Read Online Dreaming the Serpent Spear by Manda Scott - Free Book Online
Authors: Manda Scott
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pointedly. “Obviously. They never do. Nobody with any sense walks onto a strip of swaying planks stretched over a twenty foot drop with rocks and running water below, and mules have their own weight in common sense. That’s why you’re here to—”
He stopped. Sweat pricked sharply along his neck. A horse was coming along the river bank at speed, from the left. He knew the sound of it as he knew the sound of his own heartbeat.
Without turning, Ursus said stonily, “Stand to attention. That’s the prefect. How he knows we’ve stopped is beyond me but you can pray now to whoever you like that his mood has improved since last night.”
Behind him, the incoming horse drew to a halt, almost within reach. A quiet voice observed, “You’ve stopped.”
Quintus Valerius Corvus, prefect of the Fifth Gaulish cavalry, could cut a man’s soul with the knife of his voice if he chose to do so, and he chose it now. Quietly, with balancedprecision, the words were at once a question and an accusation and an assessment of worth, or its lack. Faintly, there was disappointment, which was hardest to bear.
“It’s the mule. It won’t…” Ursus abandoned the sentence, unwilling to state the obvious: that he was in enemy territory with a full cohort of untested legionaries and he had allowed a new-broken mule to halt the progress of his unit. He felt the prickle of sweat run to a scalding flush and hated himself and everyone who saw it, including — particularly — the prefect.
“Yes, I saw.”
Corvus had dismounted and was examining the mule. The godforsaken beast had stopped braying, as if it were indecorous to holler in the prefect’s presence. It stood mutely, watching with everyone else as the company’s most senior officer knelt in the oozing mud at the edge of the bridge and, laying his cheek flat, peered along the planks, then under them. Corvus sat back on his heels, ignoring the filth on his knees, nodded to something unseen in the damp air and then turned to Ursus.
“Find a man with a head for heights and have him look underneath the bridge, about a third of the way along. Keep him well roped. I don’t want to lose anyone now. And get the rest of your men into armed formation. This place is an ambush waiting to happen.”
“Sir.”
When he tried, Ursus could make things happen fast. When his own men, the cavalrymen of the second troop, with whom he shared the shepherding of the legionary recruits, understood that his honour was at stake, they gave him their hearts and were glad of it. It was this that had won him promotion to decurion and might keep him that post now.
Flavius was there, the troop’s standard-bearer, with two other junior officers. They had heard the prefect’s order and knew how to bring their men most swiftly to battle formation. At Ursus’ nod, each gave orders, quietly and crisply. Booted feet rocked the morning. The loose rabble of polished iron and helmet-bronze that had been their cohort became a shining line, not one man out of place.
Abruptly, the rain stopped and it was possible to believe that the gods approved of what had been done. The men certainly thought so; in the stillness of the lines, small hand-fuls of corn meal were scattered as offerings to Jupiter, Mars, Mithras and the more minor gods of hearth and home. Murmured sacraments hung like smoke in the air.
The danger of ambush became noticeably less. The three officers conferred and, soon, a dark-skinned lad of seventeen with curled, Hispanic hair and tendons that stood out on his forearms like pulleys had tied a rope round his waist and then pulled himself along under the bridge and back again. Standing to attention in front of Ursus and Corvus, he was white, and not from the height or the officers’ presence.
“Someone’s cut the bindings. The hide holding the planks has frayed almost to nothing. The ones who got across were lucky. If the mule had gone over, it would have fallen to its death and taken anyone
He stopped. Sweat pricked sharply along his neck. A horse was coming along the river bank at speed, from the left. He knew the sound of it as he knew the sound of his own heartbeat.
Without turning, Ursus said stonily, “Stand to attention. That’s the prefect. How he knows we’ve stopped is beyond me but you can pray now to whoever you like that his mood has improved since last night.”
Behind him, the incoming horse drew to a halt, almost within reach. A quiet voice observed, “You’ve stopped.”
Quintus Valerius Corvus, prefect of the Fifth Gaulish cavalry, could cut a man’s soul with the knife of his voice if he chose to do so, and he chose it now. Quietly, with balancedprecision, the words were at once a question and an accusation and an assessment of worth, or its lack. Faintly, there was disappointment, which was hardest to bear.
“It’s the mule. It won’t…” Ursus abandoned the sentence, unwilling to state the obvious: that he was in enemy territory with a full cohort of untested legionaries and he had allowed a new-broken mule to halt the progress of his unit. He felt the prickle of sweat run to a scalding flush and hated himself and everyone who saw it, including — particularly — the prefect.
“Yes, I saw.”
Corvus had dismounted and was examining the mule. The godforsaken beast had stopped braying, as if it were indecorous to holler in the prefect’s presence. It stood mutely, watching with everyone else as the company’s most senior officer knelt in the oozing mud at the edge of the bridge and, laying his cheek flat, peered along the planks, then under them. Corvus sat back on his heels, ignoring the filth on his knees, nodded to something unseen in the damp air and then turned to Ursus.
“Find a man with a head for heights and have him look underneath the bridge, about a third of the way along. Keep him well roped. I don’t want to lose anyone now. And get the rest of your men into armed formation. This place is an ambush waiting to happen.”
“Sir.”
When he tried, Ursus could make things happen fast. When his own men, the cavalrymen of the second troop, with whom he shared the shepherding of the legionary recruits, understood that his honour was at stake, they gave him their hearts and were glad of it. It was this that had won him promotion to decurion and might keep him that post now.
Flavius was there, the troop’s standard-bearer, with two other junior officers. They had heard the prefect’s order and knew how to bring their men most swiftly to battle formation. At Ursus’ nod, each gave orders, quietly and crisply. Booted feet rocked the morning. The loose rabble of polished iron and helmet-bronze that had been their cohort became a shining line, not one man out of place.
Abruptly, the rain stopped and it was possible to believe that the gods approved of what had been done. The men certainly thought so; in the stillness of the lines, small hand-fuls of corn meal were scattered as offerings to Jupiter, Mars, Mithras and the more minor gods of hearth and home. Murmured sacraments hung like smoke in the air.
The danger of ambush became noticeably less. The three officers conferred and, soon, a dark-skinned lad of seventeen with curled, Hispanic hair and tendons that stood out on his forearms like pulleys had tied a rope round his waist and then pulled himself along under the bridge and back again. Standing to attention in front of Ursus and Corvus, he was white, and not from the height or the officers’ presence.
“Someone’s cut the bindings. The hide holding the planks has frayed almost to nothing. The ones who got across were lucky. If the mule had gone over, it would have fallen to its death and taken anyone
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