“I’m afraid the water has spoiled it,” Pervica repeated.
“No. The case has an oilskin lining, see? It is quite dry inside. It must have floated downstream and washed ashore.”
“But the bow’s bent backward.”
I looked up and smiled. I’d forgotten that the Britons were unfamiliar with the recurved bow, with its layers of horn and sinew. There were no other units of eastern archers on this end of the Wall, and the native bows were weak and made entirely of wood. “They are always like that when they’re unstrung,” I explained. I slipped a string into the bottom nock, twisted the bow backward against my leg, and strung it. The string gave its sharp, buzzing hum as the bow pulled into its living shape.
“I thought you were hunting,” said Longus, puzzled.
“And?”
“So why was your bow in its case, unstrung?”
I looked up at him, then looked down at the bow. I bent it and unstrung it again, without answering. I put it back in its case. “Thank you,” I told Pervica. “They do not know how to make these here. My men can make them, but I think probably we could not get the best kind of glue here.”
“I’m glad it’s not broken,” Pervica said, smiling. Then she sat back on her heels and rubbed the top of the bow case with her thumb. “About the horse,” she said, watching her nail against the leather.
“Ah. I thought perhaps you might wish, after all, to keep him. He would be a valuable asset to the stud.”
“No,” she said, looking up and smiling at me again, “no, I can’t manage him. I’d like to give him to you.”
“If you kept him, you would have help with him. If you do not want to keep him, I must pay for him. I am far too deeply indebted to you to accept a gift.”
“You’re not in debt to me. That’s why I want to give him to you.”
“That is a woman’s reasoning. I do not understand it.”
“That’s a man’s arrogance. It’s perfectly clear. I’m out of debt, thanks to you, and I have a chance at real and honest prosperity. I won’t take anything more from you because of some imaginary blood debt. You gave me gifts today; I want to give one back.”
“You refused the gift I gave you.”
“You gave me the respect due a householder, Cinhil’s life-and a carpet. I didn’t refuse any of those.”
I smiled at her. “I am glad of anything I have done that pleases you.”
“Then take the horse.”
I wanted to laugh. “I will take the horse and train it for you, but you must keep it and the stud fees when the time comes to breed it.”
She did laugh. “Take it now, and we’ll talk about that when the time comes!”
When we left an hour later, it was with the stallion Wildfire tied beside the packhorse. To my delight, we also had Pervica’s agreement to visit Cilurnum for the forthcoming festival. Longus, to my great surprise, came up with a widowed mother and married sister in the fort village, and offered Pervica hospitality on their behalf. It seemed that the sister was planning to drive to Corstopitum to shop two days before the feast, and could meet Pervica there, escort her back to Cilurnum, and host her in complete respectability over the holy days. This guaranteed, Pervica was delighted to come. Quintilius protested, but feebly. I was enormously contented, and took pains to tell Longus that I was grateful for his help, and glad after all that he had come.
We were just leaving the farm track and turning back in to the main road when Facilis hailed us, and we saw him trotting toward us. We stopped and waited for him to join us.
“What happened to your face?” he asked me, as we started together down the road.
“He got into a fight with one of the lady’s friends,” Longus answered for me. “Oh gods and goddesses, it was beautiful!”
“What happened to the friend?” asked Facilis, in alarm.
“Cut hand. Ariantes was never going to kill him. I, and more importantly, the lady, didn’t want him to.”
Facilis grunted. “Stupid to fight at all, then.”
“It was the other man’s idea. Oh gods! I’m glad I came! Marcus, it was beautiful. This friend was a big solid landowner, Quintilius son of Celatus by name, and it turned out he’d loaned a lot of money to the lady’s husband and she’d been sweating blood to repay it. Reading between the lines, he hoped he could marry her and collect a tidy little property as well as the pretty widow. She thanked him for his patience about the money, but he wasn’t the sort that lets go easily; he’d taken advantage of the debt to bully her and badger her just as much as he could. When she saved the life of our noble friend here, though, his grateful bodyguard showered her with gifts enough that she paid off the whole debt, with half as much again left over. It was the last thing the landowner wanted. He was there when we arrived, taking the final discharge of the debt, warning her about the lusts and treachery of barbarians, and promising her his matrimonial protection yet again.”
“You do not know this,” I said, taken aback.
“It’s true, though, isn’t it?” asked Longus. “Leimanos, don’t you think it’s true?”
“I had not thought of it,” said Leimanos, frowning. “But yes, it is true.”
“You are inventing it,” I insisted.
“I’m not inventing a word!” exclaimed Longus. And he went on to tell Facilis about the painting and the conversation and the quarrel. “Quintilius was so beside himself with fury and frustration,” he concluded, “that he said yes, he certainly did want to fight-provided our friend shed his armor. Well, he was out of the armor quick as boiling asparagus, out in the yard, swore all the bodyguard to keep hands off the landowner, and loaned the man his sword. It was a nasty moment for me, I can tell you. And it got worse: instead of borrowing another sword for himself, he borrowed a little dagger. A dagger against a long sword! I started imagining five hundred enraged Sarmatians at Cilurnum swearing vengeance, and I was scared sick. But, Marcus-this is the best part-Quintilius had never held a sword in his life! He waved it about in the air like a pruning hook, and when he’d had his hand cut, he abandoned it altogether and punched Ariantes in the nose.”
Longus began laughing again. “You never saw anything like it. None of the Sarmatians could believe it. Leimanos here was purple with indignation and the rest of them were howling. It was an unnatural act. After all, the gods gave us hands to hold swords with, not to hit each other! Well, Ariantes ended it after that: he threw Quintilius down, sat on him, and put the dagger at his throat, just to make it absolutely clear that he could kill the fellow any time he liked-though that had never been in doubt. Then he got up again and picked up the sword, which the poor sod had used to hack the earth, and said, ‘Look what you have done to my sword!’ ” Longus had a wicked knack at imitating, and I imagine his impersonation of me, bewildered, indignantly wiping a nosebleed, was devastatingly accurate.
Facilis started laughing, and Longus joined him. “You were funny!” Longus told me. “Gods, you were!”
Leimanos tried to look offended-prince-commanders of a dragon, especially your own, aren’t supposed to be funny. But after a moment, he began laughing too. Another of the bodyguard rode up and asked him why, and he sobered quickly and said, “Flavinus Longus was saying how that herdsman fought, waving our lord’s sword like a pruning hook.”
At that, the bodyguard laughed too.
“So what did this Quintilius do?” asked Facilis.
“Not much he could do. Leimanos was announcing that commoners who didn’t know how to hold a sword shouldn’t expect the privilege of being chopped up by noblemen. And to tell the truth, I think that Quintilius had realized what a lunatic thing he was doing as soon as he had a look at the sword, and would have backed out then, if he could have: he certainly wasn’t eager for a rematch, particularly when I told him of our friend’s bloody reputation. No, Quintilius just sat and moped the rest of the time we were there.”
“And the lady?”
Longus grinned. “The lady Pervica is exactly what you might expect,” he declared, with great satisfaction. “Top quality from head to toe, a young widow of twenty-five, graceful, soft-spoken, and sharp enough to run a legion. She also, unless I’m much mistaken, has a will of iron. She doesn’t like being bullied and she wouldn’t have married Quintilius if he were governor of Britain. But she’s already made up her mind on a certain subject, and her only hesitation is whether the subject means it, or whether he’s just grateful. She’s had enough of other people relying on her gratitude, and has no intention of playing that game herself. I won’t say more, because the lady’s coming to Cilurnum for the festival; she’ll be staying with my sister, and I’m sure you’ll meet her. I think she may be about for some time to come.” He turned the grin on me. “Has it crossed your mind, Ariantes, that she won’t want to leave a good stone house to come live in a wagon?”