entrance.
Frozen gravel crunched underfoot as Valerius walked to the door. A bronze bowl stood to one side, a small mallet above it. He struck the one softly with the other and waited as the sound embrazened the night. Everything around him was white. Even the walls of this place were washed with simple lime, leaving it pure, like the snow, clearly set apart from the tiled and painted glory of the legionary tribunes’ houses set on either side.
The gong was answered, as Valerius had known it would be, by Mazoias, the Babylonian. The head of Corvus’ household was a white-haired old man with a crooked shoulder. In his cups, Mazoias claimed kinship with princes of Babylon and the royal house of Persia. Sober, he was a slave whom Corvus had bought at a market in Iberia and subsequently freed, who chose to continue in place because a life spent in service to Corvus was better than any other he could envisage. The old man recognized Valerius. His gnarled features froze midwaythrough their message of welcome and the door, which had been opening, began to close.
Valerius put his foot in the jamb. “I think not. I have a message for the prefect. Tell him the snow is an arm’s length thick on the roof of the
principia
and it will take more men than I can order to clear it. If he wishes the governor to make his first public address to his legions in safety and warmth, he will order out at least one full troop of men. Tell him also that the pipes to the main latrines are frozen. I have sent a man to find Bassianus but the prefect may wish—”
Each man has his own scent. It may lessen a little when he is warm and oiled from the baths, or running freely with other men’s blood in battle, but it never departs entirely. After a night wrapped in sheepskin against the cold, it is as strong as it will ever become, unless that night has been spent in company, in which case it is stronger. Corvus, Valerius thought, had spent this night alone, but perhaps not that part since waking. No amount of work or responsibility or prayer to the god could protect him completely from the impact of that. He drew his foot from the door jamb, fixed his gaze on the wall opposite and saluted.
Corvus said, “Thank you, Mazoias. I will speak with the officer.”
There was a brief clash of wills, the outcome of which was never in doubt. With a glance that promised eternal damnation if his master was left out of sorts, the old man withdrew.
They were alone. Neither spoke. Snow sucked at the silence, softening it. The lamp nearest the doorway was of clay with a Capricorn painted in rough glaze on the bowl. It had never burned cleanly and did not do so now. Out ofhabit, and for something to do, Corvus reached up and altered the lie of the wick. A spiral of smoke rose to stain the ceiling and the light glowed more strongly after, so that more of each of them could be seen. Corvus had not been awake long; his brown hair was still damp from a hurried morning wash and not adequately combed. In truth, it was never adequately combed. The back was cut properly short but the flick of life at the front swooped in an unruly curve across his forehead and mirrored the arc of his brows. It said all one needed to know of the man and his attitude to authority. The scars and the weather-browned skin told the same tale. Only his eyes could tell more, did he choose, but they were hidden in shadow. His words fell out of the same shaded space.
“What do I call you now?” Their last argument, the most damaging, had been over Corvus’ use of the old name, now abandoned. They had never resolved it.
Valerius said, “I am Julius Valerius in the records, as you know. My men call me duplicarius, or master of horse. Both are acceptable.”
“Good. I’ll try to remember. How is he?”
“Who?”
“Your man-killing horse. The one of whom you are master.”
There was a thread of humour in the voice. Caught off guard, Valerius replied in kind. “He’s well. You’d be
Frozen gravel crunched underfoot as Valerius walked to the door. A bronze bowl stood to one side, a small mallet above it. He struck the one softly with the other and waited as the sound embrazened the night. Everything around him was white. Even the walls of this place were washed with simple lime, leaving it pure, like the snow, clearly set apart from the tiled and painted glory of the legionary tribunes’ houses set on either side.
The gong was answered, as Valerius had known it would be, by Mazoias, the Babylonian. The head of Corvus’ household was a white-haired old man with a crooked shoulder. In his cups, Mazoias claimed kinship with princes of Babylon and the royal house of Persia. Sober, he was a slave whom Corvus had bought at a market in Iberia and subsequently freed, who chose to continue in place because a life spent in service to Corvus was better than any other he could envisage. The old man recognized Valerius. His gnarled features froze midwaythrough their message of welcome and the door, which had been opening, began to close.
Valerius put his foot in the jamb. “I think not. I have a message for the prefect. Tell him the snow is an arm’s length thick on the roof of the
principia
and it will take more men than I can order to clear it. If he wishes the governor to make his first public address to his legions in safety and warmth, he will order out at least one full troop of men. Tell him also that the pipes to the main latrines are frozen. I have sent a man to find Bassianus but the prefect may wish—”
Each man has his own scent. It may lessen a little when he is warm and oiled from the baths, or running freely with other men’s blood in battle, but it never departs entirely. After a night wrapped in sheepskin against the cold, it is as strong as it will ever become, unless that night has been spent in company, in which case it is stronger. Corvus, Valerius thought, had spent this night alone, but perhaps not that part since waking. No amount of work or responsibility or prayer to the god could protect him completely from the impact of that. He drew his foot from the door jamb, fixed his gaze on the wall opposite and saluted.
Corvus said, “Thank you, Mazoias. I will speak with the officer.”
There was a brief clash of wills, the outcome of which was never in doubt. With a glance that promised eternal damnation if his master was left out of sorts, the old man withdrew.
They were alone. Neither spoke. Snow sucked at the silence, softening it. The lamp nearest the doorway was of clay with a Capricorn painted in rough glaze on the bowl. It had never burned cleanly and did not do so now. Out ofhabit, and for something to do, Corvus reached up and altered the lie of the wick. A spiral of smoke rose to stain the ceiling and the light glowed more strongly after, so that more of each of them could be seen. Corvus had not been awake long; his brown hair was still damp from a hurried morning wash and not adequately combed. In truth, it was never adequately combed. The back was cut properly short but the flick of life at the front swooped in an unruly curve across his forehead and mirrored the arc of his brows. It said all one needed to know of the man and his attitude to authority. The scars and the weather-browned skin told the same tale. Only his eyes could tell more, did he choose, but they were hidden in shadow. His words fell out of the same shaded space.
“What do I call you now?” Their last argument, the most damaging, had been over Corvus’ use of the old name, now abandoned. They had never resolved it.
Valerius said, “I am Julius Valerius in the records, as you know. My men call me duplicarius, or master of horse. Both are acceptable.”
“Good. I’ll try to remember. How is he?”
“Who?”
“Your man-killing horse. The one of whom you are master.”
There was a thread of humour in the voice. Caught off guard, Valerius replied in kind. “He’s well. You’d be
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