The Test of Gold

Roman tribune Marcus Valerius is sent to Britannia on what appears to be a very dull mission: to collect the gold left to Rome by a recently-deceased British king. But the lovely but intimidating widow Boudica warns Marcus, "Gold belongs to the gods." The spell she weaves around him spins a web of war and intrigue that leads from the mists of history into a very familiar myth.

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Reviews

"Sixteen tales of alternate military history by Elizabeth Moon, Brad Linaweaver, Esther Friesner, and other accomplished sf and fantasy authors provide a wide variety of historical speculation in a collection of "what-if" tales that deserves a wide readership. A good choice where "theme" anthologies are popular." -- Library Journal

Excerpt

The old man lowered himself carefully onto the couch. Every day the pain in his belly grew worse. By winter he'd be at rest in the tomb of his ancestors beside the Appian Way. He'd had a long life, as soldier and merchant, and if Mars, Mercury, and Mithras called him, so be it. But there was something he had to finish first.

Through the opening of the atrium he could just see Caligula's old bridge between the Palatine and the Capitoline, a hard marble angle against the glare of the summer sky. A beam of sunlight touched the door of the room. The air was warm and still. Even so he felt cool, as though the rectangular porphyry panels and columns of his home exuded a chill.

Unless it was simply the memory of chill. He leaned closer to his table, spread out the scroll, and started to read what he'd already written.

Ave. I was named C. Marcus Valerius after my father and tutored by the best Greek slaves. At the age of twenty, in the sixth year of the reign of Nero Augustus, I was made a military tribune and assigned to the staff of Catus Decianus, procurator of the province of Britannia. My mother and sisters wept to see me off to the very edge of the earth, but my father reminded me I was now beginning a brilliant career.

The road through Gaul was long. The farther north I went the colder the wind grew and the more sullen the rain. But the coarse humor of my little band of legionaries never faltered. One auxiliary from Iberia, called Ebro after his native river, jested even with me. At first I took offense. Then I realized that Ebro had many campaigns beneath his corselet, while I had none, and I learned to return gibe for gibe.

By the time we took ship across a rough gray sea and landed in Britannia I was wet through, unshaven, muddied from boot to helmet. And yet I could do no less than to press on, doing my duty, with that Roman honor which brought us not only an empire but the will to rule it.