Dreaming the Serpent Spear by Manda Scott

and free, both of you are dead men, in ways you have never yet dreamed of. The Batavians have their own honour, and while I may be retired in Rome’s eyes, I am first rider until my death for my countrymen. Petillius Cerialis knows that. He needs us. As you need me — Valerius of the Eceni.”
    The silence into which that fell would have brought lesser men to their knees. Down both sides of the line, horses stamped, restlessly. The white-legged colt with the moon and spear on its black brow kicked the sides of its stall, scattering splinters across the floor. Longinus caught Valerius’ eye and stepped back three more paces, giving them both space in which to move. The quiet was broken by thewhisper of iron on fat-softened leather as he drew his blade from its sheath.
    “No. Longinus, put up. He isn’t going to betray us yet.” A grain sack lay near Valerius’ feet. He kicked it closer and sat down. Very carefully, he cupped his palms to his face, pressing the tips of his fingers to his closed eyes. When he was as certain as he could be that the turmoil inside did not show on his face, he let drop his hands and faced the older man.
    “When did you know?” he asked.
    The old man’s smile held a hint of sadness. “Son of my soul, how could I not know from the start? For twenty years, you were the son I never had, the younger brother of my fighting days. It grieves me to the core that you believe I could forget. I knew you from the moment I saw you ride that flea-bitten donkey of a messenger’s horse up the hill. It was already foundering and you held it up for the last dozen strides.”
    Civilis reached for Valerius’ hands and opened the palms and read the scars there as if they told him as much as Corvus’ letters. There was pity in his eyes when he raised them. “You forget, the first time I saw you, you were riding the Crow-horse and he was trying to kill you. It is a good thing for a man to remember, particularly at the end of his days when the moments of true glory have been few and are to be cherished.”
    “You do me great honour.”
    What else to say? Valerius had come expecting physical danger, and had prepared for it. There was no preparing for this.
    “Yes?” Civilis barked a short laugh. “It would count for more if you had the decency to be honest and tell me that I am right in what my heart craves.”
    “Which is what?”
    “That you plan to destroy Cerialis and the Ninth legion in the way my kinsman, the hero Arminius, destroyed Augustus’ three legions in the forests and marshlands east of the Rhine.”
    It was exactly what he planned. Valerius said, “Your heart craves the destruction of the legion you are sworn to serve?”
    “I serve him who gives me gold to fight, that I may come to greater glory in battle. When the son of my soul returns to my life and is Arminius come to life again, gold is as nothing, or the legions’ oaths. My ancestor, too, was sworn to the legions. He is not heralded in our winter halls as a traitor, but as one who outwitted Rome. I am old. I have lived through too many battles. Each winter, I fear the coughing fever and the loss of more teeth and the slow death of a body that has survived too long. For the past five years, I have prayed to the horse-gods at mid-summer that they send me one last, glorious battle, by which my name might be measured amongst the heroes. This year, they have answered. They have sent me you.”
    Tears stood proud in his eyes as he spoke. With a terrible dignity, he said, “I beg you, from the floor of my heart, let me come with you, to join in that which you plan.”
    Valerius picked a straw from the floor, flattened it and folded it across and across. Studying the result, rather than the man, he said, “I am not Arminius and this is not the Rhine. I have delivered an urgent message from Camulodunum, which suggests a route the legate might take to reach the city in time to relieve it. As a result, if and when it is asked of me, I