‘There was one off-shore today.’
The tribune frowned. ‘Really. I did not know any ships were around. Oh well, these sailors do dislike telling anyone else what they are doing – and use words no one else understands even when they do! Sometimes I feel they do not think that they are part of the army like the rest of us.’
There was supposed to be a dinner that evening in honour of their royal guests, but Epotsorovidus was ill and the Hibernians remained in their rooms. Crispinus was impatient, although there was nothing that could be done. The next morning the king was recovered, and the guests were taken to the parade ground outside the fort. Brocchus had prepared a Hippaka Gymnasia, the display of horsemanship and weapons handling that was the speciality of the cavalry alae. One turma performed first, in polished armour and helmets. They began by throwing light training javelins at posts set up on different sides of the square. Then the best men did the same drills with full-weight spears.
The next turma arrived in a cavalcade of colour and noise. The men wore brightly coloured tunics, decorated armour, and silvered helmets with masks covering their faces and shaped like characters from the mimes. Long yellow crests rippled in the wind, and two men carried dracones, standards fashioned like the open mouths of dragons, which whistled as they galloped, sucking in air and making the striped fabric tubes attached to them shake and hiss. The horses wore chamfroms of leather, bright with studs and with bulbous domes dotted with holes over the eyes, making them look like the helmets of gladiators. Everything was done fast and with precision, the riders split into two teams who weaved across the whole parade ground, taking turns to lob blunt-headed javelins against the other team’s shields.
The Hibernians sat cross-legged to watch and openly showed their delight.
‘Pity we haven’t a water organ,’ Brocchus said. ‘It’s even better to music.’
‘Never mind, they’ll hear all that when we take them to the games.’ Neratius Marcellus was staging a festival at Luguvallium, partly for the entertainment of the Hibernians but mainly as some relief from work and training for his soldiers. There would be beast fights, gladiators and executions. The Red Cat and his brother, who had survived his fever, were among the prisoners to be killed as a warning to others. Ferox was determined to try to speak to the brothers one more time.
‘It will be a grand show, my lords,’ Probus assured them. He was supplying the gladiators for the fights, for it appeared that he owned a school in Londinium. ‘None of your rural rubbish. We’re bringing up some prime men – Falx among them.’
‘The Dacian?’ Crispinus said. ‘Fights as a Samnite? Yes, I saw him last summer. Could hardly believe the speed in such a big man. Surprising enough when a Samnite wins at all, but he is lethal.’
‘I cannot remember when I last saw a really good fight.’ Brocchus sounded wistful, and soon the three men were deep in a conversation about fighters past and present. Ferox had little interest in the subject. He could admire skill with a sword, but there was a pointlessness about gladiatorial fights that depressed him. On the other hand, he enjoyed the display of the ala Petriana, even if it was rather theatrical, for at least these men would fight real enemies, and when Epotsorovidus asked a question about the draco standards, he was happy to answer, even though it brought back memories of Dacians and Sarmatians hunting his men as they tried to escape from the great disaster under Fuscus. They went on for a long time, before Probus announced that he must leave to help with the arrangements for the games.
That night the dinner was held, and he had spent time explaining to their guests how the Romans dined reclining on couches. Neither of the kings were enthusiastic, but they were guests and obeyed. Brigita wore the dress she had been given, striding into the dining room like a tiger with a pink ribbon around its neck. The kings lay on either side of her on the couch, both awkward and uncomfortable, switching from one elbow to the other as they twisted and turned. She lay flat, pushing up on both arms whenever she wanted, so that the front of her dress hung very low. Three warriors stood behind them, although in deference to their hosts none carried weapons.
‘An under-tunic might have been wise,’ Sulpicia Lepidina whispered to her husband. Ferox was on the couch with them, looking straight at the Hibernians – and sometimes trying not to look straight at the queen.
Crispinus, Brocchus and Claudia Severa occupied the central couch, and the tribune gave a little speech of welcome, which Ferox translated, doing his best to fix on the eyes of the Hibernians and not let his gaze drop. The kings made noises of gratitude, while the queen just glared at him, head cocked to one side. All the while the yellow silk sagged down, exposing much of her breasts. Her skin was pale, yet clearly saw a lot of the sun for it was covered in freckles. Between her bosoms was a tiny scar, straight and neat as if it came from a blade and was deliberate.
The Romans spoke during the meal, and when Crispinus gestured or he felt it appropriate, Ferox put the thoughts into the language of the tribes, speaking slowly because the Hibernian dialect differed in many ways.
‘Silure?’ The queen’s voice was high-pitched and soft, surprising him for he had expected her to sound deeper, even manly.
‘Yes, although now I am a Roman.’
‘Huh!’ The noise could have meant anything. She lay down, resting her chin on her hands and considered him. It was easier to look back now that she was more covered. ‘I hear the Silures fight dirty,’ she said.
‘We fight to win.’
‘Huh.’
Ferox was glad that the queen did not point out that his people had not won when they had fought the Romans. She appeared to have lost interest, and said no more during the entire evening. Now and again she would shift as she lay, sometimes revealing a good deal. Once, the queen turned faster than the silk dress could move so that her right breast came free of it altogether. Cerialis was drinking wine and almost choked in surprise, but nothing was said. Ferox felt Sulpicia Lepidina quivering beside him, so that he could feel the cushions move. He tried not to think about her closeness and failed. Brigita was not making it any easier, and the sweet torment of lying next to a woman he loved and desired, but could not touch, went on and on.
For a while, the queen rested on her elbow, seemingly uncaring, for she could surely have not been oblivious that one whole breast was on view. Ferox wondered whether it was deliberate. As the evening went on Epotsorovidus and Brennus began to speak a little more freely.
‘This summer is the time for the tribes of Hibernia to choose a high king over all the high and lesser kings,’ he explained to Crispinus. ‘They say all the tribes, but I’m guessing it is their own peoples and perhaps some of the others in the north. The choice has not been made, but the noble Epotsorovidus…’ he nodded a head to honour the man since he would surely hear his name mention ‘… is favoured by many.’
‘And they think a message of support from us would help swing it all in his favour.’ The young aristocrat spoke slowly, toying with the ideas as they came to him. ‘Or do they want gold to help make friends? I should think both of those are possible, if they will act in a friendly way in return.’
Ferox spoke to the kings for a while. The men smiled when he spoke of gifts and friendship. After a while he turned back to the tribune.
‘They want that, my lord. They also want something more.’
The tribune waited. He glanced at their guests, smiling. The queen shifted again, and yanked the edge of her dress up so that she was properly covered. It made Crispinus flinch, as if fearing that it was his gaze that had made her aware of her revealing pose. ‘What else do they want from us?’