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tanaquificTitle: Old Reins, New Hands
Author:tanaquific
Fandom: The Lantern Bearers(Rosemary Sutcliff)
Rating: General
Contains: Nothing beyond canon
Words: 1395 words
Summary: Artos has a plan that may be the saving of Britain. When he seeks out Aquila's help, Aquila discovers he must give up more than mere knowledge—and perhaps gain something new in return. Set between the chapters White Thorn and Yellow Iris and 'Minnow, Dolphin's Son'.
Disclaimer: This story is based on the Rosemary Sutcliff novel The Lantern Bearers. It was written for entertainment only; the author does not profit from it nor was any infringement of copyright intended.
Author's Note: Written forjuliandarling for ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
sutcliff_swap. Thanks to Scribbler (scribblesinink) for the beta.
oOo
"You were a Decurion of Horse once, were you not? Before the last of the Eagles flew from Britain." Artos's voice was light and when Aquila looked round quickly, he saw there was only mild curiosity in other's face. There must have been something in Aquila's own expression though, perhaps the frown between his brows deepening, because Artos gave a small, apologetic shrug. "Ambrosius told me."
Aquila turned away again, directing his gaze back out across the shallow valley in which they had, for a second year, made their summer camp. Dusk was falling, the wave-break of the hawthorn blossoms taking on a ghostly air as the light faded, and he could no longer clearly make out the far end of the horse-lines where Artos's troop had picketed their mounts. Artos and his men had ridden in just before dusk, weary with pursuing the remnants of a Saxon band broken up in a skirmish earlier in the day.
Once it would have been Aquila leading that hunt. These days, his task was to accompany the larger part of the host back to camp, and there hear reports from the scouts and the patrols, and then make plans for the following day's action. To be something a little akin to a primus pilus or praefectus equitum, if truth be told, though they did not use the old ranks.
He sensed Artos's gaze still on him, waiting for a reply. "I was," he confirmed. No sense in denying it, though he feared where Artos's next question might lead.
"I have been thinking," the younger man said, tapping his fingers restlessly on his sword-hilt. "We need more cavalry."
Aquila's mouth twisted into a grim smile. "We always need more men," he pointed out.
"Na." Artos gave a shake of his mouse-fair head. "I do not mean either mounted infantry or more horsemen to guard the flanks of our footsoldiers, but a force in its own right."
Understanding bloomed in Aquila. "Ah, you speak of a Cohors Quingenaria, or something like?"
Artos nodded. "Or something like. Except," his face fell a little, "I do not know even what such a thing was like. When I spoke with Ambrosius, he could tell me the name, and the names of battles from old histories where such cohorts fought, but not the manner of how the thing was done."
"Histories seldom tell such things," Aquila agreed, remembering all of sudden how he had learned more of seafaring in the two bitter crossings in the Sea-Snake than in all his years of reading of Odysseus's adventures. He had not thought of those journeys in a long time; perhaps Artos speaking of the legions, of his own service, had brought them to mind.
Artos nodded again. "Ambrosius told me to ask Valarius, that he would surely know." He laughed a little grimly. "I do not know if he does or not, for he would not tell me. Only that the might of the legions depended on their foot and not their horse, and so should we. So Ambrosius bid me ask you, who were once a Decurion of Horse." He shot Aquila an uncertain look. "If...."
Aquila could hear Ambrosius adding what Artos left unsaid: If he is willing to speak of it. He had not spoken of it: not since that night at Dynas Ffaraon, when he had given an account of himself to Ambrosius and taken on his father's service. Yet now—it was all of a part of the way Ness had taken the bitterness from him when she chose to stay with him—he found he could speak.
"We were not quite such a thing," he said slowly, "when I was a Decurion of Horse. There were scarce a handful of us, in support of a few companies of Marines. But they taught us how such things should be done. And I—." He was aware of the tension in the young man at his side as he spoke, the unvoiced hope, "—I will teach you, if I can."
oOo
Some half a year later, as the last of the leaves drifted down from the alders along the river, Aquila sat astride Inganiad on the bank above the practice ground outside Venta. He huddled deeper into his cloak as he watched Artos lead a small troop of riders in simple patterns across the grass. The lines were still a little ragged as the horses wheeled and thundered below him—but much less so than even a few days before.
The two of them—Artos and Aquila—had talked all summer long, whenever they had chanced to come together in camp. Aquila had dredged up all he knew of tactics and training drills, and all he could remember of his old optio's tales of how things had been once, when Rome had still been strong: stories heard from his own optio when he had been Aquila's age. As Aquila passed on the stories, he had seen something of his own past self in the way Artos leaned forward as he listened, his face lit by more than just the flickering flames of the campfire.
As the summer's heat had given way to the first storms of autumn, Artos had laid his plans before Ambrosius, standing in the room where Ambrosius kept his lists and records and itineraries, and where he planned his campaigns. Aquila had stood a pace behind Artos while he argued his case: for a few handfuls of men, a few score of horses, for a winter, to see what could be made of them. Ambrosius's gaze had flickered for an instant to Aquila when Artos finished speaking, as if seeking confirmation, before he gave his agreement.
So it was that, as most of the army returned homeward, Artos and Aquila sought out the most skilled horsemen and the best mounts and persuaded them to remain behind in Venta. Now, the core of what might one day be a great cavalry wing, but which was, for the moment, scarcely more than a double turmae, circled on the turf below.
With a cry and a raised hand, Artos led the troop around in a sweeping curve and brought them to a halt facing Aquila. The two men exchanged a nod, before Artos dismissed the riders.
"So?" he asked, as he approached Aquila and reined his horse in next to Inganiad.
"So." Aquila was still looking down at where men and horses were milling around. Several of the riders had already dismounted, clearly planning to walk their horses back to the picket lines and cool them down on the way. Aquila frowned, pondering again the changes he planned to suggest, before he lifted his gaze to meet Artos's eager expression. "They do better than yesterday. But must do better still tomorrow." For a moment, Artos's face fell, and Aquila realized his tone must have been more blighting than he had intended. He softened the remark with a smile and added, "But they do well enough for a handful of days on the practice ground."
"Ah, but not good enough yet for the Second Augusta, eh?" Artos reached out an laid a heavy hand on Aquila's shoulder. "Whose Horse, I am sure, sprang forth fully formed in all their perfection from the raw levies...."
Aquila laughed. "Not quite," he admitted, remembering some long, weary days of confusion back when he had been a Decurion: there had been times he and Felix had thought the new troops would never quite learn what they were supposed to do or how to make their mounts do it. He would have liked Felix at his side now, feeling suddenly the responsibility of moulding the men below him into the saving of Britain. Yet the weight of Artos's hand on his shoulder reminded him that he was not alone in this.
"So. And therefore you have some plan for our improvement?" Artos, looking back down at the men and horses now beginning to trail back home, tightened his grip on Aquila's shoulder in a friendly squeeze.
Aquila nodded. "I do." He reached up and clasped Artos's arm briefly, before gathering Inganiad's reins and turning her head back toward the town walls.
A moment later, Artos came alongside. Soon they were deep in another of those long conversation that, over a beaker or two of wine, would last until late into the night.
Author:
tanaquificFandom: The Lantern Bearers(Rosemary Sutcliff)
Rating: General
Contains: Nothing beyond canon
Words: 1395 words
Summary: Artos has a plan that may be the saving of Britain. When he seeks out Aquila's help, Aquila discovers he must give up more than mere knowledge—and perhaps gain something new in return. Set between the chapters White Thorn and Yellow Iris and 'Minnow, Dolphin's Son'.
Disclaimer: This story is based on the Rosemary Sutcliff novel The Lantern Bearers. It was written for entertainment only; the author does not profit from it nor was any infringement of copyright intended.
Author's Note: Written for
juliandarling for sutcliff_swap. Thanks to Scribbler (scribblesinink) for the beta."You were a Decurion of Horse once, were you not? Before the last of the Eagles flew from Britain." Artos's voice was light and when Aquila looked round quickly, he saw there was only mild curiosity in other's face. There must have been something in Aquila's own expression though, perhaps the frown between his brows deepening, because Artos gave a small, apologetic shrug. "Ambrosius told me."
Aquila turned away again, directing his gaze back out across the shallow valley in which they had, for a second year, made their summer camp. Dusk was falling, the wave-break of the hawthorn blossoms taking on a ghostly air as the light faded, and he could no longer clearly make out the far end of the horse-lines where Artos's troop had picketed their mounts. Artos and his men had ridden in just before dusk, weary with pursuing the remnants of a Saxon band broken up in a skirmish earlier in the day.
Once it would have been Aquila leading that hunt. These days, his task was to accompany the larger part of the host back to camp, and there hear reports from the scouts and the patrols, and then make plans for the following day's action. To be something a little akin to a primus pilus or praefectus equitum, if truth be told, though they did not use the old ranks.
He sensed Artos's gaze still on him, waiting for a reply. "I was," he confirmed. No sense in denying it, though he feared where Artos's next question might lead.
"I have been thinking," the younger man said, tapping his fingers restlessly on his sword-hilt. "We need more cavalry."
Aquila's mouth twisted into a grim smile. "We always need more men," he pointed out.
"Na." Artos gave a shake of his mouse-fair head. "I do not mean either mounted infantry or more horsemen to guard the flanks of our footsoldiers, but a force in its own right."
Understanding bloomed in Aquila. "Ah, you speak of a Cohors Quingenaria, or something like?"
Artos nodded. "Or something like. Except," his face fell a little, "I do not know even what such a thing was like. When I spoke with Ambrosius, he could tell me the name, and the names of battles from old histories where such cohorts fought, but not the manner of how the thing was done."
"Histories seldom tell such things," Aquila agreed, remembering all of sudden how he had learned more of seafaring in the two bitter crossings in the Sea-Snake than in all his years of reading of Odysseus's adventures. He had not thought of those journeys in a long time; perhaps Artos speaking of the legions, of his own service, had brought them to mind.
Artos nodded again. "Ambrosius told me to ask Valarius, that he would surely know." He laughed a little grimly. "I do not know if he does or not, for he would not tell me. Only that the might of the legions depended on their foot and not their horse, and so should we. So Ambrosius bid me ask you, who were once a Decurion of Horse." He shot Aquila an uncertain look. "If...."
Aquila could hear Ambrosius adding what Artos left unsaid: If he is willing to speak of it. He had not spoken of it: not since that night at Dynas Ffaraon, when he had given an account of himself to Ambrosius and taken on his father's service. Yet now—it was all of a part of the way Ness had taken the bitterness from him when she chose to stay with him—he found he could speak.
"We were not quite such a thing," he said slowly, "when I was a Decurion of Horse. There were scarce a handful of us, in support of a few companies of Marines. But they taught us how such things should be done. And I—." He was aware of the tension in the young man at his side as he spoke, the unvoiced hope, "—I will teach you, if I can."
Some half a year later, as the last of the leaves drifted down from the alders along the river, Aquila sat astride Inganiad on the bank above the practice ground outside Venta. He huddled deeper into his cloak as he watched Artos lead a small troop of riders in simple patterns across the grass. The lines were still a little ragged as the horses wheeled and thundered below him—but much less so than even a few days before.
The two of them—Artos and Aquila—had talked all summer long, whenever they had chanced to come together in camp. Aquila had dredged up all he knew of tactics and training drills, and all he could remember of his old optio's tales of how things had been once, when Rome had still been strong: stories heard from his own optio when he had been Aquila's age. As Aquila passed on the stories, he had seen something of his own past self in the way Artos leaned forward as he listened, his face lit by more than just the flickering flames of the campfire.
As the summer's heat had given way to the first storms of autumn, Artos had laid his plans before Ambrosius, standing in the room where Ambrosius kept his lists and records and itineraries, and where he planned his campaigns. Aquila had stood a pace behind Artos while he argued his case: for a few handfuls of men, a few score of horses, for a winter, to see what could be made of them. Ambrosius's gaze had flickered for an instant to Aquila when Artos finished speaking, as if seeking confirmation, before he gave his agreement.
So it was that, as most of the army returned homeward, Artos and Aquila sought out the most skilled horsemen and the best mounts and persuaded them to remain behind in Venta. Now, the core of what might one day be a great cavalry wing, but which was, for the moment, scarcely more than a double turmae, circled on the turf below.
With a cry and a raised hand, Artos led the troop around in a sweeping curve and brought them to a halt facing Aquila. The two men exchanged a nod, before Artos dismissed the riders.
"So?" he asked, as he approached Aquila and reined his horse in next to Inganiad.
"So." Aquila was still looking down at where men and horses were milling around. Several of the riders had already dismounted, clearly planning to walk their horses back to the picket lines and cool them down on the way. Aquila frowned, pondering again the changes he planned to suggest, before he lifted his gaze to meet Artos's eager expression. "They do better than yesterday. But must do better still tomorrow." For a moment, Artos's face fell, and Aquila realized his tone must have been more blighting than he had intended. He softened the remark with a smile and added, "But they do well enough for a handful of days on the practice ground."
"Ah, but not good enough yet for the Second Augusta, eh?" Artos reached out an laid a heavy hand on Aquila's shoulder. "Whose Horse, I am sure, sprang forth fully formed in all their perfection from the raw levies...."
Aquila laughed. "Not quite," he admitted, remembering some long, weary days of confusion back when he had been a Decurion: there had been times he and Felix had thought the new troops would never quite learn what they were supposed to do or how to make their mounts do it. He would have liked Felix at his side now, feeling suddenly the responsibility of moulding the men below him into the saving of Britain. Yet the weight of Artos's hand on his shoulder reminded him that he was not alone in this.
"So. And therefore you have some plan for our improvement?" Artos, looking back down at the men and horses now beginning to trail back home, tightened his grip on Aquila's shoulder in a friendly squeeze.
Aquila nodded. "I do." He reached up and clasped Artos's arm briefly, before gathering Inganiad's reins and turning her head back toward the town walls.
A moment later, Artos came alongside. Soon they were deep in another of those long conversation that, over a beaker or two of wine, would last until late into the night.