Dreaming the Bull by Manda Scott

of the hill. Bring us as close to the gates as you can.”
    It was what the cavalry had trained for. In two columns, horses and men who had practised manoeuvres to the point of tedium and beyond through a summer of no action, readied themselves for a brief burst of controlled speed. Regulus said,
“Now!
” and the standards stabbed the sky and sixty-four horses broke from a walk to a gallop, keeping in pairs. The eyes of their riders remained fixed on their standards, waiting for the order to change. Valerius, whose mind was torn too many ways, heard at last that the lamehorse was the chestnut gelding with a white blaze ridden by the decurion of Longinus’ troop. That was unfortunate. The man was a superior officer and could not be reprimanded and Valerius would have liked, just then, to shout at someone. Deprived of the opportunity, he held the Crow-horse to a steady gallop and man and beast fought each other for the chance to run all the way up the long slope to the steading.
    In one moment, the gateway was empty; in the next, Gaius Claudius Heffydd, by gift of the emperor citizen of Rome, filled the space from edge to edge, made broad by the billowing of his cloak in the wind. Heffydd was not a young man; his hair was entirely white, kept in place by a thong of twisted birch bark at the brow. In the whole of the east, he was the only man openly to wear the mark of the dreamers, now forbidden. That in itself set him apart from his peers. His cloak was the yellow of gorse flowers and the reflection of it leaked like melted butter on the remnants of snow at his feet. He bore a spear with a blade such as one might use for hunting boar and a battle sword hung from one shoulder.
    Sabinius was as good a standard-bearer as any in the province. At the right moment, without any additional command from either Regulus or Valerius, he raised his standard high. Two troops of cavalry, acting as one man, spread sideways and halted, precisely in line. The Gauls, Valerius thought, were that fraction sharper than the Thracians. A part of him rejoiced.
    The echo of hooves hushed to nothing. In the pause while no decisions were made or orders given, Heffydd stepped forward and stooped to lay both of his weapons in a cross on the ground before Regulus’ horse. Behind him,the hidden hounds reached a frantic climax and held it. Of the hundred or more warriors reputed to be in the steading, there was still no sign.
    The two decurions, Roman and Thracian, dismounted together and walked forward to meet the dreamer. Valerius sat rigidly still and fixed his gaze on the half-white left ear of the pied horse. He was close to Heffydd and did not wish to be. In the morass of regret and recrimination that infected his mind, his hatred of the Trinovantes burned as an unsullied flame.
    His mother never taunted him with memories of Cunobelin or his people, she had no need. Long before he had sworn allegiance to Rome, Valerius had sworn the death of the three sons of Cunobelin and as many of their tribe as he could send with them. Two parts of that oath were fulfilled: Amminios had died in Gaul and Togodubnos had been mortally wounded in the first day of the invasion battle. Only Caradoc was left alive, the unmatched warrior who had offered Valerius friendship and then betrayed him.
    News of Caradoc, last surviving son of Cunobelin, came daily from the west with word of his part in the resistance. When the messengers had presented themselves to the governor and been dismissed, Valerius bought them drinks and a meal worth a month’s pay and drained them dry of details, the better to know his enemy. On the good nights—the ones when his mother did not visit—Valerius dreamed the many deaths of Caradoc and his own part in each. When he prayed to the god, most often he prayed that at least one of these dreams be granted.
    Heffydd was not Caradoc, but he wore a yellow cloak and he was within close reach, which made him a goodsubstitute. The pity of it was