The Horse Coin

by David Wishart

  The Horse Coin

  David Wishart

  This US Kindle edition 2015

  Copyright © David Wishart 1999

  www.david-wishart.co.uk

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form, or by any means electronic, mechanical or photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

  Dramatis Personae

  (Only those characters who appear – or are mentioned – in more than one place in the story are given; the names of historical characters are in upper case)

  ROMANS

  AGRICOLA, Gnaeus Julius: a senatorial tribune on Paullinus's staff.

  Albilla, Arrenia: Severinus's fiancée

  Aper, Titus Julius: Severinus's father

  Bellicia, Sulia: Albilla's mother

  CATUS, Decianus: the Emperor Nero’s provincial procurator

  Clemens, Publius: Severinus's predecessor as commander of the Foxes

  Homullus, Pompeius: Catus's deputy in Icenia

  Modianus, Juventius: the Foxes' senior centurion

  Montanus, Quintus Adaucius: the procurator's agent at the Colony

  PAULLINUS, Gaius Suetonius: governor of Britain

  Severinus, Marcus Julius: a young cavalry officer

  Sulicena: Aper's cook

  Tirintius: a cavalry veteran

  Trinnus: Aper's house-slave

  Uricalus, Publius Arrenius: a merchant, head of the Colony's council and Albilla's father

  Ursina: Severinus's mother

  Vegisonius, Quintus: a merchant

  BRITISH

  Ahteha: Brocomaglos's younger daughter

  BOUDICA: widow of Prasutagos and queen of the Iceni. Her daughters' names, Segoriga and Belisamovala, are inventions

  Brocomaglos: chief of the Trinovantes; Senovara's father

  COGIDUBNUS, Tiberius Claudius: Romanophile king of the tribes south of the Thames, based at Calleva (Silchester).

  Dumnocoveros: a Druid

  Ecenomolios: Boudica's war leader and advisor

  Eisu: tenant of a jewellery shop outside the south gate

  Inam: a Trinovantian; one of the rebels

  Matugena: Brocomaglos's wife

  PRASUTAGOS: king of the Iceni, Boudica's husband, now dead

  Senovara: Brocomaglos's daughter

  Tigirseno: Brocomaglos's son

  1.

  Marcus Severinus crouched low against Tanet's mane, hugging his shield close against the northerly wind. It was cold waiting for the signal; dankly cold, as mid-December afternoons in the Colony most often were. The mist blowing up from the estuary was drifting across the parade ground, turning the riders of the second team a hundred yards to his left to insubstantial ghosts, bringing with it the eerie piping of marsh birds. Annwn voices, the British called them; the voices of the dead beyond the firelight. Tanet shifted beneath him and he reached down to fondle her ears, quieting her. He glanced towards the distant platform where his father stood with the new governor.

  Mothers, he prayed, don't let me fumble. Grant me a good knot.

  'Happy birthday, Nero bloody Caesar.' Behind his left shoulder the veteran Tirintius leaned over and spat into the half-frozen mud. 'Sweet holy Mothers alive! For a horse-lover the over-bred Roman bastard chose a damn silly month to be born in.'

  Severinus's lips twisted in a grin. 'It's too cold for treason, certainly,' he said.

  'Treason be damned.' Tirintius edged his horse forwards until its muzzle rested against Tanet's flank. 'Riding the knot's hard enough at the best of times, and with this mist it'll be bloody murder.'

  'We'll manage.' Severinus's grin widened and the strap of his cavalry helmet rubbed against the underside of his jaw.

  'Will we so, boy?' Tirintius's teeth flashed behind his own helmet. 'You mark me; there'll be spears adrift today, and with a governor watching that's not good.' He spat again. 'Mind you, give it ten more minutes and the bugger won't see a thing.'

  Severinus laughed, then stiffened. Beside the platform the low sun had caught on bronze as the signaller raised his trumpet.

  'Here we go,' he said.

  Tirintius grunted and pulled his horse back. 'Thank bloody Jupiter,' he said. 'Try not to fall off, all right?'

  The trumpet sounded. Severinus steadied himself as the line of horsemen behind him shifted with a long-drawn-out rattle of shield on shield as their ranks closed. His left hand dropped to the holster that lay against Tanet's flank, pulling out one of the javelins, transferring it to his right hand and checking that the others would not snag. The mare began to fidget, and he pulled her in sharply.

  Two heartbeats to go; one...

  The trumpet blared again. Heart pounding, he crouched low in the saddle and dug in his heels. Tanet sprang away from the line, reaching for the gallop. Pressing his knees into her flanks, he glanced over his left shoulder. The chaser from the other team was fifty strides behind and closing, his javelin raised; too far yet for a cast, but like Tirintius Pontius had been one of his father's best, and when he did throw he wouldn't miss. Severinus slackened his left rein, freeing his shield-arm.

  Pontius rose, his body moving back then quickly forward. The javelin came straight and hard. Severinus twisted round to meet it, raising his shield, and the blunted point thudded against the boss, jarring every bone in his arm from wrist to shoulder.

  One down. The next would be more difficult.

  The turn was only a few strides ahead. He crouched even lower, his chest against the horns of the saddle, right knee poised to drive into Tanet's ribs, both eyes on the chaser. Two strides from the mark he saw Pontius lift. The second javelin struck as he hit the turn, his knee jammed against the mare's flank, bringing her round. The six-foot shaft caught the shield-rim's leading edge with a screaming slither of wood on metal as it shot past his exposed neck...

  Close! Far too close! Severinus was sweating as he pulled hard on Tanet's left rein, his knee still pressed against her side. He threw himself backwards against the saddle-horns and the mare's hindquarters dropped. She twisted round, her hooves scattering clods of earth. Digging both heels in, he gave her her head and sent her flying towards where the first of the targets sat his horse, waiting.

  Two strides to wipe the sweat from his eyes; another three, to bring him into range...

  Matching his movements with Tanet's and bracing his thighs against the saddle-horns, he rose and threw. The first javelin struck the target's shield-boss square, the second, two breaths behind it, a hand-span within the rim. Then he was past. Two hits, both clean: not bad, not good. Tirintius would score three at least. He might even –

  Something flickered at the edge of his vision.

  Mothers! Fool!

  He whipped round and raised his shield a heartbeat before the second chaser's javelin slammed into it. The force of the blow knocked him sideways and he caught at the saddle-horn to steady himself.

  Careless! Careless and stupid!

  At least Tanet had not broken stride. Raising his hand, he wiped the sweat away and glanced ahead. The second target was almost in range: old Verus, his shield already raised. Severinus shook his head to clear it and reached into the holster, touching the shafts in their pockets. Four more, but there would only be time for two; three if the Mothers were kind...

  He pulled the first clear, rose and threw, already reaching for the second, then a third. One and two hit clean a hand-span from the boss, three was snatched, but Verus shifted into its path and it clipped the edge of the shield-rim to count for a third. Then he was past, breathing hard, tugging on the right rein. His knees and his heels slackened their grip, allowing Tanet to slow, and he brought her in a long arc round the platform to the right to tak
e up his final position at the knot's end.

  He was shaking. Well, he hadn't disgraced himself at least: five hits. Five!

  While his breathing slowed, Severinus watched the others of the troop, strung out behind him complete their own runs. Some managed six hits, but the mist was closing in. Most of the tail-enders – and there were good riders among them – managed only four. Five javelins on the mark was the best run he'd ever made. His father would be impressed.

  More important, so might Paullinus.

  2.

  The mist had changed to hail, sweeping in from the north beyond the river in rattling gusts that numbed Severinus's face and hands as he guided Tanet through the Colony's south gate towards the newly-built provincial offices. It was a pig of a night, and getting worse by the hour. Ditch Street was deserted, its shops closed and shuttered, the Annexe – a huge building site dominated by the scaffolded Temple of Claudius which would be the new city centre – a sea of blackness with not a light showing from the caretakers' huts. Severinus turned along its edge into Residence Road and the residence itself. That, at least, was lit. Pitch-pine torches, shielded from the wet, burned in the cressets along its frontage, and despite the cold the door was open, spilling lamplight across the courtyard. He dismounted and handed Tanet's rein to the waiting slave. Tirintius and the others would be settled in a wine shop and half way down the first jug by now. It wouldn't be too late. He could simply...

  'Is there something wrong, sir?' The slave was looking at him.

  Swallowing his nervousness, Severinus shook his head and went up the steps.

  He had never been inside the residence, not even in the days of its predecessor, the cramped building near the market square that had been the Twentieth's headquarters before the original fortress was decommissioned. This place was purpose-built, a showpiece like Claudius's temple. The lobby was floored in coloured marble, and in the embrasure to his right was a fresco of grapes and Damascus plums. Framing it, two massive bronze candelabra held lamps burning scented oil. The lobby smelled of Rome. Only the cold and damp that blew in through the open doorway were British.

  'Your cloak, sir?' The door-slave held out a hand. Severinus undid the fastening and passed it over. 'The party's in the main reception room. If you'll follow me, please.'

  The room was full: a men-only gathering of the Colony's brightest and best. As he crossed the threshold another slave came forward with a tray of steaming cups. He took one gratefully, wrapping his hands round the metal to thaw them. Someone tugged at his sleeve and he turned, almost spilling the wine. Arrenius Uricalus was beaming up at him.

  'A splendid show, Marcus,' he said. 'My heartiest congratulations.'

  'I'm glad you enjoyed it, sir.' Severinus kept his voice neutral.

  'It was first rate.' Uricalus's wired gold tooth gleamed in the lamplight. He was easily the richest merchant in the Colony and currently head of the local senate. 'Simply first rate. Bellicia was most impressed. And Albilla, of course. She told me to pass on her congratulations especially.'

  'That's kind of her.' Severinus sipped his mulled wine. It was Burdigalan, and heavily spiced: the governor was obviously not a man to do things by halves. 'Give her my regards, and my best wishes for the Festival.'

  'I'll do that. She'll be pleased.' Uricalus hesitated. 'Apropos of which, Bellicia and I were wondering if you and your parents might care to –'

  'Marcus! Over here!'

  Severinus looked up. His father was halfway down the room by one of the braziers, close enough to touch the flames, talking to a man in a broad-striped mantle.

  'Marcus!' Aper was beckoning. 'Come and be introduced!'

  'Excuse me, Uricalus.' Severinus's throat was suddenly tight. 'I have to go. We'll talk later, if we may.'

  'Most certainly.' The little Gaul's smile broadened, and he moved aside. 'It doesn't do to keep a governor waiting, my boy.'

  Severinus pushed his way through the crowd. His father's single eye closed in a wink before he turned back to Paullinus.

  'My son Marcus,' he said.

  It was the first time Severinus had seen Paullinus close to. The new governor's face had a fixed expression more suited to a bronze or marble statue than to flesh, but his scent was pure aristocratic Rome: a mixture of leather and expensive talc.

  'You did well this afternoon, young man,' he said. 'Very well, in fact. An excellent bit of riding.'

  'Thank you, sir.'

  'Oh, Marcus cut his first tooth in the saddle.' Aper was flushed with pride and spiced wine. 'A family tradition. And he's been riding the knot since he was twelve.'

  'Indeed?' Paullinus raised an impeccably-trimmed eyebrow. 'What's your mount, Severinus? Libyan, wasn't she?'

  'Partly, sir.' Severinus cleared his throat. 'Tanet's Spanish-bred. Numidian, from a Libyan sire.'

  'Is that so, now? They're the best horses in the world, the Spanish. You can keep your Parthians.' The governor had been holding an empty wine cup. Now he signalled to a slave and, without looking at the man, set it on the tray and took a full one. 'You’re quite handy with the shield and javelin too.'

  'Not half handy enough,' Aper said. 'The lad should be ashamed of himself. That second shot of Pontius's had him cold.'

  Severinus felt his nervousness evaporate. It wasn't a serious criticism, he knew: his father would have cut his own tongue out before he criticised his son to the governor. He grinned.

  'You noticed?' he said.

  'I couldn't help but notice. A hand-span to the right or a moment sooner and he'd’ve nailed you. You watch your back, my boy. If I've told you that once I've told you a hundred times.'

  Paullinus smiled: a cold smile, ice-brittle. 'Oh, come, now,' he said. 'You're being a little hard, aren’t you? The other man chose his moment well.'

  'That's no excuse,’ Aper said. ‘Next time the javelin may have a proper head to it. A British head.'

  'The chaser was one of our own veterans. A professional.' The smile disappeared. 'Fortunately for us, the British haven't the advantage of Roman discipline, or indeed the sense to appreciate its value.'

  Severinus glanced at his father. Aper was frowning; genuinely frowning.

  'I wouldn't go as far as that, sir,' he said carefully. 'The locals may lack discipline, but they're good fighters all the same. And they're superb horsemen.'

  'Without discipline, Commander, good fighting skills mean nothing, and discipline comes only with civilisation. As far as that is concerned the British have a long way to go. It's why we beat them. Why we'll always beat them.'

  'Aye, perhaps so, but –’

  Someone coughed. Paullinus turned, his face bland. 'Ah,' he said. 'Uricalus, isn't it? Join us, please.'

  'Thank you, Governor.' The little merchant's lips spread themselves. 'Good evening, Aper. A fine ride, as I was just telling young Marcus here.'

  'And my congratulations to you, Senator,' Paullinus said. 'The emperor will be delighted to know that his birthday was celebrated in such admirable style.'

  Severinus winced at the tone, but Uricalus did not seem to notice the sarcasm in the governor's voice. His smile broadened and he smoothed the fold of his lamb’s-wool mantle. 'It's good of you to say so, sir,' he said. 'Very good indeed. But as I told my colleagues, celebrating the emperor's birthday's a privilege, not a duty.'

  'Oh, quite. Indeed. Absolutely.' Paullinus's eyes had fixed on a point beyond Uricalus's shoulder. 'Forgive me.' He raised his voice. 'Gnaeus! A moment, please.'

  A young man came forward, dressed in the uniform of a senior tribune. Paullinus laid a hand on his shoulder.

  'Gnaeus Julius Agricola,' he said, 'of the Second Augustans, currently on my staff. Gnaeus, this is Titus Julius Aper, former commander of the First Thracian Wing and his son Marcus Severinus. Severinus led the knot this afternoon.'

  'We share a name, Tribune.' Aper was smiling. 'Are you a Spaniard, by any chance?'

  'Oh, no.' There was no answering smile. 'My father is a senator, Commander.' He ga
ve Uricalus the briefest of glances. 'A real senator. I was brought up in Forum Iulii.'

  'Then it's a pleasure to meet a fellow countryman.' Uricalus beamed. 'I'm a Burdigalan man myself.'

  Agricola turned to him.

  'You'll forgive me, sir,’ he said, ‘and I mean no offence, but that's hardly the same thing, now, is it?'

  Severinus looked at Paullinus. The governor’s lips were twitching, and he turned his head aside; he and Agricola, it seemed, were well matched.

  'True, true.' Uricalus's smile had set; pompous or not, social climber or not, the man was no fool. 'You've been in the province long, Tribune?'

  'For two years. I came with Veranius.'

  'Ah.' Uricalus turned to Paullinus. 'A fine man, your predecessor, Governor. A fine soldier, and a credit to Rome. It was a shame he died. Although of course had he not it would have deprived us of your own presence.'

  'Indeed.' Paullinus's voice was dry. 'Let's hope that his work won't go to waste.'

  'Oh, I'm certain it won't.' Uricalus chuckled, and for a horrified moment Severinus thought he meant to dig his elbow into the governor's ribs. 'You've had experience of dealing with mountain tribes yourself, I understand. Mauretania, wasn’t it?' Paullinus nodded. 'Then I've no doubt our home-grown variety will give you less trouble than spitting.'

  The governor frowned.

  'I'm flattered by your confidence, Uricalus,’ he said. ‘I'd be grateful if between now and the spring you could persuade the Deceangli to share it.'

  There was a stifled grunt from Agricola.

  Uricalus leaned back on the built-up heels of his sandals. 'Hit them hard, sir,' he said. 'Hit them very hard. It's all these fellows understand.'

  'Thank you, Senator. I'll bear your advice in mind.' Paullinus turned away. 'And now if you'll excuse us, I have things to discuss with the commander here.'

  'Of course,' Uricalus said. 'Certainly. Certainly.'

  He bowed and moved across the room to join Paternius and Vegisonius, two of the Colony's principal shopkeepers. Before he was properly out of earshot, Paullinus had turned back to Aper.

  'Bloody merchants,' he said. 'Give them half a chance and they'd run the world for you.'