‘Another company came up,’ said Mac Roth. ‘I’d put their numbers at above three thousand. A brave, handsome, broad-faced man was at their head. He had wavy brown hair and a long, forked, wispy beard. He wore a white knee-length hooded tunic and dark-grey fringed cloak pinned at the breast with a leaf-shaped brooch of white bronze. He carried a shield inlaid with animal designs in many colours. At his waist hung a sword with a domed silver pommel, and he held a five-pronged spear in his hand. He sat down facing the leader of the first company.’
‘Who were they, Fergus?’ said Ailill.
‘I know them well,’ said Fergus. ‘Conchobar, king of a province of Ireland, is the one who was seated on the mound of sods. Seancha Mac Ailill, the most eloquent man in Ulster, is the one who sat facing him. And Cúscraid Menn Macha the Stammerer, Conchobar’s son, is the one who sat by his father’s side. As for those three rings around his spear, they only run up and down like that before a victory. And as for the companies assembled there, these are men you can count on to do great damage in any battle,’ said Fergus.
‘They’ll find men to answer them here,’ said Medb.
‘I swear by the gods my people swear by,’ said Fergus, ‘that the army has not been raised in Ireland that could withstand the men of Ulster.’
‘Another company came up,’ said Mac Roth, ‘more than three thousand of them, led by a big strong warrior, swarthy, fiery-faced and fearsome, with a glib of brown hair plastered to his forehead. He carried a curved scallop-edged shield. He held a five-pronged spear and a forked javelin besides. A bloodstained sword was slung on his back. He wore a white knee-length tunic, and a purple cloak pinned at the shoulder with a gold brooch.’
‘Who was that, Fergus?’ said Ailill.
‘A man built for battle,’ said Fergus, ‘first to the fray, the doom of enemies: Eoghan Mac Durthacht, King of Fernmag.’
‘Another powerful and imperious company came to the hill at Slane in Meath,’ said Mac Roth, ‘harbingers of dread and terror, their cloaks thrown back behind them, marching resolutely towards the hill with a fearsome clattering of arms. Their leader was a grim-looking fellow with a thick-set, grizzled head and big yellow eyes. He was wrapped in a yellow cloak with a white border. A deadly scalloped-edged shield hung by his side. In one hand he held a long, broad-bladed spear; in the other he held its match, the blade stained with the blood of his enemies. A long, lethal sword was slung across his shoulders.’
‘Who was that, Fergus?’ said Ailill.
‘A warrior who never turns his back on battle: Láegaire Buadach the Victorious, son of Connad son of Ilech from Impail in the north,’ said Fergus.
‘Another great company came to the hill at Slane in Meath,’ said Mac Roth, ‘headed by a fine-looking, barrel-chested, thick-necked warrior. He had ruddy cheeks, a shock of black curls and flashing grey eyes. He wore a cloak of brown shaggy wool pinned with a bright silver brooch. He carried a black shield with a bronze boss. A spear with a needle’s-eye head glittered in his hand. The ivory pommel of his sword sat proud against his red-embroidered braided tunic.’
‘Who was that, Fergus?’ said Ailill.
‘The instigator of many battles. A tidal wave that overwhelms little streams. A man of three cries. The vicious doom of enemies,’ said Fergus. ‘Munremar Mac Gerrcinn the Thick-Necked, from Moduirn in the north.’
‘Another great company came to the hill at Slane in Meath,’ said Mac Roth, ‘a most impressive company, their cohorts well drilled and splendidly kitted out. They marched imperiously up to the hill. The clatter of their arms as they advanced shook everyone. They were led by a majestic warrior, superlative among men for his hair and eyes and grim demeanour, for dress and build and clarity of voice, for dignity and grandeur and gracefulness, for range and style of fighting skills, for equipment, application and discernment, for honour and nobility of lineage.’
‘You have him in a nutshell,’ said Fergus. ‘That brilliant figure is Feidlimid the Handsome, the raging warrior, the overwhelming wave, the irresistible force, who comes home in triumph after slaughtering his enemies abroad: Feidlimid Cilair Cétaig.’
‘Another company came to the hill at Slane in Meath,’ said Mac Roth, ‘at least three thousand strong, led by a big, stalwart warrior, sallow-complexioned, with a head of black curls and a haughty stare in his grey eyes. A great, rugged bull of a man. He wore a white hooded tunic and a grey cloak with a silver pin at the shoulder. A sword hung at his hip, and he carried a red shield with a hammered silver boss. The spear in his hand had a broad blade and triple rivets.’
‘Who was that, Fergus?’ said Ailill.
‘A furious flame, bold in battle, a man who wins wars: Connad Mac Morna from Callann,’ said Fergus.
‘Another company came to the hill at Slane in Meath,’ said Mac Roth, ‘a veritable army of them. As for the leader of that vast force, seldom will you find a warrior so poised and stylishly equipped. His auburn hair was neatly trimmed, his handsome, well-proportioned face aglow. Finely shaped red lips, pearl-white teeth, a firm, clear voice: every aspect of him was superlative. Draped over his red-embroidered hooded tunic was a purple cloak with an inlaid gold brooch. At his left side hung a silver-bossed shield inlaid with animal designs in many colours. In one hand he held a spear with a head of blued steel; in the other hand he held a deadly sharp dagger. A gold-hilted golden sword was slung on his back.’
‘Who was that, Fergus?’ said Ailill.
‘Someone well known to us,’ said Fergus. ‘A man equal to an army, tenacious as a bloodhound, a deciding factor in any combat: Rochad Mac Faithemain from Brig Dumae, your son-in-law, who took your daughter Finnabair.’
‘Another company came to the hill at Slane in Meath,’ said Mac Roth, ‘led by a feisty-looking, dark-haired warrior with brawny legs and bulging thighs. Each of his four limbs was as thick as a man. He was every inch a man, and more,’ said Mac Roth. ‘He had a scarred, purple face and haughty, bloodshot eyes: a formidable, bustling man, alert and dangerous, his entourage equipped and kitted out in admirable fashion; a proud, aggressive man, whose scorn and anger drives him into battle against overwhelming odds to beat his enemies, who ventures unprotected into hostile territory – no wonder his company marched so boldly to the hill at Slane in Meath.’
‘A brave warlike man indeed,’ said Fergus, ‘hot-blooded, tough, vehement and dignified, a force to be reckoned with in any army: my own foster-brother, Fergus Mac Leiti, King of Line, battle-spearhead of the north of Ireland.’
‘Another great imposing company came to the hill at Slane in Meath,’ said Mac Roth. ‘They were wonderfully equipped. At their head was a fine, tall figure of a man with brilliant hair and eyes and skin, magnificently proportioned. He held himself with immense aplomb. He wore five gold chains, a green cloak pinned at the shoulder with a gold brooch, and a white hooded tunic. In his hand was a spear like the turret of a palace. A gold-hilted sword was slung on his back.’
‘Fearsome and formidable indeed the same conquering hero,’ said Fergus. ‘That was Amargin son of Eiccet Salach the smith, from Buais in the north.’
‘Another company came to the hill at Slane in Meath,’ said Mac Roth, ‘a veritable torrent of them, a raging fire, a pride of lions, their number legion, marching in a huge, cliff-like, rock-steady, doom-laden, brutal, thunderous wave. At their head was a grim, coarse-faced warrior, big-bellied, thick-lipped, with a shock of grizzled hair, and a great big nose, and red arms and legs. He wore a rough woolly tunic and a stripy cloak pinned with an iron spike. He carried a curved scallop-edged shield and a big spear with a head of blued steel and thirty rivets in it. A sword tempered seven times by fire hung from his shoulders. The whole army rose up to greet him in a ripple of disarray as he approached the hill.’
‘A supreme champion in battle,’ said Fergus. ‘A man equal to an army. A furious force, a stormy wave that pours over its boundaries: Celtchar Mac Uthidir from Dún Lethglaise in the north.’
‘Another comp
any came to the hill at Slane in Meath,’ said Mac Roth. ‘They were led by a dazzling warrior in a white outfit that matched his albino hair and eyelashes and beard. He carried a shield with a golden boss, an ivory-hilted sword, and a spear with a broad needle’s-eye head. Bravely indeed did that warrior advance.’
‘That was our own, dear, splendid bear, whose blows are irresistible,’ said Fergus, ‘a magnificent crusher of his enemies: Feredach Finn Fechtnach, from the grove at Sliab Fúait in the north.’
‘Another company came to the hill at Slane in Meath,’ said Mac Roth, ‘led by an ugly, big-bellied warrior with huge lips – they were as big as a horse’s lips. He had dark curly hair, a broad, mottled face and long arms. He wore a loose black cloak pinned with a bronze annular brooch. He held a dark blue shield at his left side. In his right hand was a massive banded spear. A long sword was slung on his back.’
‘A ferocious lion, red in claw,’ said Fergus, ‘all-powerful and unstoppable as he scorches the earth: Eirrge Echbél the horse-lipped, from Brí Eirrge in the north.’
‘Another company came to the hill at Slane in Meath,’ said Mac Roth, ‘led by two handsome young heroes, yellow-haired, alike in looks and age. They carried bright shields with animal designs on them. Together they lifted their feet and together they set them down, each in perfect step with the other.’
‘Who are they, Fergus?’ said Ailill.
‘Two warriors, two bright flames, two spearheads,’ said Fergus, ‘two champions and pillars of the fray, two dragons, two fires, two fighters, two bold battle-shafts, the two pets of Ulster and its king: Fiachna and Fiacha, the two dear sons of Conchobar Mac Nessa, and the two darlings of the north of Ireland.’
‘Another company came to the hill at Slane in Meath,’ said Mac Roth, ‘led by three forceful, fiery, purple-faced warriors, each with a poll of yellow hair. All three wore red-embroidered sleeved tunics and uniform cloaks pinned at the shoulder with a gold brooch. They carried uniform shields. Each had a gold-hilted sword on his back and a broad bright spear in his hand. All three looked equally experienced.’
‘Those are the three conquerors from Cuib, the three mighty men of Mídluachair, the three princes of Roth, the three veterans from the East End of Sliab Fúait,’ said Fergus, ‘the three sons of Fiachna: Rus, Dáire and Imchad, who have come to take back the Bull.’
‘Another company came to the hill at Slane in Meath,’ said Mac Roth, ‘led by a quick, passionate man with fierce, glowing eyes. He wore a white, knee-length, hooded tunic and a tabby cloak with an annular brooch. He had a grey shield on his left arm, and at his hip hung a sword with a silver pommel. In his vengeful right hand was a death-dealing spear. His men were bloodstained and wounded, and he himself was scarred and bleeding.’
‘That,’ said Fergus, ‘is one ruthless warrior. He tears into battle like a wild boar or a goaded bull. He is the conqueror from Baile, the man in the gap, the all-consuming blaze from Colptha, stern guardian of the portal to the north of Ireland: Menn Mac Salchada from Corann. He has come here to avenge his wounds,’ said Fergus.
‘Another company came to the hill at Slane in Meath,’ said Mac Roth, ‘a spirited and battle-hungry force. Their leader was a sallow, long-cheeked warrior with a head of bushy brown hair. He wore a handsome tunic and a fine red woollen cloak held at the shoulder by a gold pin. At his left hung a splendid sword with a gleaming silver pommel. He carried a red shield and a fine ash-handled spear with a broad head of blued steel.’
‘That was a man of three death-dealing strokes,’ said Fergus, ‘a man of three roads and three highways and three byways, a man of three accomplishments and three cries, who breaks his enemies in battle beyond the borders: Fergna Mac Finnchoíme, from Corann.’
‘Another company came to the hill at Slane in Meath,’ said Mac Roth, ‘upwards of three thousand of them, led by a handsome, broad-chested warrior, very like Ailill yonder in looks and build and gear. He had a gold helmet on his head. He wore a red-embroidered tunic and a beautiful cloak pinned at the breast with a gold brooch. He carried a gold-rimmed, double-dealing shield and a spear like a palace turret. A gold-hilted sword was slung on his back.’
‘He is the sea against a stream,’ said Fergus. ‘He is an all-consuming blaze. His rage against his enemies is irresistible: Ferbaide Fer Benn, the Horned Man.’
‘Another company came to the hill at Slane in Meath,’ said Mac Roth, ‘countless numbers of heroes wearing strange outfits, very different to the other companies. With all their gear and weapons and equipment they made a marvellous spectacle as they advanced. They were an army in themselves. At their head was a bright-faced, freckled, perfectly formed little boy. He held a gold-studded, gold-rimmed shield with a white boss and a shimmering, keen-bladed light javelin. He wore a red-embroidered white hooded tunic and a purple fringed cloak held at the breast with a silver pin. A gold-hilted sword sat proud against his garments.’
Fergus paused before he spoke.
‘I don’t know,’ said Fergus, ‘of any boy among the Ulster people who would fit that description. These must be the men of Tara, and this must be the fine and noble Erc, son of Coirpre Niad Fer and Conchobar’s daughter. There’s no love lost between Coirpre and Conchobar, and the boy must have come to his grandfather’s aid without the permission of his father. Because of that young lad,’ said Fergus, ‘you will lose the battle. He will plunge fearlessly into the heart of the fray, and the warriors of Ulster will raise a great shout as they rush forward, cutting down your army before them to rescue their beloved little calf. They will all feel the ties that bind them when they see the boy under attack. Then will be heard the whirr of Conchobar’s sword, like the growl of a bloodhound, as he comes to save the boy. Conchobar will cast up three ramparts of dead men around the battlefield in the search for his grandson. And, moved by the ties that bind them, the warriors of Ulster will descend on your vast army.’
‘I have been overlong,’ said Mac Roth, ‘in describing everything I saw. But I thought I should let you know what was going on.’
‘You have certainly done that,’ said Fergus.
‘However,’ said Mac Roth, ‘Conall Cernach did not come with his great company. Nor did Conchobar’s three sons, with their three divisions. Nor did Cú Chulainn come, for he was wounded fighting against the odds. But many hundreds and thousands converged on the Ulster camp. Many heroes, champions and warriors came racing on their horses to that great meeting. And many more companies were still arriving as I left. Wherever I cast my eye,’ said Mac Roth, ‘on any hill or height from Fer Diad’s Ford to Slane in Meath, all I could see was men and horses.’
‘What you saw was a people coming together,’ said Fergus.
XIII
THE
FINAL
BATTLE
CONCHOBAR CAME WITH his forces and camped beside the others. He asked Ailill for a truce until sunrise. Ailill consented on behalf of the men of Ireland and the Ulster exiles, and Conchobar consented on behalf of the men of Ulster. The men of Ireland pitched their tents, and before the sun had set there was hardly a bare piece of ground between them and the Ulstermen. In the twilight between the two camps the Morrígan spoke:
ravens gnaw men’s necks blood gushes
fierce fray hacked flesh battle-drunk
men’s sides blade-struck war-torn
raking fingers battle-brave men of Crúachan
ruination bodies crushed underfoot
long live Ulster woe to Ireland
woe to Ulster long live Ireland
These last words – ‘woe to Ulster’ – she conveyed to the ears of the men of Ireland, to make them think the war was as good as won. That night Nét’s consorts, Nemain and the Badb, began howling at the men of Ireland, and a hundred warriors dropped dead of fright. It was not the most peaceful of nights for them.
On the eve of the battle Ailill Mac Mata chanted:
‘Rise up, Traighthrén, powerful of foot. Summon for me the three Conaires from Sliab M
is, the three Lussens from Lúachair, the three Niad Chorb from Tilach Loiscthe, the three Dóelfers from Dell, the three Dámaltachs from Dergderc, the three Bodars from the Buas, the three Baeths from the river Buaidnech, the three Búageltachs from Mag mBreg, the three Suibnes from the river Suir, the three Eochaids from Ane, the three Malleths from Lóch Erne, the three Abatruads from Loch Ríb, the three Mac Amras from Ess Rúaid, the three Fiachas from Fid Nemain, the three Maines from Mureisc, the three Muredachs from Mairg, the three Loegaires from Lecc Derg, the three Brodonns from the river Barrow, the three Brúchnechs from Cenn Abrat, the three Descertachs from Druim Fornacht, the three Finns from Finnabair, the three Conalls from Collamair, the three Carbres from Cliu, the three Maines from Mossa, the three Scáthglans from Scaire, the three Echtaths from Erce, the three Trénfers from Taite, the three Fintans from Fernen, the three Rótanachs from Raigne, the three Sárchorachs from Suide Lagen, the three Etarscéls from Étarbán, the three Aeds from Aidne, the three Guaires from Gabal.’
These Triads, as they were known, had survived Cú Chulainn’s attacks on the Irish army.
Meanwhile Cú Chulainn was close by at Fedain Collna. His supporters would bring him food by night, and talk things over with him by day. He killed no one north of Fer Diad’s Ford.
The Tain Page 17