Shadows in the Night (4 page)

“Not so far,” I said. “What’s it like?”

“Chestnut, with two white socks. And all my stuff in the saddlebags….” Suddenly he tensed, and his hand jerked up and went to the spot where his money-belt must be, hidden under the blue tunic. “Look here….my pouch. You haven’t touched it?”

“No, of course not.”

“Good. There’s something important in it. My notes. Important notes.”

“Notes? What notes?” Well, a girl can’t help being curious.

“For….for my book.”

“Ah. Yes, right.” A book? Of course! And I’m the Queen of Brigantia!

“Can you put the pouch in your strong box, please? And keep it secret, nobody to know.”

“Yes, I’ll take care of it.”

“The only thing is,” Albia pointed out, “short of undressing you, we’re going to have a job to get that money-belt off you.”

He grinned, and there was a flash of mischief in his eyes. “You think I’ll object to being undressed by two pretty women?”

“He’s recovering already,” Albia said, and between us we got him out of the money-belt. Though we tried to move him gently, the pain of it froze the grin on his face.

He finished the wine. “You’re very kind. I’ll sleep a bit until Burrus turns up. My head feels sort of fuzzy. As if it’s got wool in it. I remember on my uncle’s farm, when I was a boy…they sheared the sheep, and there were piles of white fleeces. I used to lie on them and look up at the sky. It was so blue, and the clouds looked like the mounds of white wool….Sheep on the hills and all the wool in the sky….”

His eyes closed, and he was asleep.

“Sleep well, Cousin Quintus,” I said softly.

Chapter III

As we came back into the bar-room, Junius appeared, elegantly dressed for riding. “I say, we’re on our way now. Back before dark, all right?” He gave Albia an enthusiastic good-bye kiss, and me a broad wink.

“Good hunting,” I said. “And take care in the woods. It seems our mystery visitor wasn’t the only one to be attacked last night.” I told him what the German trooper had said.

Junius frowned. “Sounds as if we all need to be on guard. So take care yourselves, won’t you? You’re vulnerable here, with everything open to your customers.”

Thanks, Junius!
Very comforting, and you’re the second soldier today who’s remarked on it.

He went out to join Marius and their two men, and we followed outside to wave them off.

“I’m afraid he’s right about our being vulnerable,” I said, as we paused near the oak tree. “It’s hard to see what we can do about it though.”

But Albia was gazing at Junius as he rode away. I must say he was worth gazing at, sitting tall on his good horse, with the sun sparking off the silver trim on his belt and boots.

“Mmm,” she commented, “rather good-looking, isn’t he?”

“Marius? All right I suppose, but I get the impression he prefers boys.”

“
Marius!
You’re joking! No, Junius Pulcher. Quite a suitable name, Pulcher, beautiful….”

Here we go, I thought, she’s in love again. Well, it could be worse, he’ll be back with his legion in Eburacum in a few days.

“And he rides like a dream,” she went on. “Did you see how he just vaulted onto his horse, didn’t bother with the mounting-block?”

“I saw. But when you’ve seen one show-off, you’ve seen them all.”

“There’s something about a soldier,” she said dreamily.

“Oh definitely. They’re either away on campaign all the time, or if they’re on leave, they’re roaming the countryside pretending to hunt, with a girl in every village.”

She giggled. “And even more so if they’re on special duties like Cousin Quintus.”

The forecourt was filling up. There were already a dozen or so mules and ponies hitched to the railings, and a dilapidated ox-cart was parked in the shade of the big oak. It had a couple of sacks in it, which occasionally wriggled and made piglet noises. A young lad in a crumpled tan tunic was busy watering its oxen from a pail, and chatting to another youngster in rough brown homespun hemp, one of the native boys who occasionally helped out with odd jobs. I remember thinking how alike they were physically, both small, wiry and red-haired, and yet their clothes marked them out unquestionably, one as a Briton, the other as a Roman. Clothes are what identify people, I thought. Look at me, in my workaday yellow linen tunic and sensible sandals, anyone would know I’m Roman; yet if I put on a shapeless hooded cloak and clumsy shoes like the local women, I could pass for native myself. Or could I? Is it more than clothes, maybe something about the way people move, how they carry themselves?

Albia interrupted my musing. “It’s perfect weather. Just right for giving everyone a real thirst.”

“How are things in the kitchen? Did you manage to liven up that cow’s meat stew?”

“Yes, Cook added some extra herbs and it’s quite tasty now. I don’t think cow’s meat will ever be anyone’s idea of a delicacy, but the natives seem to like it. And there’s plenty of good fresh bread.”

“Fine. That deer the tribunes brought in yesterday will go down nicely tonight.” We went on discussing the catering as we turned to go back inside.

“Mistress Aurelia? Could I ask you something, please?” It was the lad in the tan tunic. He spoke good Latin with only a slight Brigantian accent.

“Make it quick then. Your boss will be inside there, wanting his beer and his food.”

“He’s not my boss. I just watered his oxen ’cos he forgot. Poor beasts get thirsty this weather. I bet them piggies in the sacks could do with a drink too, but if I let ’em out….”

“No, don’t even think about it. What is it you want?”

“I hear you’re short of a stable-lad.”

So he was after a job. “Yes, I am a lad short.”

He looked at me earnestly. “They said one of your horse-boys has run away.”

“That’s right.”

“Why?”

“Cheeky young pup,” Albia remarked, and went on into the bar. Hiring and firing are my department.

But it was a fair question. Presumably he was wondering whether the lad had run off because we beat him, or gave him mouldy bread for his rations.

“To be honest,” I said, “I don’t know why. He seemed happy enough, but a few days ago he just disappeared without a word. It happens sometimes. Now I haven’t got all day to chat. You’re a horse-boy, are you?”

“Aye.”

“Well, horse-boys are common enough in these parts, lads that I know already. I’ve never seen you before. Why should I hire you?”

He smiled. “Because I’m good.”

I couldn’t help smiling back. “And modest, obviously. All right, convince me.”

“I can handle horses. Mules, too, and oxen. I can drive, and mend tack, and I’ve done a bit of horse-doctoring. And I don’t mind hard work. You’ll wonder how you managed without me!”

I looked at the youngster properly. He was small and compact, with bright red hair and light green eyes. He had a rather angular face, with a stubborn chin, and ears that stuck out. His tunic had once been a good one, but was faded now, and one sleeve had a tear in it.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Gaius Varius Victor. But everyone calls me Titch.”

“A Roman name! Are you a real Roman then, Gaius Varius Victor?”

He smiled proudly. “I’m Roman, born in Britannia. In the camp at Eburacum.”

“How old are you?”

“Fourteen.”

“
Fourteen?
Don’t make me laugh!”

“It’s true, honest. I’ve always been small. Like me mother was. She used to say size isn’t everything.”

“Did she now? Who’s your father? What does he do?”

The smile got even prouder. “My dad’s a veteran, a cavalry trooper. He was attached to the Ninth Hispana at Eburacum. He’s done his time and come out, and settled down just outside the town. My ma was there, and they got married when he came out, but she died in the spring. My dad was real cut up about it, and he’s talking about re-enlisting, in an auxiliary squadron this time, where there’s more chance of promotion. So he may be posted away, even abroad, and he says I have to go out and fend for meself till I’m old enough to join up. I’m going into the cavalry, too.”

“Have you any proof of who you are?”

He fished in his belt-pouch and brought out a battered-looking roll of parchment. It was from his father’s former commanding officer, certifying that Gaius Varius Victor was the son of Gaius Varius Secundus, cavalryman, who had served his time in the Ninth Hispana; the boy was born in the eighth year of the Emperor Vespasian’s reign, he was a citizen, and of good character. So far so good.

“You worked with horses at Eburacum?”

“Yes, all the time.”

“Well let’s see then. Come with me.” I led him round the side of the house, through the stable yard to where the horse-paddocks sloped down to the river. In the nearest one several of our own black horses were grazing, making the most of the lush summer meadow.

“See the black mare there?” I pointed her out and called “Merula!” and she raised her head briefly in answer to her name.

The boy nodded. “Blackbird, is it? A beauty, she is. Real good looker. And her foal’s only a few days old.”

“That’s right. Now can you bring the foal over here?” It would test his boast about being good with animals. The mare wasn’t keen on strangers near her new baby, and would know if the lad was afraid; if he had the true horse-boy’s touch, she’d accept him.

He considered it seriously. “She looks a bit fiery. Will she play me up?”

“What, an experienced horse-boy like you? She’s not the most placid of mares, and she’s wary of strangers near her just now. But if you work here, you’ll be handling different horses every day. You’ll need to be good with animals you’ve never met before. In the cavalry lines you presumably got to know your mounts, working with them regularly.”

“Aye. Still, best not to get too attached to them, if they’re going into battle.”

I recognised the echoes of a drill instructor’s lecture to new recruits. “Right. Off you go then.”

He climbed lightly over the rail fence and walked towards the mare. Several of the other horses looked up from their grazing as he passed, but didn’t seem bothered enough to stop eating, which was a good sign. He paused near the foal, which pricked its ears and came towards him, curious and unafraid. The black mare laid her ears back and advanced on the boy, warning him to keep his distance. He moved in closer to her and I heard him talking quietly, and then he held out a piece of bread on the flat of his hand. She sniffed at it, not touching it, but her ears came forward and she let the lad come to her and rub her neck. She sniffed him all over, and didn’t move when he went over to the foal and stroked him gently.

He came back to the mare, grasped a handful of black mane and, without fuss, led her over to where I stood by the fence. The foal walked quietly after her. Both animals came to me to be petted.

“Easy,” Titch grinned, giving the mare a pat.

“I didn’t tell you to bring the mare,” I objected.

“You didn’t say not to. And I’d be a fool to try and separate them, when she doesn’t know me.”

Yes, he had the touch all right.

Hippon, my stable-master, had come up quietly to watch beside me. “The lad’s a natural,” he murmured in my ear. “He’s been hanging around here since first light. Been sleeping rough, by the look of him. I tipped him the wink that there might be a job for him.”

Hippon is a cautious man, especially where the precious horses are concerned. If he thought the boy would do, that was good enough for me.

“Well then,” I said, “we’ll give you a try.”

Titch leapt right over the fence in one exuberant bound. “Oh, thanks, Mistress! I won’t let you down, I promise.”

“Make sure you don’t,” I warned, “because as I say, you’re on trial. Hippon here is your boss, and you do what he says and don’t give him any lip. You bunk over the stables with the other boys; you get your keep and the same wages as the other boys. And remember, horse-boys are the bottom of the heap, so do as you’re told, and don’t go getting into mischief. Understand?”

“Yes, Mistress,” he answered demurely. But I had the feeling even then that I might as well have told the wind to stop blowing, or the river to flow uphill.

Chapter IV

Albia was in the bar-room, checking that we’d enough clean jugs and beakers, but her mind wasn’t on the crockery. “You know,” she remarked, “I hope that man in the guest-room really is the new cousin. He’s pretty fanciable.”

“Oh? I can’t say I noticed.” I was looking at a nasty lamp-black stain, high up on the whitewashed wall.

“Oh, of course not, Miss Couldn’t-Care-Less.” She frowned at a chipped mug and put it to one side. “So you didn’t notice his nice eyes?”

“No,” I answered, but too quickly. She knows me well, my sister.

“Unusual shade of dark green, I thought,” she persisted.

“Dark blue,” I corrected, and she laughed when I blushed.