Dreaming the Bull by Manda Scott

perfectly. Umbricius the Gaul, humiliated beyond all endurance, would undoubtedly have done his best to kill the red-haired giant who knelt at his feet in an exact parody of Vercingetorix’ surrender to Caesar in the time of his grandfathers—and would have died for it. Umbricius the trained auxiliary, in testament to a dozen floggings and an uncounted number of nights’ fatigues, remained standing at perfect attention while the giant surrendered his spear and his battle knife, either one ofwhich would have killed the Gaul before he could raise his sword. Smiling, the red-haired warrior stepped back.
    Amongst the ranks of the auxiliaries, men who had not been breathing breathed. Valerius found his hands sticky and refrained from wiping them on his thighs; he, too, could hold his discipline.
    Longinus was beside him, dependably solemn. Looking down to adjust his horse’s harness, he murmured, “There are over a hundred of them. We can’t let them all do that.”
    “We don’t have to. See? The others are dismounting. They’ve made their point and they know it. There isn’t a Gaul in the entire wing who hasn’t been reminded of how his ancestors were conquered by the army for which he now fights. The first Thracian who finds this amusing will have his skull crushed and his balls ripped off. Make sure your men know that.”
    “I think they do. Look at them.”
    Valerius turned. Along the lines of horsemen, the air was crisp with the threat of violence. Not a single Thracian auxiliary smiled.
    Valerius turned to the men of his own command. Now that the time for action had come, he found he could immerse himself in that and not think ahead. To Sabinius, he said, “Signal the dismount. Break into fours, one to hold the mounts, the three others to take the weapons. Split the natives into groups. Don’t let them bunch. Confiscate their weapons but leave their shields. Only if they rebel will they forfeit those as well.”
    It was what they had planned, if not exactly how they had planned it. The men worked, as they slept, in groups of four. They spread out along the line of warriors and dividedthem into groups, herding them back towards the roundhouses and workshops. A handful of children came to take the natives’ horses and it was clear that this, too, had been planned. The warriors simply knelt now, and placed their weapons at the auxiliaries’ feet. It was not the exact mimicry of Vercingetorix’ surrender that the red giant had enacted, but a close enough shadow. Moreover, by retaining their shields, the warriors held on to a sense of security. It was not good but it was the governor’s command.
    The troopers were efficient, as their training required. They were still outnumbered but not at such a disadvantage as they had been. They could call on five hundred more horse and as many legionaries at need and both sides knew it; in this lay their true strength. Alone of his command, Valerius remained mounted and back from the groups in a place where he could keep watch over all of them. The first of his fears had been realized. The rest might yet be.
    He knew the worst when he saw the remaining children return. A small crowd gathered to the left of one of the roundhouses. They were boys and girls in equal numbers, dressed alike in their gorse-yellow cloaks, all brooched and banded, all too young to wear kill-feathers but old enough to have been at the invasion battle, if not fighting, then carrying water or holding the horses or mending broken weapons behind the lines. They were of that age, coming up to their warrior’s tests, when insecurity plays against bravado and both overwhelm reason.
    Gaudinius, the troop’s armourer, had stooped to take up a blade when a tall, skinny, dark-haired girl advanced on him. Hatred splintered clear in her eyes and leaked from the sheen on her skin. The notches of ancient use showed clearlyon the surrendered blade, honed down through the generations but never ground away. Like a