Pagan Curse (Tribes of Britain Book 2)

by Sam Taw

  The dance was long and tiresome, involving all the women of their tribe. Idina led the way, while her hand maids held onto what should have been a tiny tail of her hair. Osbert’s first wife held the hair of one maid, and so the train of ladies grew. More wives holding on and dancing their way around the gathering until all the women were collected. Despite the weather, Idina led them outside to gather more tribeswoman to the dance. Some of the men followed them, stamping their feet and cheering, while watching the younger and older women flit about.

  Cade sat next to a scowling Osbert, speaking in a low and respectful manner. I guessed that when he pointed towards Suliaman, he was explaining the reason for our urgent quest.

  That was when Osbert’s eyes widened, his nostrils flared and he rose from his bench with a puffed-out chest. “You brought a cursed foreigner onto our land?” This he bellowed until all the drummers and pipers stopped playing and the elder men turned around.

  “It’s not that kind of curse, Osbert, more of a targeted illness. Only he was affected.” Cade reasoned, following the Chief across the tent towards the Prince. They stared each other down for an uncomfortable time before Osbert deigned to speak.

  “I have nothing against you personally, you understand, but you cannot stay here. I have my entire tribe to protect, and your curse could devastate what I have spent years building. You may take fresh horses and grain from us, but be gone by nightfall.”

  That was our cue to leave, before the Chief decided that it was better to be safe than sorry, and lop off all our heads. I grabbed my things and called to Jago. Tallack signalled Maleek and got everyone from our group moving.

  Only Cade was left standing in the centre of the tent. “Osbert, with the curse in mind, it is safer that Idina stays here until I can return for her. You wouldn’t want her wrapped up with this foreign witchcraft, would you?”

  Osbert narrowed his eyes. He was still panting with indignation, but we could all see the logic in Cade’s suggestion. I felt sure the old man would agree to the condition, but he snarled at his new son, baring his few remaining teeth.

  “If this is your idea of wriggling out of the binding, just because you botched the ceremony, think again. Idina comes with you, along with her household and dowry treasures. Bring her back to me when you can boast a son of your own to rule when you’re dead.” A vessel in his forehead pulsed, his face was darker red than oxblood such was his temper. And these were peaceable people? I dreaded to think about those we might meet further north.

  Although the day length had begun to draw out, nightfall was not far away. Our troop now consisted of one sick old Phoenician and his son, two green warriors, a new bride and her handmaids, plus an old woman and her lame slave. I shook my head at us all. We couldn’t have looked more like victims if we tried. Suliaman’s men did their best to appear fierce and surround us, but their numbers were limited. Renowden complained to Tallack that he couldn’t possibly catch enough food for all the mouths we now had to feed. Cade sulked at his tearful wife, and rode on ahead to find a suitable campsite.

  At least while we trod Catuve lands, we were relatively safe from raiders. All in the tribe knew Idina by sight. She was the key to our fortunes through this massive region. We pitched the tents that Osbert had provided and staked out the hurdles for windbreaks against the barren land. The wind whistled through the gaps and fanned the flames of the large central fire.

  The idol was lifted from the wagon and set down before the flames.

  Idina curled up her lip in confusion. “What is it?” She called to me, thinking that I was in the best position to answer.

  “It is the vessel of Melkarth, God of all our gods. We summon him to keep the Curse of Byblos at bay and to take the pain in my stead.” It was Suliaman who answered. Idina, I could see, was brimming with more questions but too intimidated to ask them. Pity, for I would have relished the chance to learn more and Suliaman seemed most open to explaining to her. It helped that she was young and beautiful and highly impressionable. Old men like him always grant the young pretty ones their favour. Stupid dolts.

  I glanced over at the grinning, long-armed idol. He was one ugly god. It made me uneasy to think that Suliaman had the power to bring the spirit of his most revered god into a clay figure. Did he also have some kind of evil magic lurking within him. I was used to the tricks and games of our own Priest Sect. They could be explained away easily enough, when you saw behind the showmanship and staged antics. Their fondness for hemp and poppy resin baked their brains until any observant person could see through their rituals.

  Suliaman had no such tricks that I could see. I burned out his foot rot without him uttering a whimper. Either he was in league with his gods, or he had more powerful magic than we could begin to imagine. The question remained, were his gods benevolent or wicked?

  I moved myself from the fire and retired to the shelter. I’d seen and heard enough sacrifices and chanting over that idol to last me a good long while. Jago came with me, but sat bolt upright in the doorway trembling as Suliaman started the ritual. Whatever he was saying in his language, it terrified my slave.

  By morning, the snow had started to melt. We packed up the camp and set off for the lowland plains of the Catuves. We’d trotted along for nigh on a quarter moon, camping in sheltered dells, wooded valleys and near clean waters and still we had not left Idina’s borders. She had taken to riding alongside me on the trails. Jago had a horse of his own and garnered much attention from her handmaids. He seemed to like it so I left him to their giggles and questions. The new bride was not as cheery as they.

  “I heard you crying in your shelter last night, Idina. Does Cade hurt you? I have plenty of willow…”

  “No, it’s not that. I mean, he is a great lump and I don’t much like him, but no, he doesn’t hurt me.” She toyed with the hair of her horse’s mane, distracted.

  I had nothing better to do and so pressed further. “Why the tears? Do you miss your family that much?”

  She stared into the distance and heaved a massive sigh. “Not my family…just…”

  I comprehended it all. The tears, the sad pout and wistful stares, she was in love, and not with Cade. I stifled a cackle and fetched some mallow seed disks from my kit. “Here, chew on a few of these. That’ll cure the melancholy for a time.”

  At length we came upon a large area of scant soils and rocky outcrops. The horses struggled to pull the wagon along the track, making us alter our course to accommodate them. It took us through rugged valley floors and scrambling over jagged stones until a couple of our ponies went lame. Jago was back sharing my horse and we had enough meat to last us for a moon or more.

  “We are passing into the Coritani lands now. You should swap the flag of pilgrims for my banners or they might attack.” Idina said, gesturing to a maid to pass her blue swatch to Cade. It hadn’t occurred to me that she would prove an asset. Until then, she and her maids were more reasons to slow us down.

  She kicked out at her horse and cantered to the front of the line. Whatever she told her husband, we veered from the path and took a north-westerly route instead.

  The following day, Cade led us all north once more. The hills grew steeper and did nothing but hinder our progress. Suliaman was suffering from another one of his poorly spells. A quick visit to the rear of the cart told me that his healer had dosed him once again.

  Maleek intercepted me this time. “He grows weak, Meliora. He won’t take food, his sores fester, his ulcers worsen. Resin is all he will accept.”

  I’d tried every remedy I could think of and more besides. Nothing seemed to turn the symptoms around. Perhaps the sacrifices to the idol were working at the start of our journey, but they did nothing for him now. “It must be a fearsome powerful witch who laid this at his feet.” I said, trying to judge Maleek’s receptiveness. “What brought this whole situation about?” I was careful how I approached him, avoiding words that would lay blame on his father.

  Maleek thought for a w
hile looking to Jago for his services in translating, but the subterfuge no longer held power. We all knew that both he and his father spoke our language well, and I held a grudge over the lie. It didn’t stop me from pressing them both for answers to my questions.

  Maleek cleared his throat and began. “We Phoenicians are a proud people who work hard and travel incredible distances to trade. That is what we are known for and so learning languages is of critical importance. My peoples’ wealth grew from a skill in making fabric dyes, trading cedar wood and creating fine glassware. From those things, we learned how to work metals, increasing their value to trade partners.” Maleek paused and took a gulp of fresh water from a bladder hooked to his horse before continuing.

  “There is no land called Phoenicia. We are one people, of course, but we have cities in many hot places next to the sea. My father ruled one such city which shared the same stretch of water as two others further north. For many years, my family grew fat on the trades of our Tyrian violet dye, made from the crushed shells of the rock sea snail. Our divers went out daily, whether seas were rough or calm, to harvest more for the fine linen rolls which were sold to the richest people in the land. That same violet purple is what you see my father wearing. It is the colour of …” Maleek stumbled over the word. “It is the colour of the leader of a vast tribe.”

  I listened patiently, wondering how the curse came about, but still intrigued by the descriptions of his homeland.

  “One day, there was a bad storm. The waves crashed against the beaches and flooded parts of the city. Homes were battered and lives lost, ships wrecked and the seabed churned. When the collectors went out after the storm, the snails were gone, washed out to sea.”

  I could see where this was heading and I wondered just what Suliaman did to secure a new harvest.

  “The Tyrians ventured further along the coast, checking lagoons and rocky outcrops for a new supply, but they met with resistance from those collectors belonging to the City of Sidon. As the number of snails declined, fighting broke out between people from each settlement. Many died in the conflict, until the ruler of Sidon called a truce so that they could arrange talks between the cities’ rulers. My father agreed to be the host, decorating the terraces and verandas with linens and olive trees for shade, having their favourite dishes made from Sidon and Byblos, and even commissioning statues in honour of their god and goddess, Baal and Astarte. The ruler of Sidon brought his sons, daughters and his wife, the High Priestess of Byblos. He had forged an alliance with the ruler of his neighbouring city by binding with the man’s daughter. Together they argued with my father over the shoreline and the right to harvest the snails.”

  I could hardly bear the tension. Maleek took another sip of water. It was thirsty work recounting the hardships of his family. He volunteered the rest without the need for prompting.

  “The row broke out when we were all on our most beautiful terrace with a glorious view over the ocean. The son of Sidon squabbled with my father, calling him many unkind and untruthful names and accusing him of stealing the shells from their collectors. My father struck him and the man toppled over the edge of the balustrade, smashing his skull open on the rocks beneath.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  There was no need for him to complete his story. I’d already guessed how it ended. Nevertheless, Maleek concluded the tale.

  “At first, everyone present could not speak, the shock was too great. The Prince and heir to Sidon was dead and by my father’s hand. That was when the High Priestess of Byblos swiped her pointed nails across his face and spat into the wounds she had inflicted. She summoned a curse so potent that there was no doubt in our minds that he would suffer the worst kind of fate. She said that the misery would linger and wipe out our entire family unless he made amends.”

  “And did he?” I asked unashamedly, enthralled by the tale.

  “He tried. We gave up the best snail grounds and paid tribute to their deities by building a temple to Baal. Initially, we thought he had escaped the priestess’ wrath, but then he grew sick.”

  “And he was forced to give up leadership and seek healers to fix him?”

  I watched the glimmer of hope fade from his dark eyes. His nod seemed so final, so dejected, so lost. A part of me felt relieved knowing the full story. I had built it up in my mind as the workings of evil demons after a wicked act. Suliaman was no more a demon than I, and probably a lot less violent than our own Chieftains. It made me wonder what the priestess did to him when she scratched his face. Had she laced her nails with a poison so that it worked its way slowly through his body?

  For the rest of that day, I pondered this and rejected it as false. My own experience of poison tells me that if you survive the first quarter moon, you’re likely to recover fully. Unless, of course, you’re in constant contact with the stuff like those down at the mines near to Land’s End.

  When we made camp, Idina stood between Cade and Tallack as they indulged in ale and banter.

  “Move aside woman, we were talking.” Cade fumed, catching her by the hipbone and shoving her out of his view.

  “You are taking us fully north, when you should be heading west.” She said, straining against his arm.

  “What would you know about it? We have to go north to the stones.” Cade laughed, treating her like she was addled. He pulled a face to Tallack who smiled his response.

  “Go north and you stray into Brigantes territory, then may the gods help us. Your Prince will not last the time it takes to avoid them. Your horses are too weak to pull him over the mountains and trust me when I say that those hills are not a patch on the massive peaks at the top of the world.”

  Cade tittered, until he saw the look on Tallack’s face. Her reasoning was sound, even if Cade did not understand.

  My nephew called to his shipmate, Renowden. “You’ve sailed all the way around this great land haven’t you, Ren?”

  The old sea dog ambled over and stood with a rabbit pelt swinging from one hand and a filthy blade in the other. “Aye. Right round and jumped islands too.”

  “Are the mountains as big as those from the Ordoviches Tribe in Kembra?” Tallack looked pensive, awaiting the answer.

  “Bigger, I’d say. It’s tough up there, that’s for sure.” Renowden threw his knife into the soggy mud and sat on a rock.

  Tallack glanced at Idina. “If we go west, isn’t there just as much chance of meeting another unfriendly tribe?”

  “There is, yes, but they are fewer in number and the terrain easier to walk. If we get to the coast, there are many fishermen with reasonable sized boats. You can sail the rest of the way for a little gold or tin in exchange.” Idina smiled at Tallack, looking him up and down. He was a fine young man by any standards. He attracted just about any woman, or man in his vicinity. Compared to the squat Cade, he must have seemed a much better proposition for the daughter of a great Chieftain. I sighed, anticipating more drama further ahead.

  It was our best option by far, and yet Cade seemed determined to derail her. “The Prince gets seasick. It may well kill him to go by sea.”

  Tallack leapt to Idina’s defence. “He’ll have to cross the ocean to get to the stones on the island off the Skotek coast anyway. He won’t make it if it takes us another two moons to trek over the mountains. Aunt Mel can give him plenty of herbs to stave off the sickness.”

  Cade growled and cursed under his breath, knowing full well that his voice was not that of the leader. Tallack had made up his mind. He went in search of Maleek, to communicate the altered plans.

  The relief of shortening our journey had a profound effect on our travelling party. Warriors laughed and talked together around a fire of their own, Maleek and Tallack drank and caroused, while Idina and I settled to stitching furs together from Renowden’s treated collection of pelts.

  When the Prince was well enough to receive the news, he seemed to visibly brighten. He took a little food and ale and strengthened to the point where he asked to be lifted in hi
s chair to the fireside. Idina leaned on the carved wooden board that the Prince had gifted to her as she stitched. I could not help but admire the markings on its surface. When she lifted a pelt next, I slipped it from her knees. Tracing my fingers over the evenly spaced markings, I tried to make sense of the peculiar scratches.

  The Prince caught me entranced. “You like the votive panel, Fur Benyn?”

  “I do. It’s fine work. I like the swirls and tracery around the edges, but I don’t understand why there are so many different scratches made in rows.” They were uniform in depth and some were repeated with gaps in between.

  “This is how we mark our speech in our homeland. Those scratches form words so that we can record our history, our trades and send messages great distances.” The Prince said with a self-satisfied smile. “Do you not record your language here?”

  I shook my head, marvelling at the ingenuity. “We tell our stories to the younger people in the tribe. Sometimes they are sung. We have no need to mark bits of wood. We speak to messengers who then ride to another clan.”

  “What about your ancestors? How will people remember them?” He asked, perplexed by our ways.

  “We honour them at the midsummer gatherings where their songs are sung and tales told. They are great celebrations of life and death, most often between clans from the same tribe but every few cycles all the tribes are represented at Stonehenge on the borders of the Durotriges land.”

  Suliaman gave me a slow respectful nod. I could see that he thought this an inefficient use of time and efforts, but to learn all those scratches would take even longer in my view. Yet another difference between our cultures. At least he did not claim his way was better than ours.

  Later in the evening, Suliaman performed his own sacrifice over the grinning idol. His health came in fits and starts, some days faltering, other days he was buoyant, but the sacred statue had its fill of blood daily, even when food was scarce.

  Taking a westerly route through the rolling foothills of the Coritani lands, we passed across their border into the western tribe of the Cornovii. Idina advised Tallack to send a scout ahead in search of settlers and tribal campsites, allowing our party to avoid any potential rancour. She instructed Jago to hoist the white flag of pilgrimage over the wagon. I thought this odd, since we’d displayed her own colours throughout the neighbouring lands.