Free Eagle's Honour by Rosemary Sutcliff Page A

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 Gavrusshifted 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.’
    ‘And what was it?’
    ‘One of the Auxiliaries earned himself the Corona Civica.’
    ‘Sa ha! ‘Tisn’t often
that
goes to an Auxiliary. No offence, ‘tisn’t often it goes to anybody, come to that. Any idea who it was?’
    ‘One of the fire-eating Dacians. I’ve an idea it was the pennant-bearer.’ Hirpinius turned quickly to the stranger in their midst. ‘Fools that we are! Of course you’re the one who’d be knowing….’ He checked, his eyes suddenly widening at what he saw in Aracos’s face, his mouth ajar.
    But it was one of the Auxiliaries who said in a tone of awed discovery, ‘It was you, wasn’t it?’
    The Corona Civica, the highest award for personal bravery under the Eagles! They were all staring at him now. ‘You?’ someone said incredulously. ‘You!’
    Something flickered far behind the horse breeder’s eyes. For a moment he hesitated, then shrugged. ‘You could say I earned it – yes.’ There was a note of bitter amusement in his tone, as though he laughed inwardly at an ugly jest against himself.
    ‘But man! Why keep it under your helmet! It isn’t exactly a thing to be ashamed of!’
    ‘I’ve no special reason to talk about it.’
    ‘No reason – Oh, come on, lad, don’t pretend you’re not human.’
    ‘See now,’ Aracos said, ‘I’m out from under the Eagles’ Wings, and all that is in the past. A circle of gilt oak leaves doesn’t carry any weight in the hill horse-runs. Let’s drop it.’
    But Gavrus, who seemed the leader