part0003

"Anything else?"

One of the scouts mumbled rapidly to Padrec, who translated. "There's probably a goodish force of them this side of Wye now."

"Can't these ignorant mules learn enough Brit to speak for themselves?"

"They are learning. It is much easier than their own language. Orders?"

"They'll be coming. That's all for now. And take your . . . flock with you."

It was the midday halt. Gallius received the report sitting in the shade of a tree while his meal cooled, barely tasted. He had more problems on his mind than the priest and his monkey-squadrons. Into his fortieth year, Gallius suffered from chronic indigestion. The potbelly was a cathedral for suffering that dampened good humor even when he felt disposed to it.

He prospered as a seller of foodstuffs, building the business from a failed stall owned by his father-in-law to a white-plastered edifice of respectable proportions in Eburacum's marketplace, with a mosaic sign of his trade set into the paving before the door. Would that satisfy his miserable wife? Did she appreciate the comfortable life he gave her by being shrewd at trade, an acumen bordering on banditry and, on occasion, crossing over? No, it did not. The woman and he tolerated each other like oxen mired together in a peat bog, merely used to each other's proximity. He didn't like her much or their three children, who were more energetic in filching from the store than working in it. Both he and his wife were relieved at the mobilization. Gallius wasn't at all sure of himself as a commander, but at least it got him away from her for a while, not to mention he'd go back with a tidy profit, but let that pass. Gallius wanted the leading maniple. There was prestige in it beside the money. He wanted to return to Eburacum with honor, something that, if meaningless to his dull wife, was at least a part of him she couldn't get at. It was at the River Wye, nothing in front of me but the enemy and a bunch of scouts I couldn 't trust. Ambrosius was miles behind. The decision was mine, and I made it.

The decision was his. He made it. Gallius called for a tablet and a messenger.

Wye bridge intact. Will cross and secure/G. Urbi

The message reached Ambrosius at almost the moment the leading maniple halted at the bridge, the worst news of a bad day. Ambrosius sent the messenger flying back: on no circumstances would Gallius cross until the main body came up and the bridge was thoroughly inspected. The tribune forked his own horse from a dead run and galloped back along sweating ranks to hurry his officers.

Not half an hour before, a horde of naked, screaming Coritani horsemen had dashed down on them to hurl spears and arrows, sweeping away unscathed. The casualties were light, mostly inexperienced troops who all panicked when there was no need. The shaken men had to be pushed on. Gallius was green as the rest. He could panic and be cut off very easily. Ambrosius tore off his gtfld-plumed helmet and plowed agitated fingers through his hair.

4 'He had no orders to cross. The bloody fool was told to scout. The alae are forward. In other words, no one up there who knows what he's doing." He settled his helmet with a fatalistic tug. "Hurry them on. Run them."

A small square stone set at one end of the bridge claimed it as the work of VI Legio only five years since. The clayed wicker of its surface was underlain by sturdy logs. On the downstream side, flying struts reinforced the structure against the current. Upstream, triangular breakwaters of three timbers each pushed the flow to either side of the supporting posts, minimizing stress overall. Padrec admired it as he waited with Malgon for Gallius' order to cross.

The first centurion walked his horse away from the ranks of foot to rein up at Padrec's knee, shielding his eyes against the sun's glare. There was very little level ground on the other side; the hill slope began almost immediately.

"We'll set up the bridgehead right away," he ordered, not referring to Padrec by name, which he did as seldom as possible. "You and your Faerie get across, scouts

first. Establish a perimeter with one base there on the bank." He described a semicircle. 'To about there upstream. Center point out there where the hill begins. When you're in place, the foot will cross."

Absorbed in his first tactical problem, Padrec answered casually, "Yah."

'The word is sir" said Gallius belligerently. "And didn't anyone teach you to salute?"

"No. Sir. Nor that nor Roman gear nor decent quarters or mess. Perhaps when there's time we can address those questions."

Gallius' florid complexion deepened a shade. "Get across that bridge."

"Delighted, sir." Padrec swooped a broad approximation of a salute and trotted away to his squadrons. "Scouts out. Squadrons by twos."

In the trees overlooking the slope, Rhiwallon, prince of the Coritani, lay behind a fallen log, digging a silver spoon into a bowl of cold porridge and eating with relish as he watched the horsemen flow onto the bridge. So it was true: Marchudd was using Faerie. Good horsemen armed with bows. Not "squared off" like the rest of the filthy legion, they had no more sense of straight lines than his own men. The scouts crossed, then the first squadron straggled after. They began to take up a ragged arc about the bridge.

And the dear bridge could go at any time, with every supporting timber sawn half through just below the waterline. Dyw, wouldn't that be a lovely sight, the bridge and every man on it sinking like the sun in the west, like Rome itself.

"But not yet," Rhiwallon prayed. "A few more fish in the net, and then ..."

Rhiwallon's people had been only nominally subjugated by Rome. Little of the culture rubbed off. Not a barbarian, he still believed in government by force, tribute in cattle. What he took was absorbed by his chieftains, but Marchudd Rhys was not going to reclaim cattle

or territory allotted him by Roman decree when the ancient rights were clearly Coritani.

The prince offered his porridge to the small boy beside him, ruffling the child's long red hair in good humor to ease his tension. "Hungry, Cadwal?"

4 'No, Father."

"Mind, when I say move back, there'll be no argument from you. Out of trouble. There will be time later for you to be brave. Years."

But for now, although he wouldn't say it, it was good to have the boy with him, to show him what he must do someday and a look at this joke of a legion. Rhiwallon glanced back into the trees to the men waiting at their horse's heads. The day was warm. Most of them were naked except for sword and shield. Cadwal tugged at his father's sleeve.

"Look."

The Faerie were in place now, the foot troops squaring off their ranks into columns of five abreast to cross the bridge. That was less interesting to Rhiwallon than the two riders who walked their mounts back and forth in front of the perimeter line. The red-haired man on the big army black: that would be the priest said to lead them. But the other . . .

"Does he not have a notion now? That one's Faerie, Cadwal, one of the little folk. You won't see men or ponies like that this far south, not every day." He studied the small figure. A smile played about Rhiwallon's mouth. "And if I've the kenning my good mother gave me, the wee man's no fool."

Not ordered, but Malgon wanted to see the woods at the crest of the hill. All the Prydn were on this side of the great bridge now. With Padrec's permission, he started up the slope, waving the two scouts from Hawk fhain to join him.

"Will see the woods, an be clear of tallfolk."

"An be not?"

Malgon looked at them. "Hawk rides the wind and knows its taste. What says thy heart?"

"Not."

"Would know." Malgon urged his pony forward. "Come."

He threw one more glance back at the bridge. The first foot ranks were stumping across, square as a tallfolk box, pilums all at the same angle, like grass bent in a hard wind.

He and the scouts moved up the slope, fanning apart. Malgon's mouth felt dry and his stomach fluttery. He needed to relieve himself when he just had. He must keep his concentration on the woods, but some went to quiet his fear. He thought of Guenloie and the sweetness of her in their last loving. It was the first since her daughter was born, and Malgon burst almost as soon as he entered her. But the power returned quickly, and the second time was long and rich. Her skin felt like cleansing water as it brushed and crushed against his. She drew the long, heavy need from him, brought him balm, and he wished he could speak it in words like Drust. . . .

Almost there. No movement in the trees, not even birds. There should be birds. His pony worked effortlessly up the slope. Malgon felt his skin go clammy. Should be birds. He should hear or see them this close.

He drew up a few yards from the tree line. Somehow he found it difficult to breathe deeply. The pony snorted its own question, and then Malgon smelled the foreign horse-scent. There were men and horses in the wood, or lately had been. Which was it?

He kneed the pony forward, bent low over its neck. To either side, the scouts followed him. They were at the trees now. The hard knot in Malgon's gut swelled like a pig bladder, stretched tight—and exploded in a searing wave. The command that twisted the reins was a silent voice. The image of Gern-y-fhain flashed clear in his mind, arms up, warning him back. Malgon cringed into the pony's shoulder, part of it. He wheeled the animal about and kicked it into a flat run down the slope, the scouts dashing after.

Behind their covering log, the boy Cadwal turned

wide-eyed to his father. "How did they know?"

"Because they are as much animal as the pony. And the rest is boucca-spirit." Rhiwallon watched the retreating figures with sour admiration. Agile as cats, they slid from one side to the other in the saddle, zigzagging to make harder targets, keeping the horse's body between them and the Coritani.