The Horse Coin

by David Wishart

  'Aye, sir.'

  Modianus saluted and left.

  20.

  Pompeius Homullus looked about him with distaste through the open side curtains of the litter at the jumble of huts and muddy, stinking wasteland. The priggish young cohort commander had been right in one respect, at least: Coriodurum was no Calleva, and in comparison with the Atrebates the Iceni were animals.

  Animals, too, who had been indulged by the local authorities to a degree he found incredible. The gate he had passed through had actually been guarded by men under arms, in flagrant breach of the law which forbade natives to carry them, and their greeting had been surly, perfunctory and completely lacking in the respect due to an imperial representative. He really ought to have had his escort flog them on the spot. When he saw the queen he might, still, insist on it.

  Changes would be made, he promised himself, tight-lipped. Oh, yes, very definitely. Changes would certainly be made.

  'That will be the royal palace over there, sir.' His interpreter, the Atrebatian Cabriabanus, was pointing a disdainful finger at the ditched enclosure straight ahead of them and the untidy sprawl of huts it contained, larger than those that surrounded it but no less barbaric.

  Homullus grunted his acknowledgement. He had no real need of an interpreter: as a Gaul himself he spoke Celtic fluently. Nevertheless, a precedent must be set. And Catus had been most insistent. Homullus had been instructed to take a firm line with the natives, and he would obey his instructions to the letter.

  As they drew closer and the stench grew worse, he held his hand over his nose. Goddess Rome, what a slum! The very pigs lived better in Calleva, and there at least arrangements were in place for the periodic removal of their dung. Here, from the stench, it must have been piling up for months, if not years.

  Two guards, again armed with illegal spears and shields, were lounging in front of the entrance to the largest hut. Slowly, they rose to their feet and walked towards the approaching litter. The litter-slaves halted.

  Homullus nodded to Cabriabanus and waited, his eyes fixed on a point above the guards' heads.

  'Tell the queen,' Cabriabanus said to them in Celtic, 'that the imperial assessor Sextus Pompeius Homullus has arrived and wishes an immediate interview. He also requires suitable quarters to be placed at his disposal. These will be my concern and subject, of course, to my approval. See to it at once, please.'

  The guards stared. Finally, without a word, one of them turned and disappeared inside. The other leaned on his shield and picked his nose.

  Somewhere, a goat bleated.

  Finally, the guard reappeared and motioned with his spear for the litter-slaves to set their burden down. Carefully, not looking at the man, Homullus climbed out, holding the hem of his mantle clear of the mud.

  'Tell these bad-mannered louts,' he said in Latin to Cabriabanus, 'that on future occasions they will either treat the emperor's representative with proper respect or be flogged. Make sure that they understand completely and realise that they are to pass the information on to their fellows. There will be no further warnings.' He waited while Cabriabanus translated, watching the guards' faces. They stared back at him impassively, ignoring Cabriabanus himself. He could smell their sweat, even through the stink of the compound middens. One reached out and fingered the silk curtains of the litter.

  Homullus closed his eyes. 'Animals!' he murmured. He turned to Cabriabanus. 'Come with me.'

  They went inside.

  The hut's interior was bare of both furniture and decoration. Homullus frowned. This he had not expected. The native aristocracy were like magpies; they filled their nests with bright, shining objects more noted for cost than artistic value, and Prasutagos had been no different from the rest. Yet there was no evidence of wealth here. None at all.

  It was most disquieting. Most disquieting.

  His eyes turned towards the hearth area at the hut's centre. The queen was sitting waiting for him in silence, on a raised platform equipped with two chairs. In front of it stood a third, little more than a stool. Homullus stepped closer and inclined his head slightly, noticing as he did so the gold bracelet on her right wrist. It would weigh, he estimated, not less than five pounds: hardly evidence of groaning coffers, but promising nonetheless. And indicative of what there should be.

  'My greetings, Queen Boudica,' he said. 'Pompeius Homullus, representing the imperial agent Decianus Catus.' He allowed himself a pointed glance around the empty room. 'You have been expecting me, I think.'

  He had spoken in Latin. Cabriabanus translated. Boudica's eyes rested on him for a moment, then moved away.

  'Indeed,' she said, also in Latin. 'But we will have no need of your tame jay, Pompeius Homullus. He may go.'

  Homullus shrugged. 'Very well, madam,' he said. 'As your majesty pleases.' He turned to Cabriabanus. 'Wait for me outside.'

  The Atrebatian gave the barest of nods, his contempt almost palpable. Homullus understood and sympathised: compared with Cogidubnus's palace, the Icenian queen's was a hovel.

  Boudica waited until the man had gone and gestured towards the third chair, the one beneath the dais.

  'Sit,' she said.

  Homullus carefully mounted the steps to the platform and took the chair at her immediate side. She watched him impassively but made no comment.

  'My commission, madam.' He brought the scroll which Catus had given him from a fold in his mantle and handed it to her. She set it aside unopened, and Homullus felt himself flush. 'The emperor sends his regards and trusts that both you and his two wards are in good health.'

  'My daughters are well enough,' Boudica said. 'As for me, you see for yourself.'

  'I rejoice. The emperor will be glad.' Homullus paused. 'He is most anxious, also, that your mutual business be concluded as quickly as possible.'

  Boudica was frowning. 'The Caesar Nero's anxieties are his own concern,' she said. 'And as to what precisely his business is with the kingdom of the Iceni I am at a loss to understand. We are the Caesar's allies, not his subjects.'

  'The king your husband –'

  'Is dead. I rule here now, until my daughters come of age. Icenia is a loyal ally to the emperor and will remain so. But within our borders we are an independent kingdom. Beyond the Caesar's right to dictate our friends and enemies he has no place here except by invitation. Nor do his representatives. Do I make myself clear?'

  'Abundantly.' Homullus kept his voice level. 'But I'm afraid, madam, you are mistaken. Icenia is not independent. Your husband Prasutagos was made king by the Caesar's then governor, and with his death under law the kingdom reverts to Rome. The emperor is quite willing to confirm present arrangements, but only if certain conditions are met. Your husband's will –'

  'My husband's will has no validity.'

  Homullus forced himself to smile. 'Oh, but it does, madam,' he said. 'It was drawn up and witnessed in proper form and it is binding under Roman law. King Prasutagos appointed the emperor co-heir with his daughters. That is a matter of legal fact.'

  'Your master Catus said that the arrangement was purely a formal one.' Boudica's eyes were hard, but the fingers of her left hand were twisting at the bracelet on her wrist. 'A means of safeguarding our daughters' inheritance. Is Catus a liar, then? A straw-man without honour?'

  'No doubt Prasutagos misunderstood,' Homullus said blandly. 'In any event the procurator has fulfilled his part of the bargain. The Caesar Nero is willing to forego his claim to the throne itself, even his right to appoint a nominee.'

  'That is generous of him.' Boudica's voice was dry. 'In exchange for what?'

  'Queen Boudica.' Homullus sighed. 'Let us have no games, please. You already know that your husband's will divides his property equally between your daughters and the emperor. Nero will be content with that arrangement.'

  'His property?'

  'Icenia, of course. What else would it be?'

  The fingers froze on the bracelet. Boudica's eyes came up sharp as knives.

  'You expect
me to give up half my kingdom?' she said.

  'Naturally. Speaking politically, the whole of it belongs to Rome already. In effect, however, you and your daughters would retain one half outright under the existing arrangement while the other becomes the private property of the emperor, administered for him and its revenues collected through the procurator and his agents. In this instance, myself. As to the king's private monies and movable possessions, including any realisable articles of furniture or bullion, wherever they might be at present' – he glanced round the empty hall, allowing his contempt to show – 'well, I'm not an unreasonable man, and nor is Catus. I'm sure we can come to an amicable arrangement.'

  Boudica had not moved. She was still staring at him, her eyes chips of ice. Under their gaze Homullus shifted uneasily.

  'There will be no arrangement,' she said. 'Amicable or otherwise.'

  'I would strongly advise, madam, that you co-operate fully with myself and my staff over the coming months, until my assessment is complete and a fair division can be made. In your own interests and in the interests of your tribe. If not –'

  'Pompeius Homullus, you will leave me, please. Go now.'

  'Madam –'

  The queen half-rose. From her throat came a noise like a dog growling. Startled, Homullus stood up.

  'Madam, I really do advise you –' he began.

  ‘Go!’

  Homullus swallowed. There was nothing to gain by staying, he told himself. In any case, he had done all he could for the present.

  Ducking his head in a bow, he left. Quickly, and with what dignity he could manage.

  21.

  Dumnocoveros crouched in the musty, sour-smelling darkness of the underground grain-pit. He knew that the Roman soldiers would not search the farm, not thoroughly enough to find him, and with the Little Man at the royal dun and his agents quartering the countryside they would not press matters, either. Icenia was already as unsettled as a prodded wasps'-nest, and it would take very little more for the wasps to swarm. If the soldiers did find him then it would be their misfortune, not his.

  It would seem that the gods did not need a Druid’s help to rouse the tribes. They had arranged for the Wolves to do it themselves.

  From above came the sound of spades, and voices. Dumnocoveros stiffened, but the voices were Celtic, and when the straw matting was taken away the faces which appeared over the rim of the pit had British moustaches.

  'You're all right, lord?' the farmer said.

  'Aye. Pull me out, Tarvos.'

  Strong hands gripped his wrists. The old man and his sons waited respectfully as he stood blinking in the sunshine and brushing the grain from his cloak.

  'The Wolves have gone, then?' he said.

  'Aye, they're away.' The man spat into the dung that had covered Dumnocoveros's hiding place. 'I've sent young Britos after them to be sure, but they're headed towards Comux's place.' His long face, brown and wizened like a long-dried apple, split in a sudden grin. 'Much good it'll do them. Comux carried a spear with me in the old king's day. He has no liking for Wolves, and his dogs aren't much for company, either.'

  'That's so, lord,' his eldest son, a young man with the shoulders and brow of a bull, grunted. 'They took the seat out of my own trousers not two days since, and I've known the buggers from pups. They'll give the Wolves a welcome to remember, don't you worry.'

  Dumnocoveros laughed: the reverence which the ordinary tribesfolk paid to Druids might be considerable, but it was not unqualified. When all was said and done they belonged to no one but themselves. That was something the Wolves had still to understand.

  'Good,' he said. He turned to Tarvos: 'I'll sleep beneath your roof tonight, my friend, if I may.'

  Gravely and formally, serious now but with the laughter still in his eyes, the old farmer raised his fist to his brow.

  'My house will be honoured, holy one,' he said.

  'I'm sorry, sir,' Modianus said. 'He must've been warned.'

  'How the hell could he have been?' Severinus leaned back in his chair. 'He was being watched by two of our best scouts!'

  'He gave them the slip the night before I left.' Modianus's face was expressionless. 'One of the bastards was asleep. The other was out catching eels.'

  'He was what?' Severinus stared at him.

  'Aye. My feelings exactly.'

  'You've no idea where he went? The Druid?'

  'He wouldn't have gone far from the dun, sir. We checked the area but it's like looking for a needle in a haystack. And the locals were touchy as hell.'

  'Well, it can't be helped. He'll show himself eventually, and when he does we'll get him.'

  Modianus hesitated. 'I picked up a bit of news from Coriodurum while I was at it, sir. The procurator's agent isn't exactly making himself popular.'

  'Really? You surprise me.'

  'Aye.' Modianus almost smiled. 'Mind you, things could be worse. The queen's co-operating, but he's riding her hard. He's got men out all over taking inventories. Land, grain in storage, livestock. And the horses. That's bad, sir. Really bad. You know how the locals feel about their horse herds.'

  Severinus nodded: horses were prized possessions among all the tribes, but to the Iceni they were almost sacred. For an Icenian tribesman, losing one of his horses would be worse than losing a child.

  'There's another thing. Gutter talk, maybe, but someone should know about it. There's stories that Homullus's men are fooling with the local women. I don't mean the usual sort, sir, young girls from respectable families. Wives, even, out in the country districts. It's causing a lot of bad feeling.'

  'What? Where did you hear this?'

  'Like I say, it's gutter talk, sir. Maybe there's nothing in it, but the word's going round all the same, and that's just as bad. The locals are careful over their women, and if someone doesn't tell the agent to keep his men in order pretty damn quick there'll be throats slit.'

  Severinus sat back. The fool! The bloody, arrogant fool! From what Modianus said Homullus was treating the Iceni like a conquered people. Whether he was acting on Catus's instructions or not was immaterial: Severinus had met Boudica himself, and co-operative or not the queen had her pride, and her limits. Establishing Roman authority was one thing; stirring up rebellion was another.

  'Call Lucius in here,' he said. 'Now, please.'

  Modianus looked at him, then turned without a word and crossed to the door. He reappeared a moment later with the clerk from the outer office.

  'Take a letter, Lucius,' Severinus said. 'Two copies, immediate dispatch, both for personal delivery. One to Procurator Catus in London, the second to the governor.'

  Modianus cleared his throat. 'You think that's wise, sir?’

  Severinus had his own doubts, but these could be kept for later. 'You said it yourself: someone should speak to Homullus before it's too late. He certainly won't take my advice, let alone my orders. I've no other option but to go over both our heads.'

  'But if the procurator already knows –'

  'Perhaps he doesn't. Even if he does, he should be aware of what the result could be. The same goes for Paullinus. And to answer your question, Modianus, no, I don't think it's wise. If anything, it's bloody stupid. But unfortunately it's also necessary.'

  'Aye, well, sir,' Modianus said. 'It's your decision.' He turned to the orderly. 'You've your orders, lad. One misspelling and I'll have your guts.'

  Severinus did not sleep that night.

  He had no regrets about sending the letters, or about presenting the facts as he saw them. A local commander, no matter how junior, was obliged to report direct to the governor any problem within his territory that might develop beyond his ability to control. On the other hand, if Homullus was acting under Catus's instructions with the governor's knowledge and tacit approval then to complain formally about his methods would be professional suicide. The thought that Homullus's actions might be deliberate policy agreed on by the province's two chief officials sickened him. If that was all it had to offer the Br
itish then Senovara had been right in her assessment of Roman law...

  Senovara.

  The thought of her brought Severinus up short. He shook his head. He should be thinking that way about Albilla, not a British girl he had seen only twice and might never see again. Yet he had hardly thought of Albilla either, since he had left the Colony, let alone written.

  Jupiter, they were engaged, for the gods’ sake!

  It was almost dawn. The sky through the unshuttered window of his sleeping quarters was beginning to show red. He got up quickly and dressed; not in his commander's uniform but a plain tunic from the chest against the wall. Then he went outside.

  The fort was coming to life. As he went past the barrack blocks on his way to the stables he could smell the porridge cooking in the communal pots. Under the verandahs men were scraping the stubble from each other's chins with bronze razors and polishing armour for the morning's guard duty, or sitting around in groups chatting or throwing dice. Although he was out of uniform they stiffened into immobility as he went by.

  Roman discipline, he thought sourly. The best in the world. When it comes to obeying orders no other nation can touch us. We always belong to someone else, never to ourselves. That's the Roman way of things, the price of empire, of being and staying the best. The ones who always win in the end, even against all the odds. And we pay it gladly, without thinking.

  It's what we are. For good or ill, we can't escape it.

  He brought Tanet out of her stall, saddled her himself and rode past the guard through the open gates. Then, before she had cleared the outer ditch and reached the causeway proper, he drove his heels into her flanks. As he felt the sudden surge of power between his thighs he gripped harder, pushing her up to the gallop and holding her there. The causeway flew beneath her hooves and the morning air, cold with a trace of rain, buffeted him.

  Five miles along the road to Coriodurum, he brought the mare to a gradual halt and let her stand while the steam lifted from her heaving sides, mixing its smell with the smell of his own sweat. Then he turned and rode back at an easy canter.