The Capricorn Bracelet

by Rosemary Sutcliff

  It didn’t help that one of the first things I had to do was to bring Trooper Pertinax up before the Commander for being drunk and disorderly, and he got seven days cleaning out the latrines.

  Trooper Pertinax spent a good deal of his time cleaning out the latrines for being drunk and disorderly, or for breaking camp to court a girl in the town outside, or for letting his equipment get rusty. He was very popular; his sort – ‘Emperor’s Hard Bargains’, they’re called in the Legions – generally are, and, give him a bit of charred stick, he could draw pictures fit to make a cat laugh. So, as I say, running him in to the Commander didn’t help. . . .

  Well, time passed, and one day in late summer we heard that the Legate was coming up from Eburacum to inspect the frontier defences. He was a new man, and we all know about new brooms sweeping clean! He was to spend two days at Trimontium; and it was arranged that on the first day he should inspect the fort, and watch the legionaries building a wall and then taking it by assault – all the kind of stuff soldiers hate – and on the second day, the Dacian Horse should entertain him with cavalry manoeuvres. Pertinax was doing another spell in the latrines for a really monumental piece of drunken insubordination that had finished up with spitting on the Duty Centurion’s feet. But he would be out in time to take his place with the rest of Number Seven, which was a relief, because he was one of the best riders in the troop.

  The blunt-tipped spears and great masked and plumed parade helmets were issued to us, and we got down to some hard practice. That was when I nearly became insane. The troop managed somehow to give the impression that they were doing their best but had genuinely forgotten how to keep station or tell their left hands from their right. They kept that up for the whole of the’first day, and we only had four. On the morning of the second, I rode in front of them, and said, ‘See, my children, and listen: surely the Decurian Valarius cannot have trained you so badly that in the five months I have led you, you have lost all that he put into you, as well as all that your Dacian breeding put into you before ever you were born? Do you wish so much to shame me before the Legate, that for the sake of doing so, you will shame not only the dams that bore you, but the Decurian Valarius?’

  I looked along the lines, and they sat their fidgeting horses and looked back. But I saw my words sink in. It was the first time I had seen anything behind their faces. That day they worked well and hard, and I thought that I was winning.

  I should have known better.

  That evening, just before the Dismiss, with the whole troop looking on, my Second came to me with a suggestion. For the moment he had given up the pretence that he could not speak Latin. This was a more serious thing altogether.

  ‘Sir, I was wondering if we could not do something to make these manoeuvres a bit – different.’

  I said, ‘Such as?’

  ‘If you got the Commander’s leave, Number Seven could do a Fire-ride.’

  ‘A Fire-ride!’ I felt them all watching me, and kept my voice level.

  ‘Yes, Sir. It’s quite a common trick, we’ve all done it, back home in Dacia; but it’s spectacular to watch, and it looks more dangerous than it is. You have a hedge – three hedges to make a really good show – of blazing brushwood, and gallop the horses through the flames. These horses would have to be blindfolded because they haven’t been trained to it. But one treats their hides with a brew of certain herbs so that they don’t scorch. They’re perfectly safe.’

  I said, ‘And the men?’

  ‘Well, of course we don’t treat our own hides, that would spoil things. But it’s safe enough for the men, too, so long as they don’t hesitate, and don’t breathe at the wrong moment.’

  He kept his eyes fixed on mine, bright and cool, and the rest stood round with their arms through their horses’ bridles, waiting to see how I took to the idea.

  ‘I could show you the way of it easily enough, Sir,’ said my Second. ‘Or of course, if you had rather, I could take them through for you, Sir.’

  My mouth felt uncomfortably dry. I suppose most of us have some special private fear of our own. Mine had been of fire, ever since the day that I was trapped in a burning hay-loft when I was six, and only rescued just in time. They couldn’t know that. I wonder if it would have made any difference if they had. ‘If we do this ride, naturally I lead,’ I said. ‘Can we get the herbs to protect the horses hereabouts?’

  ‘Easily, Sir.’

  ‘Carry on, then Number Two.’

  And I went to the Praetorium to ask leave of the Commander.

  I found him in his quarters, just about to change for supper. But he sat down and listened to my request.

  ‘A Fire-ride,’ he said, when I’d done. ‘Yes, it makes a fine showing. I’ve seen it done more than once when I was stationed in Dacia. Very well – Your Second will lead, of course?’

  ‘No, Sir,’ I said, ‘I lead.’

  He cocked his head in a way that he had when he was surprised or interested. ‘So? You’ve never done it before?’

  ‘No, Sir.’

  ‘Can you do it?’

  ‘I must,’ I said, hoping my voice didn’t sound as desperate to the Commander as it did to me, ‘if I don’t, I’ll never command them – and they know it as well as I do.’

  There was an odd look – an odd mixture of looks – on his face. He understood the seriousness of the thing to the full, and at the same time he was deeply amused. ‘The fiends!’ he said, very softly. ‘The – fiends!’ And then, ‘Very well, permission granted. Lead your Fire-ride, Decurian!’

  I remember, as I came out from his quarters, touching the old silver bracelet that I wore high under my uniform sleeve, rather as one touches a talisman for luck. I’d a feeling I was going to need all the luck I could get. . . .

  That evening I went down to the Four Pigeons just outside the main gate of the fort. Two other troop leaders were there already, sprawling at a table in the corner; the Cavalry mostly tended to gather at the Four Pigeons, while the Legionaries did their drinking and cock-fighting at the Golden Gladiator. They made room for me, and we sat together for a while with a jug of wine between us, talking over the manoeuvres and rather idly playing dice. Then another man came strolling across to join us. The Decurian of Number Five Troop. Long elegant legs, he had. I’d never liked him, even then.

  ‘What, Florianus?’ Androphon said. ‘Trust you to hear the rattle of the dice if you were at the other end of the Empire!’

  Florianus hitched up a stool and sank down on it. ‘Dear Androphon, how I wish I was! Fugh! These northern summers! Let’s have some more wine to warm ourselves up, I’ve had a present from my father.’ He lifted up his voice, ‘Hi! Boy! More wine here!’

  And we drank again; presently, without quite knowing how it happened, I was casting the dice with Florianus.

  I had Ahriman the Black One’s own luck that night. Again and again I threw the Dog, the lowest throw of all, while Florianus’ luck was as far in as mine was out. It was fortunate – very fortunate for me that night – that along the frontiers, where few of us had more than our pay to live on, we seldom played for high stakes. But I could not remember that evening’s play more vividly if we had been dicing for a kingdom. I remember Florianus’ face in the lamplight, smiling a little, with narrowed eyes, and the rattle of the dice in the wooden cup, and his hand spilling out fours and fives and sixes across the wine-stained table.

  I don’t know how long we played, but it must have been a good while later that he made the final throw of a game, and laughed softly. ‘Aha! Venus! The Treble Six! Shall we play again?’

  ‘Not tonight,’ I said. ‘You’ve about cleaned me out.’

  He gave a small shrug. ‘How sad! And I had a feeling your luck was just on the turn.’

  I looked at the three sixes lying on the table, and they seemed to stare back at me with all of their eighteen malicious little black eyes. ‘I’m afraid I’ve lost count. How much do I owe you?’

  ‘Not much. Six hundred sesterces I
make it.’

  I had indeed lost count – oh, it wasn’t very much! Less than half the price of a good native pony or an untrained slave. At the start of the month, I could have paid it and got through till next pay-day by tightening my belt. But it was near the end of the month, and my purse was low.

  I was ashamed. I said: ‘I’m sorry. I can give you two now, and the rest next week when I get my pay.’

  He said in a voice as soft as silk, ‘Has no one ever told you that it is usual to pay a gaming debt before leaving the table?’

  Before I could answer, Androphon at my side put in quick and kindly, ‘Look, I’ve a bit put by; I’ll settle for you now, and you can pay me back next week.’

  ‘No, by all the Furies –’ I rounded on him, then got a grip on myself. ‘I mean – it’s good of you, but no thanks.’

  ‘Then what –’ Androphon began.

  But Florianus emptied his wine cup and set it down. ‘See now, I’m not unreasonable; I’ll take something else in surety. That bracelet you keep so carefully up your sleeve – have you any idea how much it shows when you raise your arm? It’s clearly something you value.’

  ‘It is,’ I said.

  ‘So, then that will serve.’

  Androphon pushed his own wine cup away half full. ‘Florianus, you make me sick!’

  ‘Do I?’ Florianus sounded faintly bored. ‘It desolates me to hear it.’

  I got up, dragging the bracelet from my arm, and flung it on the table. ‘Here, take it.’ And I went out of the Four Pigeons, also feeling sick. I felt I’d brought dishonour on something I held dear. But it would have been worse to have let Androphon lend me the money. Also – why should I be ashamed to admit it? – I was still very much afraid of that accursed Fire-ride, and the bracelet was my luck, my talisman against disaster. A bunch of my own men were lounging by the door, and after I was past, I felt them turn to look after me.

  Next evening, the Legate arrived.

  We were all paraded to receive him, even Pertinax. Being confined to barracks and latrine duty doesn’t get one off parades.

  So there we were, all drawn up along the Praetorian way. Horse and Foot, all trying to look as much as possible as though we were carved out of wood. There was a great barking of orders, and, then, with the trumpets sounding the Salute, he came jingling through the gateway and up between our lines, with his escort, also jingling, behind him. Inside his fine gilded bronze, he was a surprisingly little man. His eagle-crested helmet seemed too big for him, and when he dismounted, I swear by the Lord Mithras, his legs were bandier than mine!

  I mind when he’d passed out of hearing, there was a breath of laughter somewhere behind me, and under pretence of stilling a fidgeting horse, someone whispered to a neighbour: ‘He should have joined the Cavalry too!’

  Next day our new Legate made his Inspection of the Fort. I was one of those ordered to go round with him – I think because I was the newest officer there, and the Fort Commandant was very much a ‘Young Man’s Commander’, always one for giving the juniors their chance. It all went splendidly till we came to the end of the barrack rows, and, then, just as we were about to turn back, the Legate checked, and stood like a hound pointing into the wind, an expression of alert interest on his face that was beautiful to see. ‘And down there?’ he demanded.

  ‘Only the latrines, Sir,’ said the Fort Commandant.

  The Legate glanced round at him. ‘Well? What are we waiting for?’

  That was the first time I’d ever seen Centurion Titus Fulvius Lentullus, our Fort Commandant, look – not quite in command of the situation. He actually stuttered slightly. ‘Sir – d-do I understand that you wish –’

  And the Legate grinned at him: ‘Didn’t think I’d want to inspect the latrines, did you? They never do. That’s why I always inspect ’em. A well-run camp or fort has well-kept latrines.’

  And off he set.

  Centurion Lentullus and my own Commander cast one anguished glance at each other. There was no time to send anyone ahead to make sure that all was well. We could only pray to our Gods and follow the Legate at a smart trot.

  At the latrine doorway we were met by a burst of laughter from inside, then a quickly muttered warning, a gasp, and a long, horrified silence, as the men realized who and what was upon them.

  Someone had been repainting the timbers and had left a paint-pot handy; Trooper Pertinax had made good use of it.

  Nearly life-size on the blank white wall, outlined in a few masterly strokes, was the portrait of a very small Legate under a very large plumed helmet, his legs so bandy that they formed almost a complete circle under him!

  Well he couldn’t – Pertinax couldn’t! – have expected any more than the rest of us that the Legate would decide to inspect the latrines! I can see his face now, and it went green; so did the faces of the other men in there; two or three of them beside Pertinax were my own troopers. I went over in my mind the likely penalties for drawing a rude portrait of one’s Legate on a latrine wall – a portrait seen by the Legate, at that – and they were fairly savage. The silence seemed to drag out long and thin.

  The Legate broke in, in a voice like the crackling of dry sticks. ‘It seems you have an artist in your midst.’

  The Commandant seemed on the verge of apoplexy. ‘Sir – I can only assume –’

  And then from somewhere, courage came to me, the courage of absolute despair. And I heard my own voice in the hideous silence: ‘And one with a remarkable gift for portraits of his fellows! But he would have been wiser not to have painted one of his Decurian!’

  I stepped out in front of the rest, to let the Legate get a good view of me, bow legs and all. I made as though I was going to hit Pertinax across the face, but I didn’t have to. The Commander caught on quickly: ‘Decurian Calpurnius, this matter will be dealt with properly at a more fitting time.’

  Pertinax caught on quickly, too, and stared at his feet and scuffled. The moment before, he’d been looking like a man facing death.

  The Legate stood and looked from me to the drawing on the wall and back again. ‘The helmet looks somewhat – elaborate, for a troop leader.’

  I said, ‘Parade helmet, Sir – cavalry manoeuvres!’

  And I looked him straight in the eye; and he looked straight back and never blinked, though I saw the laughter twitch once at the corner of his mouth. He was a great man.

  ‘Ah yes,’ he said, ‘the cavalry manoeuvres. Tomorrow afternoon, I understand. I look forward to witnessing them.’

  And he went on with the inspection.

  Very late that night, when I was checking over my equipment for next day, my Second came to my quarters, and when I bade him come in, he still hovered, just inside the doorway.

  I looked up from the buckle I was testing. ‘Well? What is it, Number Two?’

  He saluted and came in, then, rather stiffly, and set something down on the table: something that gleamed fish-scale colour in the lamplight. ‘I came to bring you this, Sir.’

  I picked it up. ‘My bracelet! How in the world did you come by it?’

  ‘The lads thought you might like it back before tomorrow,’ he said.

  He meant ‘before the Fire-ride’ of course. I was still young to soldiering, and I had not yet ceased to be surprised at how much troops always know about their officers. I said, ‘But in the Name of Light, how did they get hold of it?’

  ‘I would not ask, Sir,’ he said, staring straight in front of him.

  ‘You mean they – they –’

  ‘They went to a deal of trouble to get it, Sir.’

  I looked at the battered bracelet, and just for the moment I couldn’t speak. Then I held it out to my Second. ‘I am very sure they did. But I cannot take it until it has been properly redeemed. Number Two, will you ask them now to take as much trouble to get it back to Decurian Florianus – before he misses it, if possible. And thank them for me – thank them very much for me, Number Two.’

  He looked at me for a moment
. Then he took the bracelet: ‘I’ll tell them, Sir.’ And the ‘Sir’ had none of that shade too much respect. He saluted, and swung on his heel, and marched out.

  From the rampart, the trumpet sounded for the Third Watch. It was already the day of the cavalry manoeuvres.

  All the town, as well as the fort, turned out to watch, that afternoon, thronging the sloping turf banks of the parade-ground that Three Headed Hill looks down on. And the sellers of honeycakes and cheap wine were doing a roaring trade. It was a fine day, too, the sunshine just silvered by a faint haze, and just enough wind to stir the blue and yellow plumes of the parade helmets and the long silken dragon-body of the cavalry standard. And the horses seemed to catch the general excitement, tossing their heads and dancing a little as they waited. I remember the eager feel of Ajax gathering himself under me, the way he arched his neck and ruckled softly down his nose, the strange pungent smell of the herbs with which his hide had been treated against the Fire-ride.

  Then the trumpets sounded, and troop after troop, we moved off, First Troop, Second, Third. . . . It was our turn. I heeled Ajax into a canter, the rest behind me, and we were off, Ajax’s nose the regulation two-and-a-half spears’ lengths from the tail of Number Six Troop’s rear horse; out through the Dexter Gate and on to the parade ground, dividing, troop by troop, left and right as we went, until the whole Cohort was drawn up in two long lines facing each other across the width of the open space.

  The trumpets yauped again, and again the horses broke from a stand into a canter. Sweeping in towards each other, to meet and pass, each horse and rider through the narrow gap between his opposite numbers on either side; then wheel about to face each other again. The show had begun.

  Troop by troop, we wheeled and turned, weaving intricate patterns of ourselves at full gallop. The wind of our going, flowing into the open-mouthed silver head of the Cohort dragon, filled the long silken tube of its body, so that it whipped out like a writhing crimson flame behind the galloping standard bearer, and the flame was echoed by the flickering many-coloured troop-pennants following behind. And the lift and laughter of the heart, that must not for a moment break one’s concentration, rose in each of us. And all the world was full of the beat of hooves, and the wind in our faces, and the yelp of the trumpets keeping the time and signalling the changes of formation.