Dreaming the Bull by Manda Scott Page A

the roof of the
principia
. I should report now, while there is still time to act.”
    “Then I will go alone.” The Thracian saluted. “It has been a pleasure to know you.”
    “And you.” They had parted and taken ten paces before Valerius turned back. “You didn’t tell me your name.”
    “Sdapeze, Longinus Sdapeze, armourer and horse-master of the Ala Prima Thracum.” The man’s smile was open and friendly. He had pale eyes, almost yellow, like a hawk’s. “We will ride out together one day soon when the snow will not make the horses lame and you will see that a Thracian mount can match any colt bred in Gaul, however bad its temper.”
    The man was lost in the gloom before Valerius turned his mind to what had been said and found that this last, which had sounded like a request, had in fact been a challenge and an offer, and that, nodding, he had accepted both.

CHAPTER 4
    If he had been faithful to the requirements of rank order, Valerius would have reported the facts of the snow and the frozen latrines to his immediate superior, the decurion Regulus. If, instead, he had followed the imperatives of his god, he would have sought out the centurion of the third cohort of the XXth legion who was his new Father under the Sun, replacing Marullus, who had gone to join the Praetorian Guard in Rome. He did neither of these, but followed the light of a single lamp south down the main arterial road of the fortress. As he walked, he tracked a single set of footprints in the snow, passing in the same direction.
    Quintus Valerius Corvus, prefect of the Ala Quinta Gallorum, occupied one of the smaller tribunical houses located near the southern end of the
via principalis,
on the opposite side to the great covered quadrangle of the
principia.
The prefect had given Valerius the name he now bore and, for five good years, a reason to live. There had been a time, before the building of the tribunes’ quarters was complete, when it had seemed likely that Valerius would have beengranted his own room within Corvus’ lodgings. Indeed, in the chaos of building, when men throughout the fortress lived in half-finished accommodation, sleeping amongst piles of bricks with wet plaster on the walls and the smell of whitewash in the air, they had known which room it would be even if Valerius had not yet slept there.
    Then, the embers of passion had still warmed Valerius’ heart and the impossible pressures of his life had not begun to take their full toll. He had been of junior rank, and liked by his peers. The unstable patronage of the Emperor Caligula and his own passionate relationship with Corvus, which could so easily have soured his standing with the other men, had instead elevated him to the rank of mascot within the troop. He had found honour fighting the hostile Germanic tribes on the Rhine and, in his twisted half-mastery of the Crow-horse, he had proved himself a horseman worthy of the rank Corvus had bestowed on him.
    To the cavalry, horsemanship and fighting prowess were intimately entwined, and in a wing drawn almost exclusively from the ranks of conquered Gauls Valerius had been one of the very few to have seen real combat before he had enrolled. His peers invented stories of the dark-haired tribal boy who had ridden his mad horse to freedom and then, eschewing all offers to return to his homeland, had joined the legions to fight for Rome. Rumours grew around him and Corvus, further tangling their joint past until it was said that the Roman prefect had been captured by barbarian tribes as he spied for the emperor in Britannia and that Valerius had conspired to free him, waiting on the shore until Corvus could sail back alone to find him. The wilder tales said that together they had fought the dreamers towrest Valerius back to civilization, calling down the power of Roman gods to best those of the natives. No-one thought to ask why a boy raised in the freedom of the native tribes should prefer the discipline of the Rhine