The Horse Coin

by David Wishart

  Perhaps it was a trick of the flames, but they burned with a light of their own that no Gaulish matron's would have. Glancing sideways, he noticed that Ecenomolios, for all his swaggering outside, knuckled his brow and kept a respectful distance.

  They were alone. Apart from the royal family on the dais, the hall was empty.

  'Queen Boudica,' he said.

  'You are welcome, Commander.' Boudica spoke a slow, careful Latin, clear but heavily accented. Behind him, Severinus felt Ecenomolios shift. 'Ecenomolios. Leave us, please.'

  That, too, was in Latin. Severinus did not turn, but he heard Ecenomolios go. Much of the tension went with him.

  'I am happy to meet the queen of the Iceni.' Severinus spoke Celtic.

  The queen smiled. Her mouth was broad, the teeth white and even. Twenty years ago, even ten, Severinus thought, she would have been beautiful. Even now her strong face had a beauty of its own.

  'You speak like a Gaul,' she said in Celtic.

  'I was born among the Treveri. My father's Aquitanian, from Aquae Tarbellicae.'

  'So.' The queen nodded. 'Then you're as much Celtic as Roman, despite your name. That's good. We have common ground.' She indicated the chair opposite her. 'Come and sit. Be comfortable.'

  Severinus mounted the platform's steps and took the chair. 'You have fine daughters,' he said.

  The girls were staring at him. The younger giggled, but the elder's mouth stiffened and her head came up like a blood mare's.

  'Segoriga and Belisamovala.' Boudica's hands touched their shoulders. The younger girl laid her head against her mother's arm.

  'Good names. Strong names.'

  'Aye, they are. Names matter. Yours means, I think, the Grave One; mine the Victory-Winner. We, too, have strong names.' She smiled. 'Better than Cat, certainly. I have always distrusted cats, Julius Severinus. Are you a cat lover yourself?'

  The choice of words, and the gentle, baiting tone, were deliberate; that was obvious. Severinus found himself wanting to smile in return, although he knew he could not. Whatever his private opinion of Procurator Catus, he was here as the representative of Rome.

  'Cats go their own way,' he said. 'They're no concern of mine.'

  'Indeed? Then you are fortunate.' Boudica was not smiling now. 'For the moment, at least. But you know little about cats. A cat will make itself anyone's concern if it thinks that person can be useful. Myself, I have never trusted cats.'

  A log fell in the hearth, sending a cloud of sparks towards the rafters. Boudica ignored it.

  'They have their uses,' Severinus said. 'They help to keep the mice down.'

  The queen stiffened. 'We have no mice in Coriodurum. Or none that are a Roman cat's concern.'

  'Perhaps not here. But certainly at Catuvernum.'

  The silence lengthened. Finally Boudica turned to the elder girl.

  'You see that Romans can be subtle too, Segoriga,' she said. 'Never forget that, little one.' The girl kissed her cheek, then shifted her gaze to Severinus. Her eyes were as hard as Boudica's own, but she did not speak. 'So.' Boudica turned back to him. The friendly tone had vanished. 'You come about the Druid.'

  'Aye.' Severinus nodded. He was glad that the fencing was over.

  'He is doing no harm.'

  'Druids are a banned sect. Harbouring one is against the law. Even in a client-kingdom.'

  'Against Roman law, perhaps.'

  'Is there any other?' Severinus knew the words sounded harsh and arrogant, but it was his job to say them.

  'You Romans have never understood Druids. You have nothing like them yourselves, so you fear them and squeeze them into compartments of your own where they do not fit. That way they can be dismissed in simple terms.'

  'Simple terms?'

  'You claim they are a danger to the state. A political danger. Only that, no more. You see them through your eyes, not ours.'

  'Are you saying that the Druids are not politically dangerous to Rome?'

  Boudica shook her head. 'No. Only that you've forced them to become so. But to us Druids have many faces. They stand between us and the gods. They watch the passage between this world and the other, and keep the balance. They are our scholars and healers, teachers and protectors. If you take them from us, then what do you offer us in their place? Cats?' She stood up suddenly. 'The audience is over. You have had a long ride from Braniacum. No doubt you will want to get back quickly.'

  Severinus felt his face redden. He, too, stood, forcing down his anger.

  'My thanks for your hospitality, Queen Boudica,' he said. 'We'll meet again, no doubt. Meanwhile, Rome would be obliged if you sent any Druids that you know of beyond your borders.'

  'Aye.' Boudica had turned away. 'I'll consider it.'

  Outside, Modianus was waiting. He took one look at Severinus's expression, then mounted without a word.

  They rode back through the gates along the causeway towards Braniacum.

  17.

  Tigirseno stopped for the hundredth time that day to catch his breath and rub his aching side. All around him, the mountains raised their cloud-capped heads like gods sitting in council. If he had not seen them for himself he would never have believed that they could be so high, that mountains like this existed anywhere in the world. He had come closer to the sun these past few days than he had ever imagined men could come, yet still, ahead and beyond, the mountains rose. This, surely, was the roof of the world. A land for gods.

  Certainly it was no land for men, or for plainsmen at least. Tigirseno pulled his cloak tighter about his shoulders and tried to forget the cold and the wet and the cramping spasms of his empty belly. It had been four days since he had eaten, a hare brought down by a lucky spear-cast the day after he had crossed from Cornovian into Ordovican territory. Even then, before the mountains proper had begun, he had come close to starving: the Cornovii had little liking for strangers, especially southerners from within the province proper. They kept themselves to themselves, and they guarded their own hunting trails jealously. The Ordovicans might be friendlier, but Tigirseno had done all his hunting in woods and marshes. Mountains were a different world.

  A confusing world, too. When he had left Camulodunum everything had seemed simple. He had known that to reach Mona he must travel west by north, and until he had crossed the Ordovican border it had been easy to keep the general line, especially for a hunter used to reading the sun and stars and the earth-signs. If he had gone slowly, or doubled back on himself, it had been for other reasons, not least a desire to avoid the patrols from the Wolves' camps which policed the main tracks.

  But the mountains were a maze. They offered problems of their own that, used to the flat land around the dun, he had not expected or imagined. A valley might lead in the direction he wanted to go, then turn almost back on itself or end in a tumble of rocks impossible to climb. Paths that began wide as roads broke up like spreading tree roots and lost themselves in the heather.

  Then there was the mist.

  Tigirseno was used to fogs in the marshes, but mountain fogs were terrifying. The clouds would sink suddenly and without warning or roll down from the mountain's summit fast as a horse could run, cutting him off from the world, leaving him in a moment isolated, blind and deaf. Tigirseno was no fool. The first time it had happened he had sat down and waited for the fog to pass; but when it finally did half a day had been lost and the damp cold had soaked through his cloak and into his bones.

  It had happened many times since then. Each time, he had wondered if it would ever clear, or if he would sit there until he froze to death or the world ended around him.

  He had seen no one. In the five days since the last patchy fields had faded into the distance at his back and he had begun to climb he had seen not one living soul.

  He looked up. The sky ahead was dark with black clouds moving eastwards, trailing a grey mantle beneath them. He had been following a fold between two crests; hardly a valley, but it led roughly north. He could already see where it ended, and wher
e – if he wanted to regain his line – he would have to climb the western crest and plan a fresh route. That would mean that the rainstorm would catch him on the open slope, without any hope of shelter.

  The sun was already low in the sky. It was hardly worth going on, even allowing for the weather. He found a tumble of rocks and settled down behind them, squeezing himself into a narrow crevice and drawing his damp cloak round about him for the little warmth it would give.

  Darkness fell. His stomach rumbled.

  They would be eating the evening meal now, at home: a stew of mutton or pork thickened with spelt, along with hunks of warm barley bread and bowls of fresh curds, or the soft goats’ milk cheese that he had loved since he was a child, spread on oat bannocks hot from the fire...

  His stomach growled again, and he hugged it in sudden anger. His family were welcome to the stew. If he had been eating it himself it would have choked him.

  None the less, he could not get the scent of it out of his nostrils. Imaginary or not, it refused to go away...

  Tigirseno sat up, stomach churning, his mouth filling with saliva as the smell of stewing meat grew stronger.

  He was not imagining it. The smell was real.

  He looked out from his shelter. The storm had passed without breaking and it was a clear night. Back the way he had come, but slightly to the south where the fold he had been following branched, a thin strand of smoke rose against the stars, then swung in his direction as the night breeze caught it.

  Picking up his spear and moving quietly and carefully as if he were stalking a deer, Tigirseno moved towards the fire.

  The man had his back to him. He was stirring a pot set on top of a flat stone at the edge of the flames. Beside him was a huge pack, big enough for a mule. He was no warrior, then, Tigirseno decided, only a merchant or a tinker.

  Tigirseno rose to his feet.

  'Peace to you,' he said loudly.

  The man dropped the spoon and grabbed at the dagger stuck in the ground by his right knee, rolling as he did so to face the threat. Tigirseno stepped forward, reversing his spear, and waited just within the firelight. For a moment, the man stared at him. Then he set the dagger down slowly.

  'Where the hell did you spring from, lad?' he said. His voice had laughter in it, and Tigirseno felt himself flushing.

  'I was camped nearby,' he said. 'I smelt...that’s to say, I saw your fire.'

  'You have none of your own?'

  Tigirseno drew himself up at the gentle mockery of the tone. 'No,' he said. 'Only my cloak. That is enough for a warrior.'

  'Aye, aye. Very likely.' The man found the spoon he had dropped, wiped it on his cloak and turned back to the stew pot, drawing his hand across his mouth to hide what Tigirseno was sure was a smile. 'Sit you a while in any case. Unless you find its heat oppressive on such a close night.'

  Tigirseno's hand tightened round the spear-shaft, but he walked towards the fire and squatted within arm's length of the flames. The warmth began to seep back into his bones, driving out the chill.

  'I thank you for your hospitality,' he said stiffly.

  The smell and sight of the stew had been torturing him ever since he had come close enough for it to be obvious. Now, to his embarrassment, his stomach growled. The man smiled, openly this time.

  'You'll share my meal?' he said. 'Aesu's young wife is generous, and there's too much there for one man.' His left eyelid trembled on the edge of a wink. 'I'm talking of the stew, of course.'

  'I would be honoured.' Surreptitiously, Tigirseno wiped the saliva from his lips with the back of his hand. 'A little would be welcome. Although I have eaten already today.'

  'Just so.' The man was pulling another bowl from his pack. It clinked, as if it held more metal-ware than he needed for a simple meal of stew. 'Doinos. That's my name. Bound for Mediolanum.' He paused expectantly.

  'Tigirseno.'

  The eyebrows rose, but Doinos said nothing. He scooped stew into the bowl, tore a chunk of bread from the rough barley loaf at his side, and handed both to Tigirseno. Then he watched in silence as the boy ate.

  The stew was delicious, the best Tigirseno had ever tasted: pheasant with wild garlic, in a thick gravy sweetened with honey beer. He wolfed it down and wiped the last scrap of bread round the inside of the bowl. Still without a word, Doinos took the bowl from him and refilled it, adding another lump of bread. Tigirseno finished that, too.

  When he looked up, Doinos was leaning back against his pack. The pot was empty.

  'I've eaten your supper.' Tigirseno had never felt so ashamed.

  Doinos laughed. 'No harm, boy. A meal missed won't hurt me, and you needed it more than I did.' From the side of the pack he brought a skin of beer. 'This'll help it down. Although I'd be grateful if you left me a mouthful for myself. Travelling's thirsty work, especially with a pack on your back, and I'm not too fond of burn water.'

  Tigirseno's face, he knew, was redder than the flames of the fire. 'Your courtesy overwhelms me,' he said politely.

  'Ach, lad, no need for that. You're most welcome.' Doinos poured the beer into two horn beakers and passed one over. 'Besides, I expect payment.'

  'Payment?'

  'Don't look at me like that, boy! I don't want money, and you can keep your cloak and spear! Just satisfy my curiosity, that's all. What's a Trinovantian chariot-ranker doing wandering lost in the Snowy Mountains?'

  'How did you know I was chariot rank?'

  Doinos laughed. 'Tigirseno's no commoner's name, although you gave me no father's to hang it on. And the day I can't recognise a Trinovantian accent, or any other among the tribes between Ituna and Vectis, I'll dedicate my soldering iron to Epona.' The eyelid twitched again. 'And I'm not ready to do that a while and a while yet, that I can tell you.'

  'I'm going to the Holy Island, to defend it against the Wolves.' Tigirseno tried to give depth to his voice. 'I took a vow.'

  'So. So.' Doinos nodded. 'A vow, is it? I thought perhaps that might be your reason.'

  Tigirseno picked up the spear that he had laid aside to eat. 'I can use this well,' he said. 'I'm the best hunter on the dun, and the best horseman. And I am a prince. The Ordovicans will give me a sword.'

  'Indeed.' Doinos opened his mouth to say something, then obviously thought better of it. 'Indeed,' he said again.

  'Is it far? To Mona?'

  Doinos hesitated. 'Far enough.'

  'You say you're going to Mediolanum. That's in the same direction?'

  'For part of the way, aye.'

  'Then you can set me on the right road.'

  'There're no roads in the Snowy Mountains, lad. Barring the ones the Wolves have made for their armies, and these you wouldn't want to travel. Besides, they're using them themselves at present, or building them as they go.'

  Tigirseno stiffened. 'The attack has begun already?' he said.

  'Not on Mona itself, no, although that can't be long in coming. The Wolves are fighting the passes to the south, driving north and west. You were lucky to miss them. And the word is that their commander is sending ships around Ganganorum Promontory to meet him at the straits.'

  'What about the Ordovicans and the Deceangli? They're resisting, surely?'

  'As far as they can, aye.' Doinos spoke reluctantly. ‘To be sure they are.’

  'The Wolves are beating them?'

  The frown deepened. 'Lad, listen to me,' Doinos said. 'I'm no warrior. I fix pots and pans and sell new ones, and my tribe's the Dumnonii. So far as I have a tribe any more. I don't know these things, and they don't concern me. I only say what I've heard.'

  'Tell me!'

  Doinos took a slow mouthful of beer. Then he set the beaker down carefully on the grass.

  'The last Wolf commander. Veranius, his name was. He smashed the Silures a year back, and they were the equals of the Ordovicans. This new man Paullinus is just as good, better, maybe. He knows the mountains, and he doesn't make mistakes. Aye, the Ordovicans are being beaten. It'll take time, but they'll lose in the e
nd.'

  'And Mona? The Holy Island?'

  'The Wolves will reach the straits in a month. Maybe more, maybe less, but they'll reach them for sure. Whatever the Ordovicans do.' Doinos shrugged. 'After that it's in the hands of the gods.'

  The hands of the gods. Tigirseno rose and picked up his spear. 'I thank you for your hospitality, Doinos,' he said. 'I'll be on my way.'

  Doinos did not move. 'Sit down, you young fool,' he growled. 'There's nothing you can do. Certainly not at this time of night.'

  'If you'll tell me which direction Mona lies –.'

  'Sit down, boy. You'd only end up breaking your neck in a gully, and what help would that be?'

  Tigirseno's fingers tightened on the spear, but Doinos had neither looked up nor raised his voice. Finally he sat, cheeks blazing.

  'You'll show me the path in the morning?' he said.

  'Aye. If you insist.' Doinos hesitated, then looked at him directly. There was pain in his eyes. 'Take my advice, lad. You'll never get better. Forget Mona. Forget it now. It's finished.'

  Tigirseno stared as if the man had slapped him. 'What?' he said.

  'You can't help. If the gods want Mona to fall then it'll fall, whether you're there or not.'

  'I made a vow.' Tigirseno spoke slowly, letting the contempt in his voice show, wanting to wound. 'Although of course the vow of a warrior is something far beyond the understanding of a tinker.'

  Doinos's expression did not change. 'Aye,' he said calmly. 'That's true enough. I don't deny it.'

  The tone shamed Tigirseno as anger would not have done. He dropped his eyes, embarrassed.

  'I'm sorry,' he said. 'Truly. A guest who insults his host insults the gods. And after your kindness it was unforgivable. I take the words back. Still, if you'll excuse me –' He made to get up.

  Doinos laid a hand on his arm. His fingers gripped hard enough to bruise the flesh.

  'Listen to me,' he said. ‘Listen!’

  Tigirseno froze, looking down at the man's hand. Doinos's grip slackened. Now it was Doinos who looked embarrassed.

  'We...see things sometimes,' he said. 'Our family. When we least expect it. I saw something when you first came into the firelight. A shadow like a shroud, the crest at your throat. Don't go to Mona, boy. There'll be enough deaths there on the beach without yours.'