governor's staff, was waiting in the courtyard as ordered with his small detachment of legionaries. He was bored. Coriodurum offered few amusements. Even active service against the mountain tribes would be better than being stuck out here in the middle of the marshes with nothing but goats for company. Native beer and lice-ridden native women, in Saturius's mind, were no compensation.

  Why the governor hadn't simply ordered a few cohorts in right from the start Saturius did not know. All this pussy-footing around was a waste of effort. And now, when the Monkeys had had the nerve to close the stables, instead of ordering him in direct to bounce the buggers off the walls the procurator's agent had gone smarming to their queen.

  Saturius was a soldier, and proud of it. Politicking disgusted him.

  The palace door opened and the agent emerged. Saturius barked a command to his men and drew himself up to attention. Then he saw Homullus's face, and the red mark across his cheek. His eyes widened.

  'Sir?' he said.

  For a long time the imperial agent did not speak. Then he turned back to the door and made a curt gesture with his hand.

  'Bring the bitch out here,' he said. 'Flog her.'

  25.

  Dumnocoveros jerked awake to the sound of screams. The barn around him was empty and innocent in the dawn light, but it was becoming insubstantial, dispersing like smoke as the vision took its place.

  They were slaughtering them like pigs. The ground was already a muddy red paste, and the blood-stench filled his nostrils. He stumbled to his feet retching and lurched outside, holding the vision at bay for as long as he could.

  Solla the farmer's wife, was standing by the door of the hut feeding the chickens from a bowl of bran mash and vegetable scraps. She dropped the bowl and ran towards him, but he hardly saw her. His eyes and ears were full of screaming mouths and gaping throats.

  'Lord?' The girl's voice, small as a fly's buzz, seemed to come from a vast distance. He could see straight through her to the heaving mass of figures beyond. 'Father, are you ill?'

  'No.' He pushed her away as gently as he could, forcing himself to ans
wer: she was little more than a child, and would be frightened. 'No, Solla. Don’t worry, I'll be all right soon.' He felt rather than heard her gasp as he clutched at the frame of the barn door and let the vision take him completely...

  A pit. He was standing next to a pit, like the grain silo he had hidden in half a month before, although this one was much bigger, and empty; empty, at least, of grain. There were faces all around him, savage faces marked with lines of blue and white clay. As he watched, another man – heavily-built and jowly – was pulled forward struggling, his arms tied behind his back. His eyes were wild, like a terrified bullock's, and spittle ran from the corners of his mouth. A hand caught at his hair, wrenching his head backwards, and another drew a knife across his throat. Blood jetted and the knife was jerked back hard. Its edge grated on bone and there was a sudden snap like a twig breaking as the head came free. The body collapsed, rolling over the edge of the pit to sprawl among the corpses beneath while the head itself swung from the killer's fist. The man laughed and tossed it to a woman standing to one side. She caught it neatly and spat full into the mouth before fixing the thing to a stake.

  Dumnocoveros was suddenly aware of eyes on his back. He turned. Boudica was sitting with her daughters on a low dais watching the killing. Her face was impassive and her hair carefully braided, but she wore no cloak and her dress was in tatters, leaving her breasts exposed. The girls' dresses, too, were ripped and filthy. Unlike their mother's, their eyes burned with the steady, mad glare of a wild-cat's. There was blood on their hands.

  So, Dumnocoveros thought. It has begun.

  The crowd parted. Out of it stepped a warrior with huge moustaches and a massive arm-ring, dragging a much smaller man by the scruff of what had been a fine woollen tunic. Fresh blood dripped from a ragged wound in his scalp.

  Dumnocoveros knew now why the vision had been sent, and what he must do. This would be the leader, Pompeius Homullus; little in name, little in soul, but a leader nevertheless. And a leader was never to be killed lightly: his death had power.

  He waited.

  The warrior had thrown the man face-down at Boudica's feet. Now he took the knife from his belt and gripped the Roman by the hair, jerking the man's chin clear of the ground and straddling him, bending to place the blade's edge across the windpipe.