but that was hardly a role where fleetness of foot – half foot, I reminded myself darkly – was important. Now, with a suitable war-trained horse, I could be the warrior I was once, and more. My deficiency, concealed from my soldiers, would not undermine their confidence. Give me the horse, I told myself, and I will be the emperor and lord of war that none can resist. And now, that horse was standing before me inside the stone walls of our Dover fortress.
He was tall. I am a big man but his shoulders came up to my chest. He was black as charcoal, with a dense tail and mane and sturdy, feathered legs. He had an arched neck, broad chest, bright eyes, and sloping hindquarters; was wide in the hoof and possessed a powerful, muscled body. His companion, kept a discreet distance away to prevent them fighting, looked similar, but there was something in the eye of this stallion that drew me. I nodded to Lycaon, who looked drawn and tired.
“An excellent job, tribune,” I said. “Put these fellows at stud, and work with them to make them into war horses, this one for me. I want a courageous and agile steed that will slash and bite, trample and turn to my commands in battle, and I want his seed to make a crop of foals.
“ I shall call this fellow Corvus, or Raven, because, like winged battlefield scavengers, we shall make a feast of our dead enemies. That one will be Nonios, after Pluto’s night-black horse. Fine stallions deserve fine names.”
Lycaon saluted and turned to begin the next phase of his duties, to establish a military horse farm in southern Britain. I called him back. I had received reports of the new barracks alongside a huge Roman grain farm and was able to relay the news from my tribune Cragus. Lycaon, who would be sharing responsibility for recruiting men and training horses heard to his evident relief, that construction was going well, that Cragus had gathered a corps of two centuries of volunteer legionaries, some of whom claimed experience with horses, and that already more than 60 wild horses had been gathered and penned.
“It will take a month or so, sir,” he told me, “to break the plains horses and some more time to train them for warfare, and we’re likely still seeking a proper archippus , a horse master. Then, we’ll have to drill and equip the men, too. Then there will be the brood mares…the next generation of horses… you can’t really ride horses much before they are two or three years old, when the cartilage of their knees and back are closed. We’ll have trained the older, wild horses much sooner, of course, but creating a heavy cavalry might take years...” his voice trailed off.
He looked anxious, as well he might. Creating a cavalry force was one of my priorities, and he knew it. I made no effort to reassure him. Without sympathy, I grated: “Just get it done.”
I had plenty of other concerns and most of them were armed, murderous and coming my way.
XII Grimr
Maximian, Augustus of the West, was looking from his headquarters in Mainz at the bridge over the Rhine, and was frowning. In his hand he held a dispatch from Gaul that told him of the British officer and the purchase of two Frisian stallions. The emperor understood at once what it implied. Britannicus, as he now styled himself, planned to breed a heavy cavalry.
Maximian had hated Arthur from their second meeting, an instinctive dislike rooted in his desire for a particular woman, and since his junior Caesar and son in law Chlorus had been defeated and executed by the rebel, his loathing had turned into an obsessive hatred. Maximian had long since signed Arthur’s death warrant, but his hatred ran deeper than a mere execution. He wanted the rebel upstart captured, tortured and dismembered. He wanted Arthur’s head on a spear point over his palace gate. The army knew it, the Bononia garrison and the sketchy, rebuilt British Channel fleet knew it: any news of the hated Carausius/ Britannicus/ Arthur,
He was tall. I am a big man but his shoulders came up to my chest. He was black as charcoal, with a dense tail and mane and sturdy, feathered legs. He had an arched neck, broad chest, bright eyes, and sloping hindquarters; was wide in the hoof and possessed a powerful, muscled body. His companion, kept a discreet distance away to prevent them fighting, looked similar, but there was something in the eye of this stallion that drew me. I nodded to Lycaon, who looked drawn and tired.
“An excellent job, tribune,” I said. “Put these fellows at stud, and work with them to make them into war horses, this one for me. I want a courageous and agile steed that will slash and bite, trample and turn to my commands in battle, and I want his seed to make a crop of foals.
“ I shall call this fellow Corvus, or Raven, because, like winged battlefield scavengers, we shall make a feast of our dead enemies. That one will be Nonios, after Pluto’s night-black horse. Fine stallions deserve fine names.”
Lycaon saluted and turned to begin the next phase of his duties, to establish a military horse farm in southern Britain. I called him back. I had received reports of the new barracks alongside a huge Roman grain farm and was able to relay the news from my tribune Cragus. Lycaon, who would be sharing responsibility for recruiting men and training horses heard to his evident relief, that construction was going well, that Cragus had gathered a corps of two centuries of volunteer legionaries, some of whom claimed experience with horses, and that already more than 60 wild horses had been gathered and penned.
“It will take a month or so, sir,” he told me, “to break the plains horses and some more time to train them for warfare, and we’re likely still seeking a proper archippus , a horse master. Then, we’ll have to drill and equip the men, too. Then there will be the brood mares…the next generation of horses… you can’t really ride horses much before they are two or three years old, when the cartilage of their knees and back are closed. We’ll have trained the older, wild horses much sooner, of course, but creating a heavy cavalry might take years...” his voice trailed off.
He looked anxious, as well he might. Creating a cavalry force was one of my priorities, and he knew it. I made no effort to reassure him. Without sympathy, I grated: “Just get it done.”
I had plenty of other concerns and most of them were armed, murderous and coming my way.
XII Grimr
Maximian, Augustus of the West, was looking from his headquarters in Mainz at the bridge over the Rhine, and was frowning. In his hand he held a dispatch from Gaul that told him of the British officer and the purchase of two Frisian stallions. The emperor understood at once what it implied. Britannicus, as he now styled himself, planned to breed a heavy cavalry.
Maximian had hated Arthur from their second meeting, an instinctive dislike rooted in his desire for a particular woman, and since his junior Caesar and son in law Chlorus had been defeated and executed by the rebel, his loathing had turned into an obsessive hatred. Maximian had long since signed Arthur’s death warrant, but his hatred ran deeper than a mere execution. He wanted the rebel upstart captured, tortured and dismembered. He wanted Arthur’s head on a spear point over his palace gate. The army knew it, the Bononia garrison and the sketchy, rebuilt British Channel fleet knew it: any news of the hated Carausius/ Britannicus/ Arthur,
Similar Books
