Sarum - Edward Rutherfurd [144]
Classicianus frowned.
“Yes,” he replied sharply. “And I am the procurator whereas you are here only on sufferance.”
Porteus blushed.
“I see what you have done,” Classicianus went on more gently. “Your work here is excellent. But we must not allow the natives to think that we do not take proper care of the lands entrusted to us. You must continue here for two or three years at least. Your reward will come in time.”
Two or three years! To Porteus it seemed a lifetime. In two or three years would Lydia still be there? He knew very well that she would not.
Seeing his dismay, Classicianus added: “We must make a commitment to our work, young man. I myself may spend many years on this island. Perhaps I shall even die here. And I need men I can trust, not fly-by-nights. You’ll get no favourable report, no honour from me if you don’t stick to it here.”
“I wanted to go to Rome,” Porteus sighed.
“Everyone in the empire wants to go to Rome,” the procurator smiled. “But with the present political situation,” he added seriously, “it’s a dangerous place. You’re safer here, if you take my advice.” And he indicated that their interview was at an end.
He left the next day, pausing as he turned on to the road to say: “While you’re here, young man, build yourself a decent house.” Then the little entourage cantered away into the distance.
As Porteus watched them, there were tears in his eyes.
It was two days later that Maeve arrived at Sorviodunum. She was riding a fine chestnut mare; but as she drew close, it was not only the mare that caught Porteus’s attention but a second horse that the girl was leading. It was a magnificent grey stallion, heavy-set, but as good an animal as he had seen on the island. He could not take his eyes off it.
As he stared, he heard the girl laughing.
“Seen a ghost?” she cried.
“The grey,” he replied. “It’s splendid.”
“My father bought it,” she replied. “He told me to ask if you’d like to ride it today.” She smiled mischievously. “If you can, that is!”
He accepted the challenge at once. But even as he swung up into the saddle, she dropped the leading rein and, turning her own horse’s head, she cried: “He’s not as fast as my mare!” and began to race up the path towards the high ground, her red hair streaming behind her.
Porteus laughed. Very well, if the girl wanted a race she could have one, he thought. He gave her one hundred paces start and then set after her.
To his surprise, he found that she was still pulling away from him. The big grey, strong as he was, was carrying a new rider and the track was steep; the fleet chestnut mare ahead, despite the fact that the girl was riding side saddle, was faster.
“She looks like the goddess Epona,” he murmured.
Indeed, with her long, flying hair, the girl did resemble the horse goddess, beloved by both Celts and Romans, and often depicted as a wild woman riding side saddle on a prancing steed.
“She’s wedded to her horse,” he thought admiringly.
From ahead, above the sound of the horses’ hoofs, he could hear her taunting laughter. She gained the top of the hill well ahead of him, circled the dune, and rode swiftly north west across the high ground.
On the plateau, he found that his stallion could gain on her; it was superbly strong. But they had still covered half the distance to the ruined henge before he drew level.
They slowed to a canter, then a walk. Both horses and riders were panting.
“You took your time, Roman,” she cried. “But I slowed up to let you catch me.”
He began to protest, then saw that the girl was laughing at him. Her eyes were sparkling. The thin linen shirt she was wearing had been half pulled off, either by accident or design; her shoulder was bare and he could see the top of one of her breasts. She was indeed a Celtic beauty.
As she stared at him, Maeve noticed the little beads of sweat running down into the soft hairs of his chest, and saw the hard excitement in his eyes. For a moment, she saw, he began instinctively to lean across to kiss her then, remembering that she was the daughter of the local