'Right.' The man opposite, next to Dannicus’s friend, was nodding. Severinus noticed the puckered ridge of an old scar on his chin, just above where the cheek-pieces of his helmet would have met. 'Dead right. Treat them hard and they'll respect you, give them an inch and they walk all over you.' He turned to Severinus. 'Don't waste your sympathy on Dunsmen, sir. They've got it easy.'
'Word is the emperor's called in the monkeys' loans,' another man said. His Spanish accent was thick as mountain cheese. 'Would that be right, now, sir?'
'Aye.' Severinus nodded. 'It's right enough.'
'Then there'll be a few oxen going cheap by the ploughing season.' The old Spaniard grinned through a mouthful of broken teeth.
'Not just oxen, either,' his neighbour said. 'There're some handy lasses up there on the Dun that’ll be going spare into the bargain.'
'Ach,' the Spaniard cleared his throat and spat, 'I'll settle for the oxen, me, and you can keep the women. These British bitches don't even make good whores.'
The brooch shop that Passerinus had mentioned lay behind a farrier's yard. It was a hut rather than a booth, with a slatted, rush-thatched porch running the length of its frontage, freshly lime-washed walls and a sign in well-spelled Latin over the lintel. Eisu, or whoever owned the place, evidently had pretensions. There were two native ponies tied to the hitching-posts, with a larger horse, saddled and bridled Roman-fashion, beside them. Severinus fastened Tanet's leading-rein to the remaining ring. He was raising his hand to the latch when someone inside the hut screamed.
He pushed the door open. The man standing with his back to it spun round, and Severinus's eye caught the glint of a knife. Without thinking, he lunged forwards. His right shoulder slammed into the man's chest, sending him sprawling. The knife slipped from his fist and skittered across the floor towards the far wall.
Severinus straightened. There were three other people in the room, all natives, a man and two women. One of them was Brocomaglos's wife. Her eyes were wide with shock, and one hand was still raised to her mouth.
'What happened, Matugena?' he said in Celtic.
But it was the other, younger woman who answered. She could be no older, Severinus thought, than eighteen, and she was beautiful.
'We were buying ribbons,' she said. 'This piece of offal came in and–'
'Senovara!' Matugena snapped.
The girl turned on her, her eyes bright with anger. 'Is there a better word for him, mother? He would have slit Eisu's throat for a handful of coppers.'
The man was on his feet now, one hand massaging his bruised ribs through the cloth of his patched army tunic. He was glaring at Eisu.
'I'm no thief,' he said in Latin. 'I was collecting what's owed me.'
'That's a lie.' The shopkeeper was scowling. 'I owe you nothing.'
The veteran lunged at him. Severinus gripped his arm and pulled him back.
'That's enough,' he said. 'We'll talk this through. What's your name?'
'Paternius.' The man levelled a finger at Eisu. 'And it's no lie. This monkey's on my property and he owes me rental. Two full months.'
'I paid you in kind!'
'You call that payment? One scrawny pig? I want cash, and I want it now.' He turned back to Severinus. 'That's Colony law, isn't it, sir?'
Severinus hesitated. 'Aye,'' he said, 'if you're the legal owner. But–'
'You're taking his part?' Senovara said in Latin. Brocomaglos's daughter was staring at him. She was tall, almost as tall as he was, and their eyes were on a level. He had never seen anyone so angry.
He shrugged. 'I can't do otherwise,' he said. 'This man's right. If the rent hasn't been paid then the lease is forfeit.'
Matugena was tugging at her daughter's sleeve. 'Senovara, please!' she said. 'The commander's son knows what he's saying.'
'Does he, now?' Senovara pulled away. 'Then it seems to me that someone should call this fine Roman law of his for what it is. A heap of stinking dog turd.'
'Senovara!'
Severinus winced and turned away to hide a smile.
'Hey, now, lass!' Paternius's lips were twitching too. 'I'm asking for no more than my due. We've an agreement, signed and sealed and registered. I've been patient for two months, and that's a month over the odds. If the monkey can't pay his debts he's got no one to blame but himself.'
'But he paid you! He paid you with a pig!' The green eyes flashed. 'And do not you dare call him a monkey!'
'Jupiter’s balls,' the veteran said. He turned to Severinus. 'Sir, tell this...just tell her, please.'
'The shop is this man's property,' Severinus said. 'A pig is no proper payment. And if he insists on Roman coin then that's his right.'
'You see, lass?' Paternius was grinning. 'All above board. No harm done. Now if you'll just leave us to settle up I'll be on my way.'
Senovara ignored him. She was still glaring at Severinus. 'And is it his right to insist at knife-point?' she said.
'No. Not even under our dog turd Roman law.' Severinus was finding it difficult to keep his face straight. 'But then I think there he had the worst of the bargain. Or wouldn't you agree?'
'That's so.' Paternius chuckled. For a moment Severinus thought the girl would smile in return, but the lips were still set. 'And you can ask your friend the m– your friend Eisu here whether I'm lying or not. Twenty silver pieces he owes me. We'll call it seventeen, allowing for the pig, and that's generous.'
'Eisu?' The girl turned to the shopkeeper.
'Aye?' The man was still scowling, but his expression was wary.
'Is he telling the truth or not?' She paused. 'Eisu! Answer me!'
'Perhaps so,' he said at last. 'But I can't give what I don't have.'
Senovara nodded, once. Then she pulled back the sleeve of her tunic, unfastened a slim gold bracelet and offered it to Paternius.
'Here,' she said.
There was a silence. Finally Paternius said quietly: 'I don't take a woman's jewellery, lass. Certainly not for another man's debt.'
'Eisu is my father's tribesman. His debt is the tribe's.'
Paternius cleared his throat. 'Put it back,' he said. 'Maybe I was a bit hasty. I can wait a while longer.' He looked at Eisu. 'Another month. No more. Agreed?'
The shopkeeper swallowed, his eyes on Senovara. 'Agreed,’ he said.
'Fine.' He bent to pick up his knife and tucked it into his belt. 'Then we'll call the matter settled.'
He left. The door closed behind him.
Eisu turned to Severinus. 'My thanks, sir.'
'Nothing.' Severinus took out his purse. 'Now. I came for a brooch.'
'Aye.' The shopkeeper grinned. 'Of course. If you'd care to–'
'The price will be fair, Eisu.' Senovara was watching him, her eyes hard. 'Is that clear?'
The grin slipped. 'Yes, Lady.'
'Good.' She slipped the bracelet back on her wrist and moved towards the door. 'My thanks to you also, Marcus Severinus. Mother?'
They went out.
Severinus and the shopkeeper looked at each other.
'You know her well?' Severinus said.
'Well enough.' Eisu scratched his ear. 'From a distance, at least. And I'd be happy to keep it that way.'
'Is she always like that?'
'No.' The grin reappeared. 'We were lucky. Today was one of the good days.'
7.
Titus Medullinus was worried; seriously worried. Not about his orders: those were clear and exact. Having crossed over to Estuary Island he and his ten-man detail were to proceed with caution through the woods in a south-easterly direction for a distance of approximately half a mile, at which point, according to the governor's tame monkey, he would find the clearing where the man had made camp. Once located, the bugger was to be arrested, or failing that killed out of hand and his body brought back.
Medullinus had been a soldier for twenty years, and a centurion for five. Orders like these – particularly when they came directly from the governor himself – needed no thinking about,
and he didn't question them.
Even so...
His jaw beneath the helmet-strap tightened. This was no ordinary subversive. This was a Druid. And centurion or not, professional soldier or not, the prospect of dealing with a Druid made the hairs on his effing neck crawl.
'Centurion?'
'Aye, Caudex?' He turned. His second had joined him. He, too, stared towards the south where the marshland stopped and the woods began.
'It's a bastard, isn't it?' he said.
Caudex's face had a tightness to it that Medullinus hoped was not reflected in his own.
'It is that, and all.' Medullinus kept his voice expressionless. 'Bad country for searching if chummie's not at home.'
Caudex looked at him sideways. 'That wasn't my meaning,' he said. 'It's the lads. They're a bit nervous, like.'
'Are they, so?' Medullinus glanced over his shoulder at the others waiting behind them in a huddle. Nervous wasn't the word; even at this distance he could smell the fear rising off them like sweat, and it set his own nerves jangling. 'That's good, then, because they've got bloody cause to be. If we come back empty-handed I'll have their effing guts.' He paused. 'Yours, too, Caudex.'
Caudex cleared his throat.
'You ever come across one of them yourself?' he said. 'A Druid, I mean?'
Medullinus considered his answer, and decided on the truth.
'Aye,' he said. 'When I was a squaddie, the time of the Conquest. The beggars were thick enough on the ground then. And we’d plenty up north, in the Brigantian troubles.'
'No, but close up, like?' Caudex waited for an answer that didn't come. 'It's just they say they've got powers. That they can change their shape. Call up mists. Things like that.' Momentarily, the whites of his eyes showed.
'Do they, now?' Medullinus turned to face him, trying to ignore the touch of ice at his own neck.
'Aye.' Despite the cold, a drop of sweat was running down Caudex's cheek. 'You think it's possible? I mean, if we have to catch the bugger then the lads'll have to know. What to expect, like.'
'All right!' Medullinus snapped. 'That's enough!' Whatever his own feelings might be, he knew that this had to be stopped, and quickly. 'Effing hell, Caudex, who have I got here? A squad of Eagles or a bunch of bloody limp-wristed fairies?'
Caudex stiffened. 'I was just–'
'Screw your just!' Medullinus dropped his voice. 'You tell them, you windy bastard! We're after a man, an ordinary man. One word about effing hares or effing curses from anyone and the beggar's mopping out latrines from now until his discharge. And that goes double for you.' He glared. 'Now do you understand that?'
Caudex swallowed. 'Yes, Centurion,' he said.
'Fine. Then remember it.' Medullinus straightened and took a deep breath which he hoped Caudex wouldn’t notice. If it had to be done, then the sooner it was over the better. 'Tell the lads we're moving.'
Caudex saluted and hurried back to the troop.
Half a mile away, in the grove at the centre of the island, the Druid Dumnocoveros sat watching the wren perched on a length of dry bramble a scant yard from his hand. It was, he knew, the same bird which had brought the young Trinovantian warrior to him the day before.
The wren ducked its head. The sharp black eye turned in his direction, catching the sun's light and throwing it back.
'I'm listening, brother,' Dumnocoveros said. 'Tell me.'
The wren's head tilted, its beak opened, and it made a hard churring sound. Suddenly it darted arrow-fast towards the oak tree where the wolf bones lay and settled among the roots.
Dumnocoveros rose and followed the bird across the clearing. He was not afraid of startling it – it was the gods' messenger, after all, and would know he meant no harm – but its every movement was significant. Besides, when the gods chose to speak to men one had to give them room. He stood waiting, his hand held across his mouth in an attitude of respectful silence.
The wren was sitting on the wolf's skull, just above the right eye socket. The tiny beak tapped against the yellowed bone, and Dumnocoveros counted: nine...ten...eleven strokes. The bird moved along the line of the jaw, perched for a moment within reach of the teeth, then hopped across to what had been the animal's right shoulder. The ruff about its neck spread, and it shivered as if shaking dust or water droplets from its feathers.
Dumnocoveros nodded, his face grave. 'Thank you, brother,' he said. 'I understand.'
Again the black eye flashed. Then, with a liquid trill of notes, the bird flew off through the trees to the east.
Stopping only to pick up his staff and leather bag, Dumnocoveros set off down the path which the gods' messenger had shown him, away from the advancing soldiers.
Medullinus knelt beside the abandoned fire. The ash, although cold, was light and powdery, but the blackened stones yielded a faint warmth to his hand. The fire had been dead hours, at most.
'Hell!' he murmured.
'There's part of a deer carcass over here, Centurion.' One of the lads Pertinax, the smartest of the bunch – was pointing. 'He can't be long gone or the crows would've had it.'
'Aye.' Medullinus had already noticed the neat pile of deer bones. These, too, would have attracted scavengers quickly, and yet the pile was undisturbed. The fire might have indicated a hunter's camp, but the deer bones suggested something more. And that could only mean the Druid. 'It's our boy, all right.'
'You think he's gone for good?' Caudex was at his shoulder. He sounded hopeful.
Medullinus stood up and wiped his hands on his tunic. 'Maybe,’ he said. ‘He had plenty meat, so he wouldn't be hunting. There again, he may have other business. Who knows what these bastards get up to?'
He regretted the words at once, because Caudex's eyes shifted.
'Aye,' he said. 'That's true enough.'
'Caudex!'
'Sorry, Centurion.' Caudex hesitated. 'Then again, maybe he was warned.'
'Maybe he was, at that.' Medullinus looked round the troop, then raised his voice, forcing a grin. 'You bastards made enough noise coming through them woods to warn a deaf man. Eh?'
No one smiled. They knew – as he knew himself – that the orders about moving quietly had been obeyed to the letter. Not so much as a crow had lifted.
If the Druid had been warned then it was no doing of theirs.
'So,' Caudex said after a silence that went on too long. 'What now?'
'We search the ruddy island until we find him What the hell else would we do?'
'Lot of rough country out there, Centurion,' a trooper murmured: Chlorus, the windy one.
Medullinus turned on him, glaring. 'Then we'd better get moving, then, hadn't we, son?' he said. Chlorus lowered his eyes. 'Where's Salvius?'
'Here, Centurion.' A lean-jawed soldier shuffled forwards reluctantly.
'Right. It's all up to you now, boy. You're our best tracker, or so you're always telling us. The beggar isn't long gone, he must've left signs somewhere. You show us which way he went.'
'I'm not sure I can, Centurion. It's not like–'
'Jupiter!' Medullinus's patience snapped. 'Do it, will you? Just effing do it!'
'Yes, Centurion!'
The troop waited in nervous silence as Salvius began, carefully and methodically, to work his way around the clearing's edges.
Dumnocoveros was moving north-eastwards at a steady run. He was not afraid, least of all of dying; death meant nothing. To die in the gods' service was a holy thing. But if death was not to be feared, failure was. Dumnocoveros could not afford to die. The eastern tribes were discontented, the Wolves were pressing them hard, and if he could turn them then the new governor would be forced to think again about the spring campaign. If the gods willed it Mona could be saved.
For the holy island to fall was unthinkable. He would give his life ten times over, and willingly, if it meant that Mona survived.
First, though, he had to survive himself.
That would be difficult enough: barbarians though they were, the Wolves were clev
er, and they did not give up. Taranis, he prayed, Wheel-lord, Sun-lord, don't let them catch me! Stretch out Your hand above Your servant and take Your light from my pursuers' eyes!
Ahead of him a tiny bundle of feathers smaller than a child's fist rose and darted between the trees, flying then stopping, flying then stopping, matching its pace to his own. Seeing it, Dumnocoverus smiled, content. Taranis had not deserted him. He was still being led, and he had nothing to fear.
He ran on.
'He went this way, Centurion.' Salvius was kneeling by a patch of grass between two trees at the north-east edge of the clearing. 'Not long since, neither.'
'Good lad.' Medullinus nodded, satisfied, feeling his fear evaporate: a man who left traces that could be followed was something he understood. Now it was only a matter of time. 'You go on ahead. The rest of you' – he glanced round the troop – 'keep your eyes peeled and your javelins ready. You see him, you nail him. No warning, no second chances. Understand?'
There were several relieved nods. A few grins, even.
'I thought we wanted him alive, Centurion,' Caudex said.
'You heard me.' Medullinus had thought carefully before giving that order, and he knew it was the right one. 'We throw to kill. Let's see the bastard magic away a foot of iron between his ribs.' He drew his own sword. 'Right, you buggers. Let's have him.'
The woods were opening up, with oak, beech and hazel giving place to alder and willow. The marshes could not be far off now. The ground beneath Dumnocoveros’s feet was changing, too, becoming softer, more yielding. Clumps of moss had begun to appear, and he could see reed tops waving in the distance. From straight ahead came the oh-boomp of a bittern, and a marsh harrier hung above him as if nailed to the air.
The wren was still leading the way, a steady dozen paces in front. Neither the distance nor the direction varied. The god must have a particular place in mind, a safe haven to which he was being taken. Dumnocoveros glanced behind him. There was no sign, yet, of the Wolves, but he knew that meant little. Unless they were very, very foolish they would have at least one experienced tracker with them. True, if he could reach the marshes before they saw him then his chances of escaping were far higher, but hiding in the marshes held its own dangers. Once he had chosen a place to hide, any further movement was impossible. All the more reason, then, to choose well.
The Horse Coin Page 5