Dreaming the Bull by Manda Scott

senior tribune with the Second legion, stationed in the far south-west. The lad, they say, had barely settled into his new lodgings when he was sent back to attend the governor’s war council with word that the legion is beset by natives and the legate dare not leave his post.”
    “Which, of course, has much to do with love and loss and the passions of arousal.”
    The Thracian grinned. “It might do. I am told that the governor’s son is tall and very beautiful with jet black hair and eyes like a doe and the legate has really sent him east to keep him safe from the centurions of the Second who have been in post too long and are tiring of the other ranks.” He evaluated the effect of this and then, only a little more gravely, said, “But of course those of us of more senior rank know that he will have been sent because he can be relied upon to impress on his father the severity of the threat posed by the hostile tribes that besiege his legion.”
    “And those of us of more senior rank can imagine that if the young man succeeds, we might well find ourselves riding west to support that legion in battle.”
    “Would we mind that?”
    Valerius said, “The Gauls would be delighted. They are ready for action. I don’t know about the Thracians. Can you ride your horses in knee-deep snow?”
    The Thracian blinked slowly. With a childlike gravity, he said, “Of course, but we would not choose to do so unless forced. In Thrace, a man’s horse is his brother. We would never make him lame to prove a point.”
    Valerius laughed. It was a long time since he had been bested in conversation and longer still since he had laughed aloud and meant it. Better than anything else, it cleared the last vestiges of the dreams from the night. He said, “If you drink in the sewer taverns long enough, you’ll find that the men of the Quinta Gallorum prefer to ride mares rather than geldings because a mare can pass urine at a full gallop without needing to slow or to stop, and that to a Gaul a man’s mount is far closer than his brother.”
    The smile that met Valerius’ was brilliant. “But you’re not a Gaul?”
    “I am not.”
    They walked on in peaceful silence to the junction with the
via principalis
. The snow was thicker here. Drifts piled deeply against the side of the nearest tribune’s house, made citrus by the light of a late-tended lamp. The frozen crust was thicker here, too. Almost, they could walk on it without sinking through.
    The Thracian said, “I will find the engineer Bassianus and tell him that the pipes leading to the latrines are frozen and also some of those feeding the bath house. I looked in before I came up here and at least half are not flowing as they were last night. In the course of my search, is there anywhere I might come across real, cooked food?”
    He asked his question casually, which must have taken some effort. Every fortress had somewhere among its guard posts a reliable source of decent, safe, hot food that couldbe begged or bought on a cold night. For a trooper or a legionary newly arrived, the knowledge of who cooked it and where was one of those many small details that transformed fortress life from the barely endurable to something more pleasant. The secret was not always freely given, however, or even readily bought.
    At another time, or with another man, Valerius might well have feigned ignorance, or simply refused to answer. Instead, pointing to his right, he said, “Try the south tower of the east gate. They keep alight a brazier and I have never known them not have meat. At worst, on poor days, it isn’t spiced.”
    Grinning, the Thracian clapped him on the arm. “But today will not be a poor day. Will you join me?”
    With all that had just passed, Valerius might have considered it, but he had seen a lamp lit in the doorway of a house further down the
via principalis
and had a need to find what it meant. “With regret, no,” he said. “There is still the matter of the snow on