Dreaming the Bull by Manda Scott Read Free Book Online Page B

victory.
The voice was Valerius’ own, younger and still mercifully unaware.
    His mother, coming later, knew everything and judged him for it.
Her mark is the serpent-spear, painted in living blood on Mona’s grey. Once, it was red on Eceni blue. Yours could have matched it, the horse or the hare painted on blue. You could have been dreamer to her warrior. With you at her side, she would have been…
    “No.”
    For the second time that morning, Valerius turned his back on the foreigner and walked away. In front of him, the
principia
dwarfed the buildings around it. Only the governor’s house came close in grandeur to the great quadrangle of the legion’s assembly hall and at that moment Valerius was not concerned with the governor’s peace and comfort. He had the responsibilities of his rank. In honouring them was his best, possibly his only, defence.
    Speaking over his shoulder, he said, “We should finish our inspection of the stables and then check the
principia.
Did the tavern rumour-mongers tell you also that the roof caved in last winter under the weight of the snow and was not rebuilt until after midsummer? Our recently departed governor, may the god grant him long life, wished to display to the natives the full splendour of Rome. There are tiles under that snow so bright they would make your eyes water if you had to stare at them under a full sun.”
    The Thracian laughed, a little late, as if his mind were elsewhere. “And the beams are made of straw that they do not take the weight?”
    “No. The beams are made of green oak which is what you get if you build a fortress in a newly conquered territory and have to use whatever materials are to hand. The first architect built on Roman lines, believing that the beams must be slender to look good. The second learned from his predecessor’smistakes. The new ones are twice the size of the old but this snow is twice as thick. It should be swept from the roof without delay. I can see to that, or find someone who can. If your horses and your men are well and you can spare the time, it might be good if you sought out the water engineer. The baths are the child of his heart and if he finds the pipes are malfunctioning he may, like the horse, decide it is time to lie down and give himself up to the god. His name is Lucius Bassianus, an Iberian—you will have heard of him?”
    The foreigner was leaning against the wall of the last stable in line, with his thumb in his belt, and he was studying Valerius as a man might study a newly bought colt. He was manifestly unconcerned by the fate of the
principia
or the latrines. “I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head. “I haven’t, but then I have been here less than two days and those who tell tales are concerned with bigger minds than a water engineer and the sewers he builds. The most talkative, or perhaps the most vengeful, speak of a newly made duplicarius of the Fifth Gallorum with a pied horse that is evil incarnate and of his once-friend, the prefect Corvus, who was a captive of the natives in his youth.”
    The tilt of his head left the way for a question and its ready answer. Any normal man would want to know what others said of him when his back was turned. In return, such a man would offer more information than the rumour-mongers could provide.
    Valerius had a good idea what was said of him and had no desire to hear the embellishments spewed from late-night wine. He said, “Did they tell you that we have a governor who rode into his province expecting the rich pickings of conquest and found himself instead in the midst of anunfinished war that could take him ten years and as many legions to win?”
    The Thracian conceded defeat with a good grace. “No,” he said. “For the hard truth, I come to my elders and betters. In the minds of those I drink with, talk of war is a waste of breath when we could be talking of love and loss and the passions that arouse us. The word of the governor was all of his son who is