Cathal considered. ‘You are right. From the marshes.’
‘We’ll cut their throats before they get anywhere near you.’
‘No,’ the king said. ‘Even if they don’t return I want whoever sent them to believe they might well have succeeded. And this is my fight. I will deal with them alone.’ He heard a hiss from the corner of the hut. ‘Hush, Olwyn. My sword has been idle for too long. A king must prove himself from time to time or he will no longer be a king. You, a princess of the Brigantes, know that well enough.’ He took his scabbard and the shattered sword from its frame, and buckled the belt with the war hammer at his waist. ‘Let us hope they do not keep me waiting,’ he said with a grim smile.
*
They came quietly, big men, swift over the ground, who knew how to plant their feet to avoid the snap of a twig, the crunch of an acorn or the telltale rustle of the leaves that carpeted the damp ground. Only a warrior equally capable could hope to detect them. Cathal felt a moment of regret. Men like these should be his allies. They should be killing Romans together, not butchering each other. He thrust the thought aside. Tonight they were the enemy. Six of them. He fixed them in his mind, noting the relative positions, the distance apart, the likely reaction when … Without another thought he rose from the ground in the centre of the assassins, the great blacksmith’s hammer already swinging as he spun on his toes. A jarring impact and a wet smack, before he reversed the spin and raised the hammer high, bringing it down with a bone-breaking crunch on head or shoulder, he wasn’t certain which. It didn’t matter. The weight of the blow would either kill or disable. He danced forward. They were aware of him now. Their minds would be racing, every shadow a threat. A spear point came out of the darkness and he swayed aside as it brushed his beard, the hammer already scything to stave in the bearer’s ribs and drawing a terrible cry from his victim. A bull’s roar and two shadows rushed at him. He brushed aside one spear with his left hand and snapped the other in half with a blow of the hammer, reversing in the same instant to bring the head upwards in a swing that took his attacker square on the jaw.
Torches flared and a roar went up as a hundred Selgovae warriors surged out of the darkness. Cathal blinked. One man was on his knees, his hands clutched together in supplication and a dark stain on the crotch of his bracae. Another stood, staring in bewilderment at useless hands that flopped from his broken wrists. Two lay dead, but two more lived, though their time left would be short and painful. One lay face down, shivering like a storm-swept rowan, four or five shattered ribs jutting stark white from his side and a dark pool staining the ground beneath him. The other lay on his back, what was once his face a smear of beard, bone, crimson gore and broken teeth, breath whistling from the approximate position of his mouth.
Cathal stood among them, huge and invincible, the great hammer red with the blood of his victims. He knew the bards would already be making up songs that would ensure his feat this night was remembered for countless generations. ‘Finish them.’ He nodded to the dying men, and two Selgovae stepped forward drawing their knives. Two of his warriors hustled the man with the broken wrists to kneel beside the other.
‘Mercy, lord king,’ the uninjured man pleaded. He glanced at the other who spat at him with contempt. ‘I will pledge allegiance to you and fight at your side.’
‘Druid!’ Cathal called and Gwlym was led into the circle of light. ‘These men came to murder me, but they also had another purpose?’
‘They did, lord king,’ Gwlym acknowledged.
‘State it.’
‘They were to kill your wife and children.’
Cathal stared down at the two men and the look in his eyes was awful to behold. ‘Then there can be no mercy.’
The first man bowed his head, his shoulders shaking with terror, but the other stared into Cathal’s eyes with a wry smile on his lips. He was still smiling when the hammer descended with such terrible force that it spattered bone and brain for a dozen paces.
Cathal barely paused to draw breath. ‘Gather the host at the river bank and wait for me there,’ he ordered Emrys. ‘Vodenos?’ he called to the leader of his Brigante contingent. ‘You will command your people and the Damnonii, Novantae and Votadini. Stay clear till the last of the Selgovae have moved to the north bank, then cross in their wake. I will send guides to give you instructions.’
An hour later Cathal’s horse picked its way carefully through the rushing waters of the Abhainn dhub towards the Venicones guard post on the north side of the ford. The river was thigh deep and heavy with snow melt and the current would test the men who came behind, but there was no helping it. He must act now. His sword brothers accompanied him, or as many as the big Roman horses which had survived would mount. With every step he expected to be met with a hail of spears out of the darkness.
Instead, a familiar voice called out, only just audible over the rush of the river. ‘King Cathal? Is that you?’
Cathal breathed a sigh of relief. ‘And who else would it be, Donacha of Goirtaincabar? Is all ready?’
A lamp flared to illuminate Donacha and a score of men waiting on the far bank. ‘Everything is as you ordered it, lord king. We are fortunate. The Argento has decided to wait till daylight before he delivers his ultimatum to whoever now rules the Selgovae.’
‘Then he is in for a surprise.’
‘He is, lord king. The lights here will not alert the king’s supporters, but the rest of your advance must take place in darkness. Your warriors will need a steady man to lead them. Oenghus’ – his brother appeared at his side and nodded a greeting – ‘will guide your men along the causeway and down the edge of the marsh to block any escape to the Alauna valley to the west. They need fear no opposition. The guards are our men.’
‘I wish you well in your negotiations, lord king,’ Oenghus called as Emrys and the first of the Selgovae squelched out of the river at the head of the long column of faceless shadows.
‘Perhaps half as many again will follow them,’ Cathal told Donacha. ‘Can you find someone to guide them to the top of the escarpment and a position where they can deter any reinforcement from reaching the Argento?’
‘I can, lord,’ the young man assured him. ‘But I doubt you will need them. The Argento believes the tribes of the Venicones are assembling on the hill ready to join him at dawn. Half of the chiefs are already committed to you; the rest have been persuaded to await the outcome of your … discussions … with the king. Many feel he has dishonoured us by ordering the death of your wife and children.’
‘All the same,’ Cathal insisted, ‘I will feel better when they are in position.’
‘Then it will be so.’
They waited until the last of the Selgovae passed before making their way along the causeway in their wake. When they reached the bottom of the track that led up to the palace complex, Cathal turned to Donacha. ‘I cannot order you to do anything, but it is my belief it would be better for our future dealings if you are not seen to be involved in this.’
‘Then I will do as you advise, lord king.’ Donacha stepped aside to let Colm and the king’s sword brothers follow Cathal up the winding track into the darkness.
Cathal had been told that only the king’s bodyguard, a few loyal retainers and the more sycophantic members of his court would be in the palace complex at this time of the night. The Silver King had no close family among his power base. He’d killed two brothers within weeks of being crowned and any uncles and cousins hurried into exile before they shared their relatives’ fate. Cathal’s own force numbered fifty, every one a sword brother with at least ten years of service. Others had pleaded to accompany him, but if his plan worked they wouldn’t have to fight at all. He wanted no accidental massacre to anger the Venicones and complicate his plans for the succession. The gate guards were Donacha’s men and stepped aside to let them pass.
‘Let no man interfere with what happens inside,’ Cathal said. His sword brothers stayed obediently in the shadows as their king marche
d straight ahead. Two of the Argento’s personal guard stood sentry in the torchlight outside the palace doorway, and they straightened at the sound of his approach. Their spear points were aimed at the intruder’s heart, but their eyes widened in astonishment as they recognized the giant figure.
‘I am Cathal, king of the Selgovae, and I seek an urgent audience with the Argento Rìgh.’ The guards exchanged a panicked look before the first turned and ran inside. Cathal smiled at the remaining warrior and punched him hard in the side of the head. He marched past the falling body and his bodyguard swarmed out of the darkness to follow him inside.
The Argento Rìgh sat on his throne listening in irritation to the guard’s stammering report. The king’s face went pale when Cathal burst through the curtained doorway followed by a stream of warriors who lined the walls behind him. Off-duty bodyguards sat drinking from clay beer pots at rough benches to either side of the throne. Recovering from their surprise, they rose to meet the threat to their master, only to freeze as Cathal’s hammer swung in a slow half circle to encompass them. Warily, they resumed their places. All but one.
Cathal stared at the man on the throne and the sentry moved nervously away.
‘What … what reason can there be for this unmannerly intrusion?’ The Argento struggled to maintain his dignity and his nerve, but Cathal could see his mind working. How had Cathal survived? How had the Selgovae managed to breach his defences? And more important, what were the implications for him? ‘Whatever has brought you here is surely not so significant,’ he managed a weak smile, ‘that it cannot wait until morning.’
‘I believe it is, lord king.’ Cathal moved forward a step. To his right he sensed a hand sliding towards a racked spear. ‘I come here to seek redress for a great wrong. Armed men appeared at my camp tonight, sneaking treacherously out of the night. Assassins who would have murdered me, my wife and my children had I not killed them first. I am here to demand justice and seek redress in the way our people have always done. Man to man and sword to sword.’ He sheathed his hammer and reached behind him to draw his sword from its scabbard. The sight of the splintered stump of metal drew a burst of nervous laughter.
The Argento shifted in his seat. ‘It is an affront to draw a weapon in the king’s presence.’
‘Not when it was the king who sent the assassins who would have killed my family,’ Cathal said quietly. ‘Will you fight me, lord king, or are you too frightened?’
‘Kings do not fight.’ The man on the throne’s eyes flickered to his left. ‘That is why they give champions women and silver.’
Cathal was turning long before Colm’s shout of warning. Giulan Marbh’s spear was angled to take the Selgovae in the armpit with all the snarling warrior’s strength behind it. Cathal brushed the point away with the ease of a man swatting a fly and stepped forward to meet the Argento’s champion. Giulan shrieked as the jagged edge of the sword took him just below the breastbone, the point forced upwards through flesh and sinew into his vitals. It was a killing blow, but a crimson rage filled Cathal’s skull and he roared as he forced the blade ever deeper, pushing Giulan Marbh back through his horrified comrades, sending tables clattering until he reached the far wall and could go no further. Still he worked the blade, though Giulan was long dead, his heart severed in two. Using all his enormous strength Cathal ripped the sword upwards and outwards, sending blood and viscera spraying across the hall. At last, the giant Selgovae stepped away, allowing Giulan’s torn remains to slump to the floor. He turned, face and arms dripping gore.
The sight entirely unmanned the Argento. With a howl of terror he leapt from his chair and raced to a separate chamber at the rear of the hall. Cathal signalled to his men to stay where they were and followed the king. He pulled back the curtain to see the fleeing man disappearing through a panel cut in the wall. The Argento’s wife looked up in horror from her cot and clutched her twin sons to her breast as Cathal charged past. The panel was too small for a man Cathal’s size and he simply hacked at the wattle and daub with his sword and kicked an exit through the shattered wreckage.
By now the Argento was a mere shadow slipping through the scattered huts of the complex, but he was making enough noise for ten men and Cathal had no difficulty following him. The Venicones king sprinted to the steep bank at the rear of the plateau and Cathal reached him as he began clawing his way upwards. The Selgovae dropped his sword and drew his mighty hammer from his belt. The Silver King of the Chosen never saw the blow that crushed his skull.
XLI
Where was Agricola with the Twentieth and the Second? The towering hill at Dun Eidin loomed, for all the world like a great sleeping lion, above the temporary marching camps of the Ninth and its associated auxiliary units. Valerius had sent word six weeks earlier that he was ready to advance north and suggesting a convergence between the three legions for a single devastating attack. Together they would smash the might of Calgacus if he attempted to oppose the river crossing Gaius Rufus had identified thirty miles to the north-east.
Instead, Agricola insisted on continuing his probe in the west of the country. His shipmasters and scouts reported that all that awaited him there was an inaccessible wasteland of mountains, lakes and valleys that made Siluria look almost welcoming, but that didn’t deter the governor.
Valerius and his officers eased their frustrations by pushing their troops to the limit. Calgacus might well have been weakened over the winter, but it was now April. Whatever deprivations his forces suffered, the fine weather would provide an opportunity to recover. Fine weather that was being wasted by the Romans.
Valerius looked to the clear blue sky knowing that in minutes it could be obliterated by dark clouds, and a howling wind could turn the nearby sea into a whirling maelstrom. The coastal tracks were dry, but how long would that last in a country that had as many types of rain as the days of the year? On the march from Trimontium they’d been flayed by horizontal storms that forced men to walk in a stoop, drenched by a fine drizzle that penetrated even the most heavily lanolin-coated cloaks, and near hammered into the ground by hailstones the size of slingshot pellets.
And still no Agricola.
A sharp trumpet call from the signal station on the hill raised his hopes and he ran up the lower slope in time to see a column marching in from the west. Cavalry outriders and the compact cohort formations immediately identified it as a legionary unit. Soon the numbers confirmed a full legion. Valerius searched the country beyond it for evidence of another, but he searched in vain.
‘Have the stores opened and food prepared,’ he told one of his aides. ‘And mark out a camp on the far side of the river.’ He called down to his escort on the flat ground below. ‘Fetch me my horse, Shabolz. We’ll ride out to meet them.’
‘Looks like the Second, lord,’ the Pannonian cavalryman called back. ‘The legate always likes a little extra space between his cohorts, and the baggage is lagging as usual.’
The hawk-eyed Pannonian was right. When they’d covered a mile or so Valerius could see that the lead cohort’s shields carried the unmistakable flying horse symbol of the Second Adiutrix on their faces. A small group of riders trotted out to meet them. ‘I’m sorry to have left you cooling your heels here for so long, Valerius,’ Herenius Polio called with a smile. ‘But take that scowl off your face, because the blame, if blame there is, lies elsewhere.’
‘I’m just glad to see you, Herenius, although I expected you to have company. Still, I hope this means we’ll be able to strike camp soon. My men have been here for so long they’re putting down roots.’
‘As to that …’ Polio shrugged. ‘Perhaps we may ride a little ahead.’ He smiled his apology to Valerius’s escort. ‘Your general and I have much to discuss and I’m sure you would rather not be bored by our ramblings.’
Valerius nodded, and Shabolz and the other troopers held back as the two legates put a little distance between them.
‘Your instinct is right, Valerius,’ Polio said. ‘We move out at dawn
the day after tomorrow. You’ll have had your scouts working hard, I’ve no doubt?’
‘The key is the river crossing,’ Valerius told him. ‘That solitary hill you see dominating the landscape ahead is Dun Eidin. The river at that point is two miles wide and might as well be the open sea as far as we’re concerned. It narrows the further north and west you travel, but just when you think it could be bridged you discover it’s still tidal. The first ford is two days’ march upstream. Decent high ground on the south side of the river, but on the north bank the valley bottom is marsh and mudflats, reed beds and pools, quicksand like as not, cut by streams and ditches.’
‘A nightmare.’
Valerius nodded. ‘And once they’ve struggled their way through two miles of mud our mules will have a hillside to climb, with a few thousand of Calgacus’s warriors at the top of it.’
‘Still,’ the other man considered. ‘We should be able to do it with two legions.’
‘Better with three.’ Valerius’s statement held an unmistakable question.
‘Agricola is obsessed with catching the Celts between his hammer and our anvil. Despite what he’s been told he believes there must be a western route through the mountains. He’s had Ursus and the Twentieth slogging up one valley after another for the last month, then slogging their way back down again.’
‘How much opposition are they meeting in the west?’
‘In a word: none. Every valley is the same. A few scattered huts or a house built over a lake for better security. An old man who calls himself king of his extended family, and a few dozen sheep or cattle. According to Ursus it has given our governor much to ponder. How do you create a provincial government in a place with no natural centre, where every man thinks he was born to rule, but none has the power or the allies to dominate all the rest? The geography makes it difficult; the social structure, if you can even call it that, makes it impossible.’
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