Dragon's Child by M. K. Hume Read Free Book Online Page A

that led to Aquae Sulis. In the eyes of its inhabitants, the enclave was their whole world and was complete as it stood.
    But, beyond the fertile orchards and fallow fields, the Old Forest brooded. Artorex’s refuge was a constant reminder that the land was not completely safe and, now that Myrddion Merlinus had opened their eyes, Ector and Livinia surveyed their small kingdom with hearts that were weighted with foreboding.
    Caius ventured into this winter landscape of grey skies and misty, skeletal trees with his customary elan. Unlike his parents, Caius refused to accept that Rome was dead, so he enjoyed his days with the same careless pursuit of pleasure that had always motivated him. With his hunting hounds and his trained hawks, he rode into the wilderness to harry his prey. He rarely returned with the boars, the foxes or the stags that he killed, preferring to leave their corpses to rot on the bloodstained, frozen earth. The local villagers learned to follow his blood spoor which unerringly provided them with enough fresh meat to last them through the winter months.
    At other times, when he was bored with hunting, Caius spent his days and nights with a coterie of young men who were noted for their epicene habits and their conscious, offensive arrogance. Wealthy, idle and bored, they drank, whored and terrorized the villagers with stupid pranks that amused the young men hugely but embarrassed their elders when complaints inevitably came to their doors.
    But even a much-loved and cosseted son couldn’t avoid all responsibility, and Caius was expected to put aside play to learn the duties of the villa, although he protested at first. Maintaining inventories, supervising crop rotation and planning new villa facilities crowded the days of the young heir as he learned the myriad responsibilities of a master. If he chafed under the yoke of his birth, Caius chose to hide any impatience under a glacial, patronizing composure suitable to his station.
    At the other end of the social scale, Artorex stared out at the delicate winter landscape and envied the few scavenger birds that hung in the fog-wreathed air like black rags. Their freedom mocked his busy schedule of toil, study and the endless, irritating challenges that kept him from the fields and the forest. Even the heady promise of horsemanship was small recompense for a life of tedious, inexplicable tasks that left Artorex confused and frustrated, even when he successfully completed the many tests set by Targo.
    Gradually, Artorex learned to ride the working farm horses that were the pride of the Villa Poppinidii but he soon discovered that a steady trot was the best they could manage, no matter how hard he beat the sides of their flanks with the flat of his sword. Easy-natured as these horses were proving to be, Targo attended to the young man’s training with his usual order and precision.
    When the old legionnaire led Artorex up to Plod, the farm stallion, with his fringed hooves and massive bay shoulders, the boy felt his knees turn to jelly with fear. The horse stood ruminatively chewing grass with huge, yellow teeth, or piddling amazing streams of hot urine wherever he pleased. By the size of the huge droppings scattered through the stables and fields, Artorex decided he did not want to be near Plod’s backside when he lifted his large, coarse tail.
    ‘He’s big, isn’t he?’ Targo stated reflectively.
    ‘He’s too big for me,’ Artorex said flatly.
    ‘People always think that big means savage,’ Targo murmured. ‘How many times have you been called a barbarian, boy? But it’s not true, is it? Well, Plod here is like his name, for all that he’s a stallion. He’s as sweet as a nut, ain’t you, you old faker.’ Targo proceeded to beat on the horse’s belly and flanks with his open hand, so hard that dust rose from Plod’s winter coat in little puffs and drifts.
    Artorex waited for Plod to pound Targo into shreds of raw, bloody meat, but the beast