Guide me, lord, he prayed, knowing that his fate lay in the god's hand. Taranis, protect Your servant!
The boar took them by surprise, lifting suddenly from under a gorse bush, its tusks ripping into Salvius before he had had time to shout. Then it was gone, running westwards, back the way they had come. None of the javelins they threw touched it.
Medullinus swore, and dropped to his knees beside the writhing, screaming soldier. The boar's tusk had laid open the length of his thigh, and blood was pumping out onto the grass in a steady stream. Pulling back his arm, the centurion drove the pommel of his sword hard into the man's jaw, and the screaming stopped. He looked up and round, trying to ignore the fear that clawed at his gut.
‘Fetch me a stick,’ he snapped. Then, when no one moved, 'Jupiter! Are you all deaf? Find me an effing stick!'
Quickly, without bothering to make sure the order had been obeyed, he undid the man's kerchief and tied it round the leg above the wound, placing a pebble against the artery on the inside of the thigh to concentrate the pressure. A pale-faced squaddie handed him a length of broken branch and he tightened the tourniquet until the bleeding stopped. Then he bound up the gash as best he could with his own kerchief, sat back on his heels and tried to collect himself before raising his eyes to meet those of his troop.
They were gathered round, watching him, their faces expressionless. Several had their hands clenched in the sign against witchcraft and strong magic.
Medullinus spat from a dry mouth. 'It was a boar, lads,' he said quietly, careful to keep his voice from shaking. 'Nothing else. Just a bloody boar.' He tried a grin that didn't work. 'Salvius always was unlucky.'
There was no answer. Some of the men shifted nervously. Finally Lucrio, the big Sicilian with the pucker of an old knife-scar running the length of his cheek, cleared his throat.
'I was looking, Centurion,’ he said. ‘One minute it wasn't there, the other it effing was. And it made straight for Salvius. The poor bugger didn't stand a chance.'
Medullinus swallowed back the coldness that was seeping up from his own stomach.
'Shove it, Lucrio,' he said. 'It was an accident. Pure bad luck. The bastard came out from under a bush and Salvius was the first one it saw.' His voice sharpened. 'Jupiter alive, you pack of windy buggers, what the hell's wrong with you all?'
'Where's it now, then, Centurion?' Quirinius, the young squaddie who had brought him the stick, was showing the whites of his eyes.
'Where would it be, you fool? Half an effing mile off and still running! You saw it go yourselves!' Medullinus was aware that he was shouting. He closed his eyes momentarily. Back in control, he stood up and pointed at random. 'Chlorus. Senex. Make a stretcher, javelins and cloaks. You're to take him back while the rest of us go on.'
'Not much bloody point in that, is there?' Lucrio muttered.
Medullinus rounded on him, anger driving out the fear. 'And just what the hell's that supposed to mean?'
The big Sicilian looked at him sideways. 'You said it yourself, Centurion. We'd be wasting our time. The bastard's half a mile off by now in the other direction.'
Medullinus's jaw set. He turned slowly on his heel, his eyes raking the circle. The soldiers shifted, none of them meeting his gaze.
'That's enough of that,' he growled at last. 'Move it. And keep your eyes skinned, the lot of you, because now we're running blind.'
Dumnocoveros left the forest behind and entered the broad open stretch of boggy meadowland that was the island's northern edge. A few hundred yards more would bring him to the reed beds that stretched out into the waters of the strait. There, with the god's continued help, he could lie hidden until dark. After that...
Behind him, someone shouted. Dumnocoveros glanced over his shoulder as the first of the Wolves emerged from the screen of trees barely two hundred yards away: eight men, armed with javelins. Panic caught at his throat, driving the breath from his lungs.
Taranis, he prayed. Help me!
Stumbling over the tussocky grass, splashing through pools fringed with bullrushes, Dumnocoveros ran for his life. He had no illusions about escaping: even if he were lucky enough to avoid a javelin in the back before he reached the shelter of the reeds he would have no time to hide, and the Wolves would not give up now they had him in sight.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something shoot into the air with a bubbling trill of notes. He looked up. The wren was skimming across the boggy ground to his right, weaving a course between the pools. Without pausing to think, Dumnocoveros swerved and followed. He glanced behind and saw the Wolves turn also, taking a course that would intersect with his. He increased his speed and felt his lungs burn with the effort. Ahead, a wall of reeds lifted high across his path. He burst through them...
And suddenly there was no ground, only water; deep, ice-cold water that closed above his head. For an instant he panicked. Then his feet found a purchase and he stood upright.
The water came no higher than his shoulder. He had fallen into a steep-sided ditch, less than a body's-length wide, that ran inland from the open strait and formed the western border of a broad stretch of mossy bogland. This was the end. Although he was screened for the moment by the reeds at his back, the protection they offered was no more than temporary. To go on, across the open bog, would be madness. He had only two choices left, to follow the line of reeds inland, or north towards their seaward edge, and with the Wolves so close behind either way would be fatal.
He was dead, and he knew it.
Inland it would have to be. Perhaps Taranis would raise a mist to hide him from the soldiers. Nothing else, now, could help him. He set his palms to the ditch's edge, pushing his body upwards and out of the water...
The whole bank dipped and sank beneath the surface. He lurched sideways, unbalanced for a moment, then steadied himself, unable to believe the evidence of his own eyes. As the pressure of his hand relaxed, the ground beneath the spreading fingers rose again to its former level.
He looked up. The wren was beside him, perched on a still-quivering but now sodden clump of moss. It ducked its head and spoke a hard, churring phrase.
Dumnocoveros stared. Then, as his eyes and brain cleared, he laughed.
Thank you, Lord!
He had been a fool. He was safe, after all; the god had given him the perfect hiding place. This was no ditch; he was standing within the western edge of a deep inlet, a finger of the sea itself. What he had taken for solid ground was nothing but a huge, floating mat of compacted moss that had grown out across it, covering its surface from one side to the other. And if he had been deceived, then surely so would the Wolves be.
Quickly, he took the knife from his belt and cut one of the reeds, lopping off a section the length of his forearm. Clutching the hollow reed together with his knife, he filled his lungs and eased himself, face up, beneath the floating mat until it covered him completely. This close to its edge it was no more than a hand-span thick, and the knife went through it easily. He pushed the reed into the hole and, with the last of the air in his lungs, blew the tube clear.
The water that surrounded him was bitterly cold, but it was a coldness that could be mastered. Tucked safe beneath his spreading blanket, joined to the upper air only by the slender tube of the reed, Dumnocoveros waited.
Above his head Taranis's bird rose singing and flew off towards the woods.
8.
The hut door slammed open, sending smoke from the hearth billowing around the room. Brocomaglos, intent on fixing an arrowhead to a new ash-wood shaft, glanced up. Tigirseno stood in the open doorway glaring at him, ignoring the startled faces of his mother and sisters on the women's side of the fire.
Brocomaglos forced himself to carry on with the task, slipping the iron tang into its groove and binding it in place with a length of twine. He knew what was coming; he had expected it. Carefully, he tied the knot and pulled it tight with his teeth. Only then did he raise his eyes to meet his son's.
'Close the doo
r, boy,' he said quietly. 'There's a draft.'
Tigirseno's foot lashed out. The door thudded home against the jambs.
'The Romans have sent men to Estuary Island,' he said.
'Aye.' Brocomaglos laid the arrow aside. 'I know.'
'You told them where to go.' The boy's face was red with fury. 'Didn't you?' Then, when there was no answer: 'Didn't you?'
'I told them.'
'Sweet Lord Taranis!' Tigirseno's clenched fist slammed against the door post. Still Brocomaglos did not react.
'Your father had no choice, Tigirseno.' Matugena laid a hand on her younger daughter's head. The child's eyes were round as an owl's as she stared at her brother. 'The Romans already knew the holy one was here. If he hadn't told them where to look the whole tribe would have suffered.'
'And would that be worse than what he's brought on us himself?' Tigirseno's finger stabbed out. 'We're cursed, Mother! If the holy one dies his blood will be on all our heads!'
'He may not die at all.' Senovara had been stitching a torn cloak. Now she picked it up again and thrust the needle through the cloth. 'He may escape.'
Tigirseno turned on her. 'And if he does that would excuse us? Senovara, our father has betrayed a Druid! There's no worse crime than that! None!'
'He came here uninvited.' The girl's voice was cool.
'Since when does a holy one need permission to travel where the gods tell him to go? His presence is honour enough for any tribe!'
Senovara said nothing, but the line of her lips stiffened.
'Tigirseno, listen to me.' Brocomaglos was still speaking quietly. 'Your mother's right. I had no choice. The Romans would have sent soldiers, taken hostages, tortured them if they had to. The secret could not be kept. When the Druid had been found and killed they would have come back, and more would have died. That is truth, and you know it.'
'Truth!' Tigirseno spat the word. 'No one would have told, Father, even under torture! As for the soldiers, we could have fought them. Not all of us are cowards. There are warriors left among the Trinovantes, even if their chief has forgotten how to fight.'
Matugena sucked in her breath, and Senovara glanced up sharply. A log on the hearth shifted, releasing a cloud of sparks.
Brocomaglos rose to his feet, his eyes on his son's, his face dark with anger. Without a word he reached up to the neck of his tunic and jerked his hand downwards. The tunic tore to the waist and gaped open, revealing the long, puckered scar that ran from collar-bone to ribs.
Father and son stared at each other.
'Has he, indeed, now?' Brocomaglos said softly. 'Tigirseno, your mouth is too big for your wits. Don't talk to me of forgetting, or of fighting Romans.'
Tigirseno lowered his eyes, but his fists were still clenched at his sides, the knuckles white.
'Father, I didn't mean–' he said.
'Aye, but you did, though. You know you did.' Brocomaglos covered up the scar as best he could and sat down again. 'There are no cowards in this house, or on the Dun.'
'Perhaps not, but–'
'Perhaps nothing! Even to think of fighting the Romans is senseless, Tigirseno. We've fought them already, we and the other tribes, and for all the Druids' promises and their spells and curses we lost. Does that tell you nothing, you fool?'
Tigirseno felt the anger rise cold in his belly. He looked at his father, hating the man's hypocrisy; scar or no scar, Brocomaglos was afraid; his fear shouted itself in every word he spoke.
'What should it tell me?' he said. 'We were beaten once. That doesn't mean we will always be beaten.'
Brocomaglos's huge brows came down. 'Aye, if we'd been beaten only once, and narrowly, then I might agree with you. Or if when we fought we had lacked the courage or the skill or the leadership to win. But we've fought Rome often enough with all those things behind us, and still we've lost. That is fact, and fact it remains.'
'Prince Caratacos fought and won. He would still be fighting if the Brigantian queen hadn't betrayed him.'
Brocomaglos sighed. 'Tigirseno, Caratacos proves my point,' he said. 'He was the best we had, a great warrior and a great leader. But to the Romans he was only a hindrance. Now he's in Rome, kept alive for their emperor's pleasure like a dancing bear. I ask you again, does that tell you nothing, or are you too blind or stupid to understand?'
'Perhaps what it tells me is that to keep the halter round our necks Rome needs the help of her good British friends.'
Brocomaglos stared at him.
'Holy Camulos!’ he said. ‘Are you accusing me of treachery as well as cowardice? My own son?'
'He meant no such thing,' Matugena gave Tigirseno a quick look.
'Did he not?' Brocomaglos's eyes had not left his son's face. 'Then let him say so himself.'
Tigirseno swallowed, but his expression did not relax. 'My father heard me clear enough,' he said. 'The Wolves' strength lies in our own weakness. How many are they, Father? Twenty thousand? Thirty? For each of them there are a hundred of us, more. If the tribes rose together–'
'Then they would be fools. And very soon they would be dead fools.'
'To be a dead fool is better than to be a live coward!'
'Holy gods, Tigirseno!' Brocomaglos's fist slammed down. 'I have seen these Romans fight!'
'And Caratacos saw them run!' Tigirseno was shouting now. 'But then Caratacos was a warrior, while you, Father, are nothing but a–!'
'That's enough!' Matugena had risen to her feet. Her right hand smashed hard across Tigirseno's cheek.
Mother and son stared at each other while the silence lengthened. Then, without a word, Tigirseno turned away. Pausing only to snatch up a hunting spear from the rack against the wall, he wrenched the door open and ran outside.
He ran without thinking, blindly, past the barking Durnos and on towards the gate of the Dun. All the way, his cheek burned where Matugena had slapped it, and he felt shame for his father's cowardice and hypocrisy clutch at his throat. Coward! Coward and traitor! What was the Wolves' power measured against that of the gods? Nothing! Less than nothing!
The thought drove out the shame and filled him with the same joy he had felt when he had seen the dead wolf in the grove. When the tribes rose, as they must surely do if the gods had foreshadowed it, he would show his father that he, too, could fight.
At the entrance to the Dun he stopped, knowing that this was the moment of final choice, and knowing, too, that the choice was already made. He had not looked to quarrel with his father, but a quarrel had been building for a long time and now the break had come he welcomed it. He would not be going back.
So. But if not back, then where?
Lord Taranis, he prayed, Give me a sign!
He waited, all his hunter's senses alert, for the space of fifty heartbeats. Nothing. Fifty more. Nothing. Another fifty. Nothing.
Tigirseno was close to weeping. He would kill himself. Perhaps that was the only way...
In the grass to his left, something stirred. Tigirseno jerked his head round. Frightened by the movement, the shrew began to run, darting along the side of the old rampart then bearing away from it into the open field, the rippling grass marking its passage. Tigirseno watched it go, his hand pressed against his mouth in awe. Taranis had answered, of that there was no doubt, but what did the sign mean? A holy one could have interpreted it clearly enough, but he was no Druid. He could only guess.
Think! he told himself. The answer is there, if you only think!
He stopped, and looked around him. The rampart. A boundary, a dividing line. And the shrew had run beyond it into the open country...
Perhaps the god was telling him to go north-west, beyond the Wolves' province; to join the mountain tribes and help them save the holy island.
He knew, as soon as the thought came, that it was the right one. Again he felt a surge of joy. Taranis, lord, he prayed, his pride a knot at his throat, I thank you! Make me worthy!
Gripping his spear, he began to run.
Above the gate where Ti
girseno had been standing a sparrowhawk hung motionless, watching. Below her, something moved: a stirring in the grass out of time with the wind. The hawk drifted lazily on the air currents until she was poised directly over the tussock. Time passed, but the hawk was patient. Not even her wings stirred. Finally, beneath her, a tiny nerve broke. There was a flurry of movement, a running...
The hawk was ready, and hungry. She folded her wings and dropped, talons spread.
The shrew died quickly. But by then Tigirseno was already far away.
'The fault wasn't yours.' Matugena touched her husband's shoulder. 'He'll be back when his head has cooled and his belly begins to rumble.'
Brocomaglos laid a hand over hers. He felt empty, his anger gone. 'Aye,' he said. 'He's a good son. And I think, perhaps, not as foolish as I made out. Less, maybe, than his father.'
'You are head of the tribe. The decision was yours to make, no one else's.'
'That does not mean it was the right one.' Brocomaglos closed his eyes. Was I wrong? he thought. My son spoke the truth; to betray a Druid is a terrible thing, whatever the reason. Who am I to think I understand the gods' purpose well enough to break their laws? 'And if I am the head of the tribe, it is only because it suits the Romans to allow it.'
'That's nonsense, Father.' Senovara had taken Ahteha on her lap and was unwinding the braids in the girl's hair. 'The tribe elected you fairly. They trust you, rightly so. Oh, they hate the Romans, but they aren't the fools my brother is. Besides, the gods are old enough to take care of themselves.'
'Senovara!' Matugena looked up.
'Well, and are they not, then? Perhaps they're following a plan of their own. And if so they must be getting very tired of hearing us tell them what they think.'
Brocomaglos found himself laughing. Senovara, his eldest child, had always been his favourite, and as she grew up it was obvious that she would also turn out the wisest. He rose and hugged her.
The Horse Coin Page 6