A Fragile Peace Read Free

Sintea, small and dark, had shone that day, but here in the south, away from her native land, she was shy and reticent. It may have had to do with Guinevia’s fearsome reputation as a powerful Druid, for my lover was also from Alba, was the daughter of a king, and had long been known by repute to her fellow Pict. Sintea’s shyness may, I thought, also have to do with the fact that an alliance of Pictish chieftains had boiled Guinevia’s father alive and perhaps the girl knew more about that than she would say.
    Milo was speaking. “Mother, I’m fine,” he laughed, “no, really, I’m braw.” He was adapting the language of his new associates, I noticed.
    “You look thin, son,” Guinevia said, still patting at his arm.
    “Puppy fat’s all gone,” Milo said proudly, “all this hunting and weapons training keeps me from getting too fat. I killed two boars last month, speared them myself. Those were some hunts!”
    Guinevia gasped. “That’s dangerous,” she remonstrated. “You’re only a boy, you shouldn’t…”
    I interrupted. “He’s fine, he’s a man now,” I said. “He has to hunt and swing a sword if he’s to be a king. Stop fussing, woman. Get back to your distaff and spindle.” I said it in good humour, but Guinevia fired a look at me anyway. However, she stayed silent, before she turned away, tugging Sintea with her as she left. Her back spoke volumes, but I ignored it.
    “Now, about this festival,” I turned to Milo. “I’d like you and Sintea to greet the crowds, and I think it would be good if you acted as starter to the big race each day… “ We discussed the format , then began wrangling about whether a pair of big horses, Frisians like my war horses could make a better team than smaller, more nimble beasts. “The little ponies might be pushed aside by the big fellows, but I suspect the big fellows won’t be quick enough in the turns. Let’s go and talk to the Sarmatians, they’ll know.”
    We walked out, attended by my three big dogs. The first were Bjarne and Tobes. These two were serious, vicious war dogs, trained to the hunt, to remain silent and obey hand signals and to cripple a man on command, but their young kennelmate was the bellowing hound Nuncius. He was a big red dog who joyfully alerted us to all who came near, hence his name: ‘The Announcer.’ By his very nature, he would never make a war dog, yet as a pup he was so endearing that he escaped the cull.
    This day, all three dogs for once ignored me but trailed Milo slavishly as we went to find my cavalrymen in the horse lines, grooming and tending their mounts. One was drawing off some of his horse’s blood, preparing to make a soup. He tapped a hollow tube into the jugular vein and let about a pint flow into a wooden bowl, grinning at us. “Good for the horse, blood letting,” he said. I nodded.
    “Tasty, too,” I said. He offered us a sample, but I refused, so his woman went into their wagon for something. I considered the canvas-topped vehicle with interest, considering that after two centuries or more since they had been brought to Britain by the legions these people of the Steppes still maintained their ancient disdain for living in houses.
    The wife brought out some fermented mare’s milk, a faintly alcoholic drink that is one of their food staples, and diffidently offered it to us. I drank some and smacked my lips to show appreciation, but Milo politely refused and we walked on to view where soldiers and slaves were setting up the chariot-racing circus.
    Chariots had been the key to our defeat of the Romans. We had persuaded Britain’s jarls to send their antique war waggons from all corners of the islands for use against the Caesar Constantius Chlorus and his troops. We had only just massed the chariots in time to bring them out as a surprise weapon, but the stratagem had worked and we successfully hurled them at the invading legions on the shingle of Dungeness.
    Those old chariots were essentially