hands remembered the old sequence of actions even though my mind was numb. Farna, my charger, a mare of the Parthian breed, stood patiently as I unsaddled her, only occasionally stamping her foot in protest at the rain. I tossed the armored blanket over her back and saddled her up again, clipping the blanket to the saddle and buckling it firmly across her chest and around her neck. Then came the chamfron, the horse’s head-guard with its delicate filigree bowls to protect her eyes, gold-chased bronze on scaled and painted leather. Next my own armor. I took off my coat and hung it on my saddle. First the leather trousers, heavily stitched with overlapping scales of gilded iron on the lower outside leg, but scaled more lightly farther up, and next to the horse. The three slashes on the left leg showed only on the inside, where the new piece of leather had been fitted in; the outside looked as polished, golden, and impenetrable as ever. Next the leather cuirass, scaled to give a double thickness overall. I pulled the wrist-guards over the backs of my hands, then picked up my coat, slung it over my shoulders, and pinned it: no reason to get the armor wetter than I needed to. I pulled on the helmet with the crest of crimson horsehair, hung the bow case on the left side of my saddle, slung my sword over my right shoulder, and mounted, slipping my spear into its holder by my right foot. Leimanos had armed more eagerly than I had and was finished already, but most of my men were still busy.
Over the rasp of armor came a roll of kettle drums, and then a roar of hoofbeats. Arshak came galloping up from the far end of the ground at the head of all his company. His armor was gilded, like mine, and, like me, he was wearing a coat over it—but his was the coat of scalps, and he had his lance lowered and his long sword drawn in his hand. The red crest of his helmet tossed; the tail of the standard behind billowed and twisted in the wind, and over the hooves and the drums we could hear the hissing boom of wind in the golden mouth of the dragon. I’d forgotten the terror of it, and the magnificence. The drumbeat altered; the squadrons divided, one going left and the next right, then right and left, spreading out across the field, encircling it in a ring of iron. Arshak and his bodyguard came straight on toward the stone platform where the legate was sitting, and the legate stood up and looked as though he wanted to turn and run.
I started Farna towards them at a gallop, cursing inwardly. I was quite certain that Arshak was only showing off—but the legate didn’t know that.
Luckily, Priscus didn’t jump off the tribunal in a panic, and Arshak reined in immediately before him, making his white Parthian rear up and tear the air. As soon as the horse’s forelegs touched the ground again, Arshak kicked his feet out of the stirrups and jumped up to stand balanced on the saddle, his eyes almost level with those of the legate. He swept off his scaled cap, bowing his sleek fair head to Priscus, and laid his sword at the legate’s feet. “Arshak son of Sauromates,” he said, “scepter-holder, azatan , prince-commander of the second dragon of the Iazyges of the Sarmatians, at your service, my lord Julius Priscus.”
Priscus let out his breath a bit unsteadily. He bent and picked up the sword. “Thank you,” he said.
Arshak grinned. I’d forgotten how he was, how he could be—his revelry in his own splendor, his power and strength. He’d undone all his good work of the morning, swaggering before the legate in his coat of scalps, but my own heart leapt at the sight of his arrogant grace. “Show me an enemy, my lord,” he declared, “and I will bring you his head before the sun is down.”
“There are no enemies of Rome here in Dubris,” Priscus answered. Slowly he reversed the sword’s hilt and offered it back to Arshak. “Keep this dry, and use it only when you’re told to.”
Arshak grinned again. He slid the sword back
Over the rasp of armor came a roll of kettle drums, and then a roar of hoofbeats. Arshak came galloping up from the far end of the ground at the head of all his company. His armor was gilded, like mine, and, like me, he was wearing a coat over it—but his was the coat of scalps, and he had his lance lowered and his long sword drawn in his hand. The red crest of his helmet tossed; the tail of the standard behind billowed and twisted in the wind, and over the hooves and the drums we could hear the hissing boom of wind in the golden mouth of the dragon. I’d forgotten the terror of it, and the magnificence. The drumbeat altered; the squadrons divided, one going left and the next right, then right and left, spreading out across the field, encircling it in a ring of iron. Arshak and his bodyguard came straight on toward the stone platform where the legate was sitting, and the legate stood up and looked as though he wanted to turn and run.
I started Farna towards them at a gallop, cursing inwardly. I was quite certain that Arshak was only showing off—but the legate didn’t know that.
Luckily, Priscus didn’t jump off the tribunal in a panic, and Arshak reined in immediately before him, making his white Parthian rear up and tear the air. As soon as the horse’s forelegs touched the ground again, Arshak kicked his feet out of the stirrups and jumped up to stand balanced on the saddle, his eyes almost level with those of the legate. He swept off his scaled cap, bowing his sleek fair head to Priscus, and laid his sword at the legate’s feet. “Arshak son of Sauromates,” he said, “scepter-holder, azatan , prince-commander of the second dragon of the Iazyges of the Sarmatians, at your service, my lord Julius Priscus.”
Priscus let out his breath a bit unsteadily. He bent and picked up the sword. “Thank you,” he said.
Arshak grinned. I’d forgotten how he was, how he could be—his revelry in his own splendor, his power and strength. He’d undone all his good work of the morning, swaggering before the legate in his coat of scalps, but my own heart leapt at the sight of his arrogant grace. “Show me an enemy, my lord,” he declared, “and I will bring you his head before the sun is down.”
“There are no enemies of Rome here in Dubris,” Priscus answered. Slowly he reversed the sword’s hilt and offered it back to Arshak. “Keep this dry, and use it only when you’re told to.”
Arshak grinned again. He slid the sword back
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