Dreaming the Hound Read Free

tribe to hunt alone; and thereby perhaps to die alone. He saw the blood-wet knife, recently used, saw the sling hanging at the belt beside the pouch of river pebbles and knew with a soul-knowing beyond vision that each stone was painted black, that it might more surely kill those against whom it was sent. He saw the sign of the serpent-spear carved on the brow of the body - his body and, because he had seen the same mark on the brows of other men eight times in the last three days, its meaning was already carved on his liver.
    By the cumulation of these, finally, Marcus Publius Vindex, son of Gaius Publius Vindex, knew the identity of the woman who had killed him and thus came to understand that he was dead.
    Feeling foolish, he lowered his sword. From the fireside, the armourer shouted a new question with an edge of concern in his voice. The silence which, living, the standard-bearer should have filled stretched too long.
    The Boudica rose slowly, sheathing her belt-knife. ‘Whom do you worship?’ she asked. Her mouth did not move but the words became part of the night.
    In the same way, Vindex answered, ‘Jupiter, god of the legions, and Mars Ultor, for victory.’ Then, appraising, ‘You should leave. They’ll come soon to look for me. You cannot stand against so many and live.’ The quality of his care surprised him. Dead, he discovered that he harboured neither the hatred nor the terror he had in life.
    ‘Thank you. I’ll go when I have to. Your men have not yet lit a torch and I have never yet met a Roman who could see well in the rain.’
    She grinned and Vindex read no fear in her eyes, only the exhilaration of battle, beginning to wane. He had known that feeling, and the boundless peace that followed it, and knew that it was for these he had fought, far more than the silver he had been paid, and that he was not alone.
    Moved by his new compassion, he said, ‘You will never win, fighting as one against many.’
    Amused, the Boudica raised a brow. ‘I have heard that before. Not everyone who says it is Roman, but most have been, and all of those were dead.’
    ‘Then you should listen to us. We bear you no ill will, but can see some things more clearly.’ It was true; the concerns of his life were melting away leaving behind a clarity Vindex had sought throughout his life and never found. ‘I offer you this as a gift, from death to life: if you do not rouse the east of the province to battle, the legions will win and Rome will bleed your people dry.’
    The Boudica finished wiping her hands on the turf. She nodded, thoughtfully. ‘Thank you. I will consider your gift in the morning, if I am alive to do so.’ She was no longer smiling, but she did not hate him, either. ‘You should go home,’ she said. ‘Your gods will know you in Rome. They cannot reach you here.’
    The armourer shouted a second time, and was not answered. A legionary emerged from the safety of the tent lines and his terror at the sight of the body was far greater than Vindex’ had been. His cry brought the armourer and he, finally, called for torches. Men
    ran as they had been trained and if the light behind the tents did not blaze for them as bright as noon, it was enough for the fox-haired warrior to be seen.
    She did run then, fluidly and with no great urgency, like a deer that has not yet heard the hounds. The armourer of the second century was a clear-thinking man who abstained entirely from wine. He had also, for three years, been his cohort’s champion spear-thrower, honoured for the speed and accuracy of his casts. He called afresh and five men ran to bring him spears, passing each one new to his palm as the last took flight. Ten were thrown in the space of a dozen strides. The foremost of the torch-bearers saw the eighth one strike and shouted to the armourer and to Mars Ultor, claiming a kill. Vindex, seeing with different eyes, knew that the Boudica was wounded, but had not joined him in death.
    From beyond the margins