‘Votadini.’ Emrys spat. ‘Marro, like the backstabber he is, senses our weakness and sends his carrion crows past the boundary stones to slaughter and plunder.’
‘Any of our people who escaped will be in hiding,’ Cathal agreed. ‘Even if we could find them they would be loath to part with their stores to a man they barely acknowledge as their king.’
He understood that retreating, fleeing, running from the Romans, call it what you will, had weakened his authority. The manner of it had weakened him further still. Cathal rode one of the big stolen cavalry horses, and Olwyn, Berta and Dugald another. His was the only family he had allowed to accompany the Selgovae warriors into exile. He knew the decision had provoked dissent and anger among his followers, including his closest allies. Even his sword brothers would barely meet his eyes. The minor chiefs of the tribe, who had always resented his popularity, grumbled among themselves while their war bands swelled the numbers of the stragglers and, worse, deserters. Yet Cathal had no regrets about his decision. The Romans had taught him the value of Olwyn and the children and he would not allow himself to be torn between family and tribe again. There would be repercussions, he understood that, but he would deal with them when the time came.
The sure-footed Roman mare he rode was no affectation or symbol of his kingship. She was the only reason he could cover three or four times the ground, be the beacon that brought strength to the struggling, and be on hand to deal with any of the myriad crises that accompanied such a march. Twice he’d pulled men clear who had stumbled into a bog in the dark. On another occasion Arwan, the sword brother who had helped him carry off the horses, fell down a steep slope from the narrow mountain path and broke his thigh. Only the mare’s strength had allowed them to recover him so his injuries could be tended. Sadly, he’d died an hour later. Cathal refused to allow his friends to bury him. Instead they put a sword in his hand and covered the body with a few rocks, hoping to return when the Romans were defeated. Word of the tragedy spread quickly through the column and the death was regarded as an ill omen. It was a bad injury, but seldom so immediately fatal.
Another reason for the curious glances he received was that he insisted on carrying the jagged stump of Ghost Bane slung from his back. Men believed it was sentiment for a weapon that had served him well, but the truth was very different. Cathal kept the sword as a reminder that his judgement was as fallible as any other’s and his great strength did not make him immortal. He would admit to no man, or woman, just how close the Roman had come to killing him and how he sometimes woke sweating with the feel of the little knife point pricking his groin. Only Gwlym had sensed it. The druid told him his survival was the work of the gods and another sign that he had been chosen to do their bidding. One day they would demand repayment. It was one of the reasons for his decision to retreat north when he had learned of another legion probing his outposts to the south-west. A dead man could not serve the gods.
Cathal’s smith, Finngail, offered to forge a new and stronger Ghost Bane, but the king had refused. He understood now that though the mighty sword struck fear into lesser men, against a true warrior like Gaius Valerius Verrens it was crude and awkward, inviting defeat and death. He remembered the darting point of his enemy’s blade and knew he could never match the speed and skill that drove it. He must find another way. That was when he’d noticed the big hammer Finngail used to work the hardest metals. On the face of it, little subtlety there, but it was compact, and in the hands of a man as strong as Cathal a weapon of flexibility and power.
The smith reluctantly agreed to part with a tool that had become part of the lore and mystery of his craft, but he agreed on condition that he could first make it a weapon fit for a king. He’d lengthened the handle to improve the balance and transform it into a true instrument of war. An antler-bone lining to the socket of the hammer combined with a bonding resin of Finngail’s own invention ensured the head would never come loose. By some miracle of the craftsman’s art he inlaid the face and sides of the head with gold in patterns that matched the rearing horses tattooed on Cathal’s cheeks.
They were entering a broad valley when Olwyn pushed her mount shoulder to shoulder with his. Berta perched half asleep in front of her on the horse’s broad shoulders. Dugald, who never seemed to run out of energy, walked alongside with a hunting bow he’d pledged would provide tonight’s supper. ‘How much further?’ she asked.
‘It is five years and more since I journeyed this far north,’ Cathal admitted. ‘Another day and we will be able to stop for a proper rest. I believe we must cross the plain between the mountains and the river by night, then travel another two days north and west until it is fordable and we can cross.’
‘And you think the people of the lands beyond the river will welcome us?’
He understood the doubt in her voice. The Selgovae had welcomed the Brigante families who had fled north seeking refuge because Cathal had felt he owed it to Guiderius. Not all kings would be so magnanimous. There had been grumblings among his people, and even one or two fights. Yes, he could offer an army of seasoned warriors, but some rulers would perceive them as a threat. Such a force could affect the balance of power in any kingdom. Relations with the kings over the river had never been easy, because ownership of the border marshlands had been disputed by the Damnonii, the Selgovae and the Votadini for longer than any could remember. They had become a refuge for oathbreakers and thieves who did not hesitate to raid northwards into more fertile lands where the pickings were easy. But Cathal’s father had led an expedition to clear them out and to this day, as far as Cathal knew, the marshes lay empty.
‘No,’ he admitted. ‘I do not think they will welcome us. But I hope to persuade them that the threat from the Romans is so great that it is vital to add our strength to their own. I will offer to be subordinate to their king like any other chieftain.’
‘And if they do not accept?’
‘Then I will seek safe passage through their territory.’
‘If they will not accept you as an ally they may not allow it,’ Olwyn pointed out.
‘That is true.’
Berta shifted in her seat and Olwyn adjusted her grip on the reins to hold her more securely in place. ‘You would not consider forcing your way through?’
‘That would start a war. I would be doing the Romans’ work for them. Besides, the men are too weak and we need to replenish our supplies.’
‘Then we may be trapped.’ Her logic was remorseless. ‘The Romans will come eventually.’
‘I hope it does not come to that.’ Cathal tried to instil some confidence in the words, but he knew how weak and helpless he sounded.
‘What does Gwlym say?’
‘He says that with the gods’ help I am destined to become ruler of all the northlands.’
She nodded. ‘Then perhaps it will be so.’
Cathal felt the first stirrings of anger. Had it really reached the stage where even Olwyn must place her faith in the ravings of a blind priest so weakened by age that his meat had to be chewed for him by a slave before it could be swallowed? Yet until this exchange, Cathal had never fully comprehended the true hopelessness of their position. A prudent king would have made overtures to those beyond his northern boundary from a position of strength, not when he’d been forced to flee his own lands like some ragged vagabond or outlaw. His confidence in his own personal strength had blinded him to the might of the Romans. He had believed an alliance between the Selgovae and the Brigantes would be powerful enough to destroy the invaders, or at least drive them south again. Even when Guiderius and his army had been defeated by a fourth of their number his pride would not allow him to accept the same could happen to his Selgovae. It was only after the battle on the ice and hearing the shrewd observations Olwyn had made during her captivity that reality dawned. When the Twentieth legion had begun to infiltrate his territory the inevitable choice had been between slaughter, surrender or flight. He had believed he had a plan, but after two days in the
saddle that plan turned out to be a hollow shell. When would he ever be able to keep his assurance that he’d return to free his people from the Roman yoke? What was the mighty Cathal of the Selgovae now, but another ragged refugee?
He felt Olwyn’s hand on his arm. ‘This is not the time for doubt, lord king,’ she said quietly. ‘Your people depend on you. Your family knows you would never betray that trust.’
Cathal straightened in the saddle and his hand went to the great hammer hanging in the pouch at his belt. What was he without her, the iron core at the heart of his being, the elixir that gave him strength? He could never fail her. He would succeed in this or die trying.
At dawn the next morning a scout who could barely keep his place in the saddle called him forward to the crest of the next hill. Cathal followed him up the slope, and when they reached the summit a great vista was laid out before him. He had a clear view north across a small range of lesser peaks and then the plain, but what drew his eyes was the glittering salver of the open sea away to his right front and the broad chasm of a great estuary. He followed its course westwards to the point where it narrowed into the winding coils of the Abhainn dhub, the Dragon river, so called because from the hills above it twisted and turned in seemingly impossible loops across the kerse bogland like some enormous serpent, until it widened to create a giant maw that swallowed the sea.
They rested that day in the shelter of the final valley before the plain. Cathal could almost feel the discontent among his followers ebb away with every hour of relative leisure. Somehow they had come to believe that once they reached the river their ordeal would be over. Partly it was whispers spread by Gwlym of Cathal’s bond with the gods, partly the knowledge their strength was fading and it must end.
The night march was a disaster.
Despite the full moon their guide somehow led them in what must have been a full circle. When they came to rising ground after many hours of marching the men simply assumed they’d reached their destination. They crawled into the nearest shelter and fell asleep where they lay. Cathal had an inkling of what had happened, but he knew there was no forcing them back into movement now. He wrapped himself in a blanket with Olwyn and the children and took what sleep he could. Daylight found them in the centre of the plain on a bald hill open to all, with the coastal hills clearly visible in the middle distance.
‘We cannot stay here.’ Cathal made his decision. Without even breaking fast they continued their journey. At last they reached the hills and turned west. Along the coast tendrils of smoke marked the site of a few fishing villages. Emrys suggested a sweep to relieve them of their catches and stores, but Cathal refused his permission. The fisher folk would simply take to their boats at the first sign of the raiders and he didn’t want to antagonize people whose help he might need in future. A mile and more of dull grey water separated them from the far shore and a pair of large boats were just visible in the centre of the river. The glare made it difficult to make out the detail, but they could hear some kind of rhythmic chant on the wind and his instinct told him they were like none manufactured by Celtic hands.
A few miles on they skirted a vast bogland on the fringes of the river. Thick beds of dense reeds clogged narrow channels flanked by slick mudbanks, and beyond were dark, glittering pools dotted with a few tree-covered mounds of high ground. Another long-buried memory stirred, of flighting ducks and laughing netsmen covered in filthy black ooze. Ahead, like a low wall, the range of hills that was all that separated them from the Damnonii, where the column finally turned north.
They crossed a deep river valley and climbed again. A curious, long-abandoned stone dwelling or storehouse, dome-shaped and taller by far than Cathal’s palace, confirmed they were on course. At noon the following day they stood upon a rise and looked out over a new place of the three hills.
Unlike the sacred hills of the Selgovae, these were not part of a single whole, but separate entities spread across a marshy plain split by the writhing coils of Abhainn dhub. The first rose up before them like a sleeping bear, the great head to the north and the feet to the south, and according to lore marked the river’s lowest ford. To the west of it the second appeared to be little more than a rocky outcrop, but its height made it as clear a landmark as the first. The third hill matched the scale and shape of the first rather than the second and stood on the far side of the river where the Abhainn dhub turned back on itself with such agility that it almost made a complete loop. It stood out against a backdrop Cathal had been trying to ignore, because it reminded him of the imminent meeting that would decide his fate and the fate of every man who accompanied him. On the north side of the river a great mountain range ended abruptly as if it had been chopped by a giant axe. These mountains provided a viewing platform from which to observe the comings and goings of anyone on the south bank. For the past two days pillars of smoke had split the still air to mark the progress of the Selgovae column.
Cathal felt the eyes of his closest advisers on him. ‘We will make camp on the high ground,’ he told Emrys. ‘Tomorrow we will explore the ford and see what awaits us beyond the river.’
XXXIV
Valerius and the Ninth marched west until they reached the great lake beside which Calgacus and his people had spent the winter. Something like five hundred homes clung to the hillsides around the lake, squat, windproof buildings of stone and timber, roofed with heather so they blended in with the landscape and almost invisible but for the smoke from their cooking fires. Some of the huts in the scattered settlement were abandoned, but families occupied most and Selgovae farmers worked the fields, seemingly unperturbed by the Roman invasion.
‘You don’t think it’s strange that he burned everything in the east to keep it from us, yet now he presents us with his entire tribe?’ Naso asked.
‘He’s changed his tactics,’ Valerius said. ‘When he burned his settlement at Trimontium he thought he could beat us. Now he knows he can’t, not with the forces he currently has. I think he’s known about the advance of the Twentieth for days, perhaps weeks. It made up his mind for him.’
‘I still don’t understand it.’ Naso frowned at the figures scratching in the fields. ‘Not that long ago these men were fighting like wolves for every inch of their land, armed only with axes and hoes. Now it’s as if they’ve turned into sheep.’
The same thought had occurred to Valerius. ‘Calgacus couldn’t take the women and children with him, they’d have slowed him down. But he couldn’t leave them behind to starve without their men. They were prepared to sacrifice their lives. It says something about his kingship that he was able to persuade them to sacrifice something even more valuable – their honour.’
‘Can we trust them?’
‘That’s for Agricola to decide,’ Valerius said. ‘If it were me I’d make the fort at Trimontium permanent and build an auxiliary outpost here. Which reminds me: send out detachments to demand the surrender of all swords and armour. They can keep their spears for hunting. Tell the commanders not to be heavy-handed and not to expect too much. I suspect Calgacus will have collected every weapon of any value.’
Gaius Rufus returned the next day with a report that the governor’s arrival was imminent and that his own bid to follow Calgacus had ended in failure. ‘It doesn’t get any easier,’ the little man said wearily. ‘He must have sent his warriors out in groups and given them different routes, because the hills and valley bottoms are criss-crossed with trails that double back on each other and merge before dividing again. Who knows who was going in which direction. The scent is cold, Valerius.’
Valerius expected an explosion when the governor learned that his prey had slipped the trap, but Agricola was almost jovial. ‘So the wolf has escaped and he’s taken his pack with him? A temporary setback.’ The words were accompanied by a grim smile. ‘And a battle won is a battle won no matter the calibre of the opposition.’ Valerius exchanged a mystified glance with Naso. They’d heard nothing of any battle, but if Agricola noticed anything he i
gnored it. ‘We surprised some kind of blocking force as they were setting up their defences,’ he continued. ‘But the Second cohort made short work of them. May this Swordsman enjoy his freedom, because it will be short-lived and hungry.’
They entered the praetorium tent of the temporary encampment and servants brought food and wine. Agricola poured olive oil into a bowl and dipped a crust of newly baked bread into it. As he chewed, one of his aides set up a frame that Valerius recognized from his first visit to the palace in Londinium. When the frame was complete the aide unrolled a large scroll.
‘Good,’ Agricola said, but whether he was referring to his underling’s efforts or the wine he drank to wash down the bread wasn’t clear. ‘So.’ He studied the map and picked up a pointer the aide had left to hand. Much more of the parchment had been filled in since Valerius had previously seen it. He vaguely recognized the outline of the terrain they’d marched over. Two pieces of red twine flanked the island’s mountainous spine and he realized they plotted the approximate marches of the three legions. ‘I believe we are somewhere near … here.’ Agricola darted the pointer at the map midway between the ragged ends of the two pieces of twine. ‘And our prey has fled into the mountains to the north … here. If he stays where he is I intend to starve him until he is forced to either surrender or commit to battle. If he moves north he will undoubtedly find there are bigger and more powerful wolves waiting for him. They will tear him apart, and if they do not, we will take him in our own time.’ He met the eyes of Valerius and Naso in turn. ‘But it will not be this year.’
‘Sir?’ Naso’s features mirrored his confusion.
‘I intend to spend this campaigning season consolidating what we have, building up our supplies and training our men for what is to come next year.’
‘But Titus …?’
‘Yes, legate, the Emperor gave me two years and I intend to meet his wishes with a single decisive campaign that will sweep all before it. Next year. We are in danger of leaving three powerful forces intact in our wake. King Marro and your Votadini friends here in the east, Valerius. The Novantae in the south-west, who are more numerous and their lands far more extensive than I had been led to believe, and the Damnonii, here in the north-west. Should they decide to combine or form an alliance with Calgacus they could cut all three legions off from their supplies and attack us from four sides. I will not let that happen. We will use this campaigning season to bind these lands and their peoples so tight that they are unable to move a bushel of wheat without Roman sanction. Our task is to secure everything north of Luguwaliom and south of the two estuaries which form the narrow isthmus here. Engineers of the Twentieth are already marking out sites for forts in the country of the Novantae. Meanwhile, Polio and his Second Augusta will carry out a similar programme in the lands of the Damnonii. You, Valerius, will make permanent your camp at Trimontium and establish new forts in this valley, on this river …?’
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