Authors: Rosemary Sutcliff
Eagle's Honour
Contents
Eagle’s Honour
Rosemary Sutcliff
For
all four houses of
Hilsea Modern Girls’ School, Portsmouthv
(my school)
who adopted me like a battleship or a regimental goat
but just a little bit extra
for Sutcliff House
A Circlet of Oak
Leaves
CHAPTER ONE
Outside, a little mean spring wind came siffling up from the river, humming across the parade ground of the great fortress in the dark, and tumbling the garbage along the narrow streets of Isca Silurium, but within the open door of the
Rose and Wine Skin
was lamplight and the warmth of braziers, and a companionable rise and fall of voices.
Three young Auxiliary Cavalrymen stood propped against the high trestle table at the far end, talking to the retired Gaulish Javelin man who kept the place, but each with an ear twitching towards the nearest corner, where a knot of Legionaries with long-service bracelets and faces like tanned harness leather, had pulled two benches together and were setting the world to rights.
‘That’s what I say!’ One of the veterans brought an open hand down on the bench beside him with a slam that set the wine cups jumping. ‘All this talk about the need for more Cavalry is so much moon’s-milk. It’s
us,
the line-of-battle lads that carry the day, every time.’
Another nodded, consideringly. ‘It’s the speed and mobility they’re after, of course.’
And a third laughed into his wine cup. ‘Comes in useful for retreating.’
‘It was just the same, that time the Picts broke through the Northern Wall – the time the Legate was killed. Six or seven wings of Cavalry, the 6th
had with them, when they went up to deal with that lot of blue painted devils, and so far as I can make out the Dacians were the only ones that didn’t run like redshanks at the first sound of the Pictish yell.’
The young Auxiliaries had been listening to all this, staring straight before them. Now, one of them, flushing slowly crimson under his ragged cap of barley-pale hair, stepped out from the rest and edged over to the veterans.
‘I ask pardon, sir,’ he swallowed thickly. ‘My mates and I couldn’t help hearing. You did say, “As far as you could make out?” You weren’t there yourself, then, sir?’
The first veteran looked up, his thick brows shooting towards the roots of his hair. ‘No, I’d a brother there, if it concerns you. He lost a hand when the left flank was crumpled up – it helped him to remember.’
‘I’m sorry, sir, but that – losing a hand, I mean – mightn’t help him remember very clearly.’
One of the group gave a snort of laughter. ‘It’s a Cavalry cub. You’ve hurt his honour, Gavrus.’
‘Too bad, Hirpinius,’ Gavrus said. ‘I’ve had enough of you, my lad. You’re only a little boy, and you don’t know anything yet but what the recruiting officer told you. Everyone knows the Tungrians and the Asturians ran like redshanks. Come back and quarrel with me when you’ve learned to grow a beard!’
There was a roar of laughter from the rest of the Legionaries. The boy’s hands clenched into large knuckled red fists. His mates had begun to come up behind him. At any moment there was going to be trouble, and the wine-shop owner
looked on anxiously. He had been an Auxiliary himself, and quite clearly, whatever happened, the boys were going to get the sticky end of the vine staff.
But at that moment a rangy, loose-limbed man, who had been lounging on the bench nearest the door, unfurled himself lazily and came across to join the group.
‘The Picts fired the heather, and the flames stampeded the horses.’
Everyone turned to stare at him, including the shop’s owner, who knew him well enough: head man to old Lyr the horse breeder, who came down a couple of times a year, with wild-eyed, rough-broken three-year-olds to sell to the garrison horse-master. And the man stared back at them out of slightly widened eyes that seemed pale as rain by contrast with his dark hard-bitten face.
Out of a moment’s startled silence, Gavrus said, ‘And who in Hades are you?’
‘My name is Aracos, for what that’s worth; from Thrace in the beginning, from the hills a day’s trail westward now!’
‘So. And it was fire that stampeded the horses?’
‘Yes.’
‘You were
there,
I suppose?’
‘Yes.’
There was a general gasp, and somebody spluttered into his wine cup.
Then Gavrus, still only half believing, repeated, ‘You
were
there?’
‘I’ve lived long enough to be other things before I was a horse breeder.’
‘Tungrian Cavalry? or Asturian?’
‘Dacian,’ Aracos said, and added obligingly, ‘the ones who didn’t run like redshanks, you know.’
Gavrus took a long swig at his wine, studying him over the rim of the cup all the while, then set it down. ‘Oddly enough, I believe you. Just by way of interest, why
didn’t
the Dacian horses stampede with the rest?’
‘Because the Dacians teach their horses tricks. Haven’t you ever seen a Dacian squadron showing off? Standing on horseback or clinging under the brute’s belly, or leaping them through the flames of a fire-trench? When the Picts’ fire came down on us, our horses were used to the flames, and not afraid.’
The young Auxiliaries looked at each other; one of them whisded under his breath.
‘So simple as that, eh?’ Abrupdy Gavrus
shifted along the bench, his leathery face breaking into a grin. ‘You’ve your cup with you – join us and fill up to show there’s no ill feeling; you too, my bold infants. Hai, Landlord, more wine all round!’ There was a general shifting up to make room, and in a few moments, the Auxiliaries still a little stiff, they were all sitting together, while the shop’s owner himself brought the wine.
Pouring the harsh red stuff into the cup Aracos held out, he said, reproachfully, ‘It must be four – five times you’ve been in here, and never said you were one of us.’
‘You never asked me,’ Aracos said.
Under the warming influence of the wine, the atmosphere was growing friendly, and Aracos felt the warmth of old comradeship and a familiar world drawing him in again, doing more, had he but realised it, than ever the rough Sabine wine could do, to make him unwary….
They talked of girls, the price of barley-beer, the evil-mindedness of Centurions, and so came back again to old battles, to the one particular battle, ten years past.
One of the Legionaries, a dark-faced man more silent than his fellows, looked up abruptly from the depth of his wine cup into which he had been staring. ‘Of course!
That
was it!’
‘Um?’ Gavrus prompted.
‘There was something else about that fight – I was trying to remember what it was.’