Dreaming the Bull by Manda Scott Read Free Book Online

straining over the door to snatch with bared teeth at the edge of Valerius’ cloak. He knocked its head away with the balled edge of his fist and it came back faster a second time, head snaking and ears laid flat with the whites showing round its eyes and its teeth agape.
    He was already sliding sideways between the oncoming teeth and the door when a voice said, “He is as evil as they say, then?”
    Valerius had believed himself entirely alone. The shock of finding it otherwise stopped him just long enough for the horse’s bared teeth to meet the flesh of his shoulder, stunningly. He fell as if struck by a lump hammer.
    It would have been hard to say who was the more shocked. The horse jerked back, flinging its head high. It spun in the box, crashing against the walls so that the whole line became restless. The stranger was calmer but more aware of his fault.
    “I’m sorry. I should have waited before I spoke. They told me his name is Crow, which means death, and I thought it a wine-fuelled jest. Clearly I was mistaken. Are you hurt?”
    “No. I always fall at my mount’s feet first thing in the morning. My physician recommends it. Thank you.”
    Valerius took the offered hand and pulled himself upright. His shoulder boiled as if filled with liquid lead. Many years ago, he had taken a sword wound in exactly that place and the flesh bruised more easily than elsewhere. He rolled his arm a little, feeling if the bones had broken and, hearing no grating, nor feeling any, chose for the moment to ignore it and deal with the more pressing matters of the foreigner—he must be a foreigner; not a single member of the garrison would have been so carelessly familiar—and the pied horse.
    In the world of Valerius’ priorities, horses always came before men. He lifted the catch on the door and slid inside. The Crow, whose name did indeed mean death, turned to kick as he entered the box, which was a good sign that the horse was not as shocked as it had looked. Sliding past, Valerius grabbed for a hank of mane near the top of its neck, then crooked his arm under its throat and across the bridge of its nose as a makeshift halter. Between them, it was a signal that the man had won and the beast could accept his gift of corn with its pride intact. It did so and he walked it to the door, easing out before it could strike again.
    “Thank you. I believe he—” He was speaking to empty air, and so stopped. The foreigner was further down the line, leaning over a box door talking to the chestnut mare inside. He was a man of Valerius’ own age, old enough to have been a warrior amongst his own people and then to have trained with the cavalry and risen up from the rank of trooper, but not so old that he had seen many battles. He was half a head shorter than Valerius, which still left him taller than most Romans. In the light of the stable lamps, his hair took on the russet brown of a stag at the rut and it hung thickly to hisshoulders without the plaiting or adornment that would have been usual in a Gaul. He wore horseman’s boots, not
caligae,
which meant he was cavalry, not infantry, and the trail of prints from one stable to the other matched exactly the trail Valerius had tracked from the latrines. Valerius set himself a small and silent wager as to the man’s rank and nationality.
    Seeing him coming, the foreigner turned from his preoccupation with the chestnut mare in the box. Without saluting, he asked, “Is your shoulder damaged?”
    No-one ranked lower than duplicarius would have spoken with such easy familiarity, anyone higher would have demanded some kind of acknowledgement. The foreigner’s rank, then, was equivalent to the master of horse; first part of the wager won.
    Valerius said, “No. At least, not badly. The Crow has spent the past eight years trying to bite me and that was the first time he’s ever succeeded. I was afraid he might feel he had reached the zenith of his life and should lie down and give himself to