Seize the day, p.34
Seize the Day, page 34
He dropped on his knees beside her, grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her gently, “What is it?!”
“Silvercast . . .” she whispered, her voice trailing off into a moan.
“Silvercast?” he asked, his heart thumping. Silvercast was a gelding she had hand-raised from birth, the offspring of her legendary first mare Featherlight, the most beloved of all her horses. Gitta and Silvercast had grown up together. He was not her current favorite, for the horse was lazy from having been overindulged, but was still much loved for the dam's sake.
“Silvercast?” he asked again. What had happened? He guessed that the horse was dead, but what else?
Awkwardly he put an arm around her and felt a shudder ripple through her frame. She resisted him briefly, then gave in, let her head drop against his chest, and started to cry soundlessly.
Feeling her tremble, he felt so inadequate. What should he do? He was rigid with indecision. This was a Gitta he had not seen before, a Gitta that needed comfort . . . from him. He relaxed his posture and made room for her in his embrace. Slowly she quieted, her breathing eased, and in her turn she relaxed against him. He held her, rocking ever so gently.
To his surprise, she fell asleep. In time she grew heavy in his arms, so he gently eased her into the bedding and covered her. For a while he listened to her breathing and wondered what had happened.
Quietly he got up and slipped outside into the darkness. There were stars shining through a light cloud cover, and he felt the moisture of dew already settling out of the air. All was quiet and motionless, except for a fire burning in the middle of the compound and two figures standing near it. Approaching them, Marcus recognised Septimus and Zsiga. He hastened his steps, his body full of questions. “What happened?” he asked, looking from one to the other. Obviously they had been waiting for him.
Zsiga threw away the grass stalk he had been chewing on and spat into the fire. “Silvercast broke his leg.” He kicked a piece of wood into the fire, sending a shower of sparks into the air. “And she had no choice but to kill him!” he growled, his voice harsh and unyielding, sparing nothing; not himself, nor his sister.
Yes, that makes sense, Marcus thought, the worst confirmed. These people prized horses above themselves. No wonder that Gitta felt destroyed by the loss. His wife, who was courageous and even cruel at times, could be so distraught over a horse.
Zsiga spat angrily again, and hit his thigh vehemently with a clenched fist. “Bloody hell!” he exclaimed with disgust and strode off toward his yurt.
“What’s eating him?” Marcus demanded irritably, glaring after the departing figure. His own feelings in disarray, he was looking for some outlet.
“The sad loss of a horse,” Septimus replied quietly, “and that his sister was at fault.” Marcus looked at him aghast. Gitta? Septimus nodded. “Gitta was riding back from the north pasture and she took the shortcut that we all do. But she wasn’t paying much attention and jumped Silvercast over a fallen tree without letting the horse find his stride so that he landed awkwardly on slippery gravel. The ankle twisted and the leg broke, Silvercast went down, and Gitta was barely able to roll free.” Those were the facts. Marcus nodded, numb with the impact.
“In spite of the broken leg, she wanted to save him,” Septimus hurried on in her defence, “Difficult but not impossible. But Zsiga was there to rail at her: ‘What use is a horse that’s lost confidence in its rider??!’ All the while the horse screamed in pain, stumbling about on three legs. Zsiga offered to kill him, but in the end it was Gitta who did it with a swift dagger stab into his heart. Then no one said anything anymore. Everyone went to their yurts and there was just silence.” This time it was Marcus who kicked a piece of wood into the fire.
The next morning, Gitta did not move. Marcus knew that she was awake, but she did not stir. Not even when he rose and dressed quickly and quietly.
Outside, the day was bright but when Marcus looked at people around him, nearly all of them were glum and hard-faced. The looks he got were almost hostile. He had been feeling a little more at home among them of late, but now this setback. The death of one horse could do all this? He looked back at his yurt, and thought of going back to console his wife, but her back was pointedly rejecting of him and his sympathies. Disturbed, he went to his elephants and attacked them with a brush. Sensing his mood, the elephants held back their playfulness. Concerned though, Crenah snuffled him, then tugged at him very gently, trying to comfort him.
Septimus soon joined him and the two worked hard at cleaning the elephants’ hides and feeding them. Not a word was spoken.
Afterward, Marcus took care of Thunderbolt, and for the first time realised how fond he had grown of him. At first it had been a contest of wills, which changed to collaboration and now turned into mutual acceptance. “How would it be if I lost you?” The thought criss-crossed his mind, and Marcus was surprised by the sudden stab of fear. The horse had grown on him, as had the elephants. Finally he realized how his wife must be feeling, having hand-raised Silvercast from birth. By Jupiter! In his whole life, he had never felt quite like this, even toward his family. May Jupiter . . . or Elohim protect them and his horses and elephants and Gitta and even this small clan of Magori.
When Marcus and Septimus headed back to camp, they passed a fire that was still smouldering. “They burned him,” Septimus said, pointing. There was a smell of burned flesh lingering in the air and Marcus was sickened; he had been thinking of meat roasting for midday. He stopped in his tracks and stared stupidly at the ashes.
“If a horse dies in battle, it’s a noble death and is celebrated, and stories are told about his exploits. When a horse dies of old-age, it has done its duty and is also honored. But when a horse dies because of an accident brought on by the negligence of a rider, that’s a tragedy . . .” Obviously, last night, Zsiga had instructed him well on the mores of the Magori.
“How was it her fault?!” Marcus’ hackles rose, and his hands closed into fists.
“The head of the horse is the rider, and the rider has the responsibility of keeping them both safe. She jumped without looking. The horse trusted her . . .” Septimus said no more, as his friends brows darkened warningly. “Bad luck,” Septimus yet muttered. Yes, bad luck, Marcus agreed. He knew about bad luck.
Throughout the day people looked at him with a piercing gaze, as if, somehow, he were at fault, and feeling their anger, he grew angry himself. What kind of people were these to place horses above one of them?
As if reading his thoughts from his face, Septimus added, “These people have made a covenant with the horse. You be my legs, and I will be your eyes and ears. Trust me, and we shall both survive. Yesterday your wife broke that covenant. All the people here know it; all the animals know it too.”
“But in war . . .” Marcus protested.
“In war, both die!” Septimus said harshly, quoting Zsiga’s words of yesterday. “A rider without a horse is dead already. Will he run on foot to safety?” To a Magori the question would have been a gross insult, but to Marcus, who had retreated often enough under orders, running did not seem such a bad idea. Running, that is, on foot. But the Magori were masters of running away on horseback, luring the enemy after them, then suddenly turning when the terrain favored them.
When Marcus next saw Gitta she was thin-lipped and hard-faced. He made a comforting motion toward her, but she cringed, and grew rigid with rejection. Things were back to normal again, Marcus concluded bitterly to himself.
Over the next days he worked harder than ever, even caused Zsiga to warn him to slow down.
“You fool! What will you do when you’ve worn out the horse under you? Will you get off and carry him instead? To safety? A fire that burns too brightly will not burn for long . . .”
Marcus started to hate their sayings they took for wisdom . . . but reigned in the horse to conserve both their energies.
It took a handful of days to dispel the gloom over the camp, then life returned to more carefree ways. No one mentioned Silvercast except Gitta who spoke with her grim mask of silence louder than she could have with words. Everyone felt uneasy in her presence. Several times Marcus tried to talk to her, but she froze up, her eyes turned hard as agate and her lips formed into a forbidding line. The outcome was that she no longer lectured him about learning to ride.
Time closed the wound but did not heal it. Gitta became even harder, demanding more from herself and expecting more from Marcus. The same grim determination seemed to drive both of them.
Through painstaking practise Marcus improved with his bow. He could ride full tilt and fire backwards at a pursuing enemy. He swore to make himself a master of the weapon and to become better even than the Magori. He soon surpassed Septimus.
“You’ve become Apollo,” Septimus marveled at the growing skill of his friend. He even drew grudging praise from Zsiga, who also quickly let him know that, in spite of all his efforts, he would never be worth more than just half a Magori.
It was near the end of September as the Magori made preparations to move a little further north into their range to seek out fresh grass. Wheels were put under the yurts, and they moved off in a long line. The new site was on higher ground in the lee of some hills that would deflect the expected winter winds soon to be blowing. The cattle herd was divided again; a part, some 200, was to be driven north to be sold to the Roman garrisons for winter supplies. Both Marcus and Septimus wanted to go, but one had to stay with the elephants. They drew lots, and Marcus won the privilege of the trip.
A few days later they started north. Toma, a grizzled veteran, was in charge with young Zsiga second in command. Marcus waved to those left behind, but his eyes narrowed as he did not see his wife among them. The elephants were grazing peacefully; they had grown used to seeing him ride off for the day.
Marcus was trailing the herd to keep stragglers from dropping off. He had three horses with him: Thunderbolt, the roan and a quick-footed dun. He changed them frequently; the other two were trained to stay close and come instantly to whistled summons.
Ahead, a half-grown calf got his leg stuck in the crotch of a fallen limb and was bellowing anxiously. Marcus slid off his horse, freed the beast and vaulted smoothly back onto the horse. A flush of pleasure coursed through him. He still had lots to learn but he had learned a few things already. He looked up to see Windcatcher a few paces off with Gitta dressed as a boy on his back. She had a sword by her side, a quiver full of arrows hanging by the saddle, a lasso, and a short whip in her hand.
“You!” Marcus exclaimed in great surprise.
“Yes, me,” she said simply, trotting up to him. He looked at her puzzled; what did she want? “I go where you go,” she said again very simply. Marcus was taken aback. Most times she was cool and distant, but then would do unexpected things like this. He nodded and goaded the dun forward. She ranged a little way off to the side, the two of them herding the cattle between them.
The third day north they neared a fortified hilltop settlement of Celtic design that the Romans had torn down elsewhere as an obstruction to their rule but allowed it still on the Frontier for protection against raiders from across the river. The herd was led to a large pasture encircled by a thick hedge, and a tent was set up. Toma wanted to visit an acquaintance in the high place, agreeing to take Marcus with him if he promised not to disclose his Roman origins. Quietly, Gitta also joined them.
The path to the high place led past ditches, earthwork strong points, successive rings of palisade and cribwork of logs filled with earth and stone. The path divided repeatedly to fragment any attacking force. There were sentries by the main entryway dressed in Celtic manner, but they did not bother to stop them. Inside were many thatched huts and some larger complexes of substantial stone work. Toma went to one of these and was admitted.
“This is Felix.” Toma made the introduction, speaking broken Latin, the only common tongue among them. “A shrewd merchant, so watch out.”
“Yes, indeed, my barbaric friend. And how are the Magori this year?”
“Well enough. With enemies sitting across the river . . .” The two discussed the local situation, but Marcus’ attention was held by the display of ornamental bronze shields hanging on the wall. Each was a masterpiece of intricate detail and design.
The host noticed his interest and announced in a proud voice, “Those belonged to my ancestors, all warriors and heroes.” He looked a little dissatisfied with himself. “Today we’re all merchants and craftsmen, serving under the protection of Rome.”
“Is then Rome’s protection so undesirable?” Toma asked with a hint of sarcasm in his voice.
“No. Of course not. But the glory of Rome outshines Celtic pride.” They both shrugged. Such was their world. Then they got down to business, discussing the market, the prices the Romans would likely be willing to pay. The Celts had their own cattle and needed no outside meat, but they were always interested in new bloodlines to add to theirs. They were served bread and cheese, pate, small, seasoned sausages and some local wines. Marcus greatly appreciated the last, since he had drunk nothing but kumis among the Magori.
Toma and Felix struck an understanding for some breeding stock, so both sides felt that the meeting had been profitable. On the way back, Toma spat, “The drink they call wine and insist on serving tastes like putrid water . . .” He spat and spat, trying to get rid of the foul taste without success. Marcus just shook his head. At first, kumis had tasted like horse sweat, but had improved now that he had gotten used to it.
Gitta had been quiet the whole time, not wanting to give away that she really was a woman.
They stayed an extra day enjoying the hospitality of their Celtic friends. It gave a chance for Marcus to discover Celtic construction. In spite of his military background, Marcus had never seen a Celtic fortress before. The entire hilltop was encompassed by concentric ditches, strengthened by elaborate earthworks crowned by wooden palisades and cribwork of timber and dry stone. In spite of the primitive construction there was a reassuring sense of rugged strength and right away Marcus felt more secure within its confines. Living among the Magoris, forced into their open way of life just steps away from pastures, he realized acutely how much he missed walls: walls to protect and shelter him, walls to lend structure to his life.
Marcus had prevailed upon Zsiga to join him in inspecting the place by convincing him that from a military standpoint it behooved him to study such a fortification. Zsiga frowned this way and that, uttering belittling comments about what he saw. Like all Magori, he was uneasy surrounded by solid walls. In an inner compound they came across a group of men exercising some horses. Marcus paused, Zsiga mustered the scene critically. Among the herd was a spotless white stallion, with a thoroughbred conformation. He was easily a hand taller than the rest, tossing his head in a spirited fashion, legs dancing, the long, white mane flowing behind like a flag.
“Now that is a quality horse,” Marcus said admiringly.
“Too big and heavy,” Zsiga said, spitting into the dust. The Magori horses were small but hardy. “Will tire quickly, lugging around all that horseflesh.” Marcus was beginning to doubt Zsiga’s horse sense; the animal looked perfect. “Besides, in battle, it’s too white, would make the rider too conspicuous, sure to invite arrows.” Marcus nodded, in a battle it was best not to stand out.
Later in the evening around a feast hosted by the headman, the topic came up. “And your earthwork really protects you?” Toma asked, with the customary derision the nomads had for people living in fixed settlements.
“Yes. Leastwise most times,” the chief answered, his hand sweeping to include the town around him. “It’s a good place, high, with steep sides and only a narrow approach.” He took a drink and sent half a mouthful into the corner in honor of a Celtic deity, before continuing, “I’d rather be here . . . than in the open.”
“But the Romans . . .” Marcus broke into the conversation, egged on by national pride.
“Yes. The Romans have many infernal siege engines,” the chieftain’s face turned sour, “and not even a stone city can stand against them.” His expression became defiant again. “But these walls are still good enough to give the barbarians pause.”
Yes, the barbarians . . . the conversation lulled. On the Frontier they were always in one’s mind. Marcus, who had not yet seen one, nonetheless felt the threat of them and instinctively looked east toward the river and beyond it to the unknown. Well this is what Septimus and he wanted, to hide in a sort of no-man’s land, ready to jump either way as the situation warranted.
“They will come,” the chieftain said matter-of-factly, “if not this year than the next. The Roman presence will not hold them back forever. And then I’ll feel the comfort of these walls, higher than arrows can fly, and on top, a wall of shields will await the enemy.” His Celtic blood flamed into his face.
The thought of hostile action pleased Toma. He hit his chest resolutely. “Let them come. They’ll find me and my horses ready.” His eyes sparkled, the scars on his face visibly reddened, and unconsciously his hands sought out the haft of his sword.
The chief laughed. “But not tonight I hope. I have this amphora of fine wine to serve you and would rather not be disturbed while sharing it.” He motioned to a servant who left on the errand. Toma suppressed a frown of annoyance. The Magori did not like the thin wine, longing for some kumis. But etiquette demanded that the host be gracious and the guests be appreciative. That much both their cultures had in common.
The servant returned and filled the drinking horns with the crimson liquid. The chief spat the first mouthful, the gods’ share, into the corner and motioned for them to drink up. Marcus smacked his lips in anticipation, but to his surprise, found the beverage insipid after the strong taste of kumis. “I am becoming a Magori . . .” he told himself, astounded. Still, by the second cup he forgot about it, warmed by the quick glow of the liquid. Full of food and wine, he soon fell asleep where he sat, his companions easing him onto the ground and covering him with his cloak. From time to time he woke briefly, catching a snatch of the conversation still going on.
