Meradoc phrased his next question carefully. “Was your mother very wise?”
Dinas phrased his answer carefully. “My mother had all the gifts,” he said.
Later, pillowing his head on the neck of the dark horse, he whispered to the stallion, “Just like that and they are gone. Gwladys and Vintrex and Cadogan. And Ocellus too, if there is any justice left in the world.”
Closing his eyes, Dinas tried to picture Cadogan’s face. One last time.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
In the morning Tarates awoke with clear eyes. “The pain is gone!” he cried in astonishment. “That healer of yours has worked wonders, Dinas.”
When Bryn bent over him to feel the pulse beating in his neck, Tarates jokingly asked, “Will you marry me?”
The healer grinned. “I’m open to all offers.”
At his instruction the injured man was helped to sit up. He was given a cup of broth that he drained to the final drop, then he managed to eat three or four bites of hard cheese and a small piece of smoked eel. He lay down again with a satisfied sigh.
Watching him closely, Bryn said, “Are you dizzy?”
“A bit, but not much. I do not want to be any trouble.”
The healer turned to Pelemos, whom he perceived as a natural caretaker. “Feed him lightly for the next few days and give him all the water he’ll take. Before I leave I’ll show you how to make fresh poultices for his wound. You’ll need to change them every two or three days until the exposed brain forms a film on the surface, almost like a callus. After that he should wear some sort of cover on his head for protection.”
“For how long?” asked Dinas.
“The rest of his life, I should think.”
Tarates turned ashen. Dinas did not look very pleased either.
After the healer had enjoyed a second hearty meal in the camp, Dinas offered him a silver denarius for his services. Bryn peered at the coin with his left eye, then handed it back to him. “That’s of no use to me.”
Behind his hand Tostig whispered to Dafydd, “The old fool’s holding out for gold.”
Bryn heard him. “Gold is no more use to me than silver,” he said. “It’s all just metal. What I value are food and friends and fire and water.”
Aha. “Stay with us, Bryn,” urged Dinas, “and I can promise you all four. A man with your skills will be a valuable addition to our company. As for you, Otter”—he turned narrowed eyes on Tostig—“if you want to be one of us, never again call any man a fool. He might be dead tomorrow. Then you would have the rest of your life to regret your words to him.”
Tostig, embarrassed, stared at the ground.
“I might as well join you,” Bryn said. He sounded like a man accepting an unavoidable but not unpleasant fate. “My tree is going to come down in the next storm anyway.”
Tarates soon was fast asleep. A pale, wan sky loomed overhead. Grass was beginning to grow but the wind was still cold. The unspent day stretched ahead with no shape; no certainty.
Since joining Dinas, the young men comprising his company had grown used to being on the move. Immobility rested heavily on them. They slouched about the encampment, gnawing bones, throwing stones at birds, staring into the distance looking for something to look at. Before long a chance word excited resentment and the first fight broke out. Dinas promptly put a stop to it but he could feel their restlessness simmering under the surface. Like his own.
He took Meradoc aside. “We’ll allow Tarates this one day, then we’re leaving tomorrow at sunup. Heading south. Be sure the horses are ready.”
“But I thought we were going to…”
“The two people I needed to see are dead,” Dinas said bluntly. His face revealed nothing of his feelings. “We’re on our own now.”
Meradoc looked puzzled. “I thought we always were.”
The problem of Tarates had to be faced. When Dinas tried to question Bryn about his condition, all the healer could tell him was, “That man feels much better than he really is.”
“You said he would be like this for the rest of his life. How long will that be, exactly?”
“Until he dies,” said Bryn.
“Can he travel?”
“Not on foot, and I wouldn’t put him on a horse. He might get dizzy and fall off.”
Dinas hit his own thigh with a clenched fist. “Plague take the man! We can’t leave him here, and from what he says, there is nothing left of Viroconium, so I can’t send him back there even if I could spare a couple of men to take him. Meradoc,” he called out, “you’ll have to rig up something so we can carry Tarates with us until I figure out what to do with him.” Under his breath Dinas added, “Perhaps he’ll die along the way and we can bury him under a stone.”
He saw Pelemos watching him from across the camp. Although the other man could not possibly have heard what he just said, Dinas bit his lip.
Meradoc spent the rest of the day devising a litter. Hywel was dispatched to find and cut two long, straight saplings. Bleddyn and Iolo were put to work tearing every bit of spare cloth into strips and plaiting it into ropes. The others watched the process with a great deal more interest than they normally would have shown.
They had nothing else to do.
When Meradoc had finished, the litter was, everyone agreed, a triumph. He had constructed two sets of harness for the ponies. A hammock made of blankets stretched between the saplings was attached to the harness and slung between the ponies. Docco volunteered to try it out. Dafydd and Iolo led the ponies in a circuit of the camp, while Docco lay in the hammock, laughing and shouting bawdy encouragements. “It’s the most comfortable way to travel in the history of the world!” he assured Tarates afterward.
“You have never ridden in a sedan chair, then,” said Tarates.
Meradoc asked, “What’s a sedan chair?”
The following morning, when Pelemos and Meradoc mounted their ponies, they were careful not to dislodge the makeshift harnesses. For once the ride-and-tie technique was unnecessary; all would be kept to the walking pace necessitated by the litter. They broke camp shortly after dawn beneath a sky filled with clouds like clotted cream. “At least it’s not raining yet,” said Cynan, who always had to comment on something.
“It will,” Bryn informed him.
Led by Dinas on his stallion, they headed south toward the valley of the Severn. The men on foot walked on either side of the horses. The allegedly Sarmatian horse, who had a tendency to kick, brought up the rear, behind the ponies and litter.
The clouds rode the wind but did not ride away over the horizon. Instead they thickened. Darkened.
Being forced to a walking pace upset the dark horse. He arched his neck and danced sideways until the strength of his rider’s legs forced him forward. His discontent rippled down the line, infecting the others. Ears went back, heads were tossed, reins were snatched from the rider’s hands. The animals balked or bolted, depending on their dispositions. The recruits cursed or cajoled, depending on theirs. Meradoc was frustrated in his attempt to call out instructions because no one was listening to him.
Dinas rode on ahead, his thoughts elsewhere.
The morning was almost over before he drew rein. “Halt here long enough to water the horses in the river. After that the walkers can ride for a while.” The walkers, who had been watching their companions struggle to control their mounts, were less than enthusiastic at this.
Dinas dismounted at river’s edge and let the dark horse drink before he did. The stallion eagerly sucked up the water, swallowing in greedy gulps. Dinas looked around for Meradoc and saw him busy with the ponies, so he used the edge of his cloak to wipe the nervous sweat from his horse’s neck. Then he slaked his own thirst and went to check on Tarates.
The injured man’s first words were, “Where are we?”
“There’s no point in asking, you wouldn’t know the place,” Dinas said irritably. The injured man was costing them time and he was anxious to reach his destination. Thinking about it
helped to block out the other thoughts trying to crowd in. But the dark horse could feel them through the reins Dinas was holding; could feel the tension gathering in his rider’s body. When Dinas gave the command, “Forward, now,” the stallion almost shot out from under him.
Clouds as purple as a bruise began to leak rain. Fingers of lightning danced along the horizon.
When Dinas ordered his band to mount up, there was a sudden skirmish. Cadel took the Sarmatian gelding while several others tried to claim the gentlest horse. The horse in question panicked and tried to run backward. “Meradoc!” Dinas shouted, but the little man was fully occupied already. The lightning and subsequent crack of thunder had upset both ponies. Meradoc was afraid Tarates would be spilled from the litter.
Cursing, Dinas turned the stallion and galloped back along the line. This brought him within range of the Sarmatian horse, who had not yet assumed his place at the end. The big-headed gelding wheeled around, unseating Cadel in the act of mounting, then lashed out at the stallion with both hind legs. The kick struck the dark horse full in the ribs with a sound like thunder—a hairsbreadth away from Dinas’s knee.
With a scream of rage, the stallion rose on his hind legs and pawed the sky.
Cadel cowered on the earth beneath him.
Dinas clamped his fingers around a lock of mane as his horse plunged toward his adversary. The gelding refused to give ground; being a warhorse was in his blood. Both animals reared again while Cadel desperately tried to scramble clear. The horses towered like titans above the mere mortal. In their passion they were indifferent to humanity. Dropping to all fours, they turned in unison, then, as if on a prearranged signal, they kicked each other almost simultaneously with the full force of their powerful hindquarters.
Meradoc imagined he could hear something breaking. Not the dark horse! Perhaps he cried out. He did not know. He slid from his pony and wrapped his arms around her neck. He wanted to close his eyes but could only stare.
The two horses whirled to face each other and began jockeying for position. Darting, feinting, striking out with one foreleg and then the other, rhythmically grunting with concentration. Theirs was a deadly dance. One was going to die that day; the horrified spectators were certain of it.
“Stop them!” Meradoc cried to somebody. Anybody. But even Dinas could not stop them, all he could do was hang on. To fall between them might be fatal.
The stallion screamed again. The Sarmatian tried to match him, but being gelded had robbed the horse of his full vocal power. This added to his anger; he redoubled his efforts, fighting with a savagery compounded of cunning and naked fury.
What happened next was almost too quick for the eye to follow.
The Sarmatian dropped almost to his knees and his big head snaked forward, reaching with bared teeth for the stallion’s slender foreleg. Seeking to crush the bones. At the same moment the dark horse went up for a third time. Balancing on his hind legs, he slammed one front hoof squarely between the gelding’s eyes.
The Sarmatian dropped like a rock. Dead before he hit the ground.
Dinas was fighting the stallion to a shuddering halt when, as a last act of conquest, the dark horse lifted his tail to drop a steaming pile of dung on his fallen foe.
Most of it fell on Cadel.
The sudden end of the battle left everyone shaken. The dark horse could not stop trumpeting his victory through distended nostrils. Dinas slid from his back as Meradoc came running up. “Is he all right? Was he hurt?”
“I almost lost my knee,” Dinas said, sounding aggrieved.
Meradoc plucked the reins from his cold fingers and led the stallion forward a few paces, watching his legs to ascertain if he was sound.
“I almost lost my knee,” Dinas repeated to no one in particular. They were all talking, not listening, as each man gave his own breathless version of what just happened. Only Cadel was silent. All he had seen of the battle was the massive bellies of the two horses fighting above him. He could see nothing now through the brown dung plastered over his face.
“I hate horses,” he remarked.
Dinas gave orders to pile some earth over the carcass as an act of respect to a warrior; he did not want to waste more time digging a hole big enough to bury him. But by the time they got Cadel cleaned up and the excited horses calmed down it was almost sunset. They made camp a mile away and spent a restless night. The horses were not the only ones who had been overstimulated.
* * *
Once again, Dinas could not sleep. He sat staring at the campfire until the air around him resounded with snoring.
He had a gift for uncovering hidden treasure. It had been proved again in an unexpected way with Meradoc and Pelemos, and now, Bryn. All three possessed special talents that would be useful to him. But what possible use could he make of Tarates, who was, at best, a stone around his neck? Dinas still thought he could abandon the man and never look back, but it would be a mistake to reveal that side of his character to his men. Let them see him act with compassion. Like Pelemos, whom they all admired.
Although he was unaware of it, the lone wolf was changing.
Getting to his feet, he went to see if Meradoc was asleep. Sometimes a conversation with Meradoc unearthed the answer to a problem. The little man was snoring in a series of rippling whistles, but Tarates was awake. Lying on his litter under a blanket pearled with raindrops.
“The pain,” he explained as Dinas bent over him.
“Do you want Bryn to…”
“That won’t be necessary, Dinas. I am growing used to it, and it is much less than it was. Do you know what I would like, though? Sit here with me for a while. The night will not be so long if I have company.”
With a sigh, Dinas sat down cross-legged on the damp ground.
“Is there a problem?” asked Tarates.
“A problem? I have a handful. My most recent disaster involved my losing one horse and gaining two men. I really needed that horse.”
“I am sorry you consider me a disaster,” Tarates said stiffly.
“You misunderstood me.”
“Perhaps. I knew you as a boy, Dinas, when no one understood you. You gave no more light than marsh gas: a flicker here, a flame there, and gone again. Your cousin was the steady one.”
“Yes,” Dinas agreed, “Cadogan always was the steady one. If you know that much it means your memory’s coming back.”
“Considering the state of me, I might be better off without it. Who wants to recall a nightmare? It could ruin my sleep for the rest of my life. Tell me, Dinas, do you ever have trouble sleeping?”
“Sometimes. Like now, when I have a lot on my mind.”
“Worrying about the men with you?”
“Not worrying, no. But they’re part of it.”
Tarates said suspiciously, “What are you up to now?”
Meradoc had stopped snoring. Now he started listening.
“What makes you think I’m up to something?”
“I knew you of old, Dinas, remember?”
“Perhaps I’ve changed.”
“Oh yes,” said Tarates. “And perhaps the sun will rise in the west tomorrow.”
“One’s as likely as the other,” Dinas told him. “To be honest, I’m happy the way I am.”
“Do you never get lonely?”
“Lonely? I’m as free as the wind and have everything I want.”
“What about women? Have you no wife, no…”
“No,” said Dinas.
Tarates pressed on. There was a pain rising in him and he sought distraction. “Are you saying you don’t feel the need of female company?”
The chill turned to ice. Polite, but ice. “You ask a lot of questions, Tarates. I already have one man who does that and I’d rather not have two. I’ll tell you this, though. A woman is warmth and scent and texture, which I enjoy very much. But have you ever listened to a gaggle of females talking? They twitter like birds in a tree. Beautiful, of course, but you can’t understand them.”
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As they were saddling the horses the following morning Meradoc said to Dinas, “You lied to Tarates last night, I heard you. You have Saba.”
“No one has Saba,” Dinas replied. “She’s as free as I am.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The work was unremitting; nothing came easily. They were trying to wrest a home and a living from an unforgiving wilderness. The years Cadogan had spent in the endeavor had toughened him, but the new pioneers, the urban elite, had soft hands and undeveloped muscles. Only Godubnus and his three men, Esoros and—perhaps—Quartilla had had any experience of real labor.
If asked to help Esoros invariably declined unless the request came from Vintrex. Which rarely happened. Vintrex seemed content to spend his days in a half-aware dream. He slept a lot. He ate a little. He watched the activity around him as a man might watch the busyness of ants.
As for Quartilla, sometimes she would work as hard as a man and sometimes she was, as Cadogan wryly remarked to Godubnus, “the queen of Egypt.”
“Women do what women do,” Godubnus replied.
“Was your Morag like that?”
The ironmaster scratched his head; considered the question. “I think they’re all like that. But then I’ve only had four wives and a random sampling of casual women, so I’m no expert.”
Cadogan, whose experience of women was considerably less, envied him.
The dream of offering Viola a fine house built by himself; the dream of a country life with her and their children; the dream of having time to read and think in peaceful seclusion as the years drifted past … so many dreams had been blown away.
Where do dreams go? Cadogan wondered. Do they descend on people who had different dreams and pull their lives out of shape? Who is living the life I wanted, and unhappy about it?
But he had little time for pondering. Every minute of daylight and much of the night was fully occupied.
When Pamilia bemoaned the lack of servants to do her menial work, Regina lost patience with her daughter-in-law. “If you grieved half as much over my son as you do over your maids, I might have some sympathy for you.”
After Rome Page 22
