Successive generations had worked the soil to the point of exhaustion and moved on, leaving the earth mother to restore her own fertility through the growth of weed and tree. New settlers had slashed and burned these woods and planted their crops in the freshened earth, re-establishing the partnership. Since before the memory of man, this region had been rich in fruit and grain.
The river swung almost due south in a wide arc and the Scythians followed it, seeming more relaxed than they had in the high mountains. This was more familiar territory to them. On the eastern shore of the river the land sloped upward, forming a raised bank. They pointed out to one another the hill fort crowning the promontory and surrounded by a log palisade.
Kazhak motioned his men to a halt.
“Who lives there?” Epona asked him.
They were in natural cover, a copse of young birch trees that effectively screened them from the view of anyone across the river. Just downstream they could see a shallow area, suitable for fording.
“Whose fort is that?” Epona repeated to Kazhak. “Are they Boii?”
The gate in the palisade was open. Beyond the fort stretched a golden band where fields of grain were ripening on a gentle slope, and Kazhak’s keen eyes saw men moving through the grain, their arms swinging. Not all the figures were male; some of them had the rounded contours of women.
The village was unprotected, then, all its able-bodied adults busy with an early harvest.
Epona strained to follow his gaze but saw only dark specks in the distant fields. She could not tell if they were of the people, and Kazhak did not seem inclined to identify them by tribe.
“Stupid,” he commented. “Build big wall to guard place against warriors, but warriors no come. They forget. Go out, leave gate open. Stupid, these people. We teach.”
He grinned in his dark beard, though she could not see it. “Hold on,” he advised, and kicked the horse.
The Scythians splashed through the shallows and galloped up the incline to the temptingly open gates of the log palisade.
There was one sentry, a tousled fellow in a blue tunic who had been occupying himself by playing on a reed pipe as he sat on a log bench in the sun. When he saw the horsemen starting across the river he stood up to shout a warning, but even before his words could ride the wind Kazhak had launched one of his deadly arrows with its three-edged head. The projectile sang through the air as surely as if it had eyes to see the way, finding its bed in the sentry’s throat and silencing him in mid-cry.
The horses raced up the slope and through the open gate.
Everything happened so fast Epona had only a blurred impression of the action. The village did belong to a tribe of the people, that was obvious, but they were not Boii. Their clothes were dyed with shades the Boii did not use and they wore their hair in a subtly different style. The fortified village sheltered only a few families. Epona noticed, pityingly, that they did not even possess a forge.
The handful of folk remaining within the palisade were tall and fair, and very frightened at the approach of the Scythians. Oldsters and children, the best resistance they could offer was a feeble one. Led by Kazhak, the riders pounded through the community and drew rein before the largest lodge. Basl and Aksinya leaped from their animals and ran inside. There were screams and the sounds of struggle, then the two men emerged carrying a copper pot into which they had thrown the riches of the household. An elderly woman ran after them, helpless and outraged.
Basl held up the pot so Kazhak could take his pick of the ornaments within it, mostly bits of copper and bronze, with a few pieces of silver jewelry and a long string of Baltik amber beads. Kazhak took the beads and waved the rest aside. His three men quickly divided the loot among themselves, fending off the villagers almost good-naturedly.
The Scythians swung aboard their horses and galloped for the gate, leaving little damage behind them aside from the looting and the wounded pride—and the dead sentry, his pipe still clutched in his hand.
Kazhak was laughing. “We teach good,” he told Epona.
They galloped toward the grainfield.
Epona was uncertain how she felt about the raid. One of the people had been killed—as a man would want to die, in battle, of a sort—so he would probably receive a reward in his nextlife. Aside from that no harm had been done. And it had been exciting. Very exciting.
The red, angry faces of the villagers, their futile gestures, the way Kazhak laughed when he tossed the string of amber beads over his shoulder to Epona, trusting her to catch them …
Epona grinned like the Scythian, feeling the wind of their passage dry her bared teeth.
Then the raid took on a new coloration.
They galloped down on the unsuspecting farmers in their field, loosing a rain of arrows ahead of them. Many fell; Epona saw them drop and die. Yellow-haired, red-haired; members of the people. They were not warriors, they had no weapons available but the tools for harvesting, and the death they met was not a warrior’s death. They shrieked in pain and died in blood and it was an ugly transition.
Epona closed her eyes and buried her face against Kazhak’s shoulder blades, wondering what she should do. Get off and fight with her people? But the Scythians were her people now—and besides, they would undoubtedly kill her if she tried such a thing, and it would be a sacrifice to no purpose. She would have thrown away thislife in defense of the right to exist of persons she did not even know.
It is better to die fighting for freedom than to live without it, commented the spirit within, but it did not insist she get off the horse.
The defenders were trying to regroup, making what weapons they could of their scythes and the knives in their belts. Hunting knives, not battle swords. Perhaps Kazhak is right, Epona thought briefly. They need teaching; even the Kelti, safe in their mountains, always keep swords close to hand. It is a dangerous world, thisworld, and a person dishonors himself by neglecting to guard his spark of life.
The farmers came at them now, waving their pitiful weapons and screaming a warcry. To Epona’s surprise, the Scythians appeared intimidated. They whirled their horses and galloped away, and she thought the uneven contest was over; she thought the horsemen were unwilling to fight such poorly armed men. But then the Scythians strung arrows to their bows and turned in the saddle, shooting back over their horses’ rumps with deadly accuracy, and the farmers fell and died, writhing in pain.
The Scythians continued to gallop eastward, no longer looking back, but Epona looked back, and saw.
“Why did you kill them?” she shouted in Kazhak’s ear. “You didn’t even rob them!”
“Nothing worth taking,” he told her. “Farmers and women even heads no good to us.”
“Then why?”
“Why not?”
The horses thundered on.
Epona held to the back of his belt with white-knuckled hands, and the vision of the dead people lying in the midst of their bountiful harvest, the fruit of their labors they thought would keep them safe through the coming winter, haunted her. When she closed her eyes it was on the inside of her eyelids; she could not keep from seeing it.
My people, she thought. I should have done something.
The horses worked their way ever eastward, following river valleys through varying gradations of mountains and hills, and Epona rode silently, feeling guilty. It was a new and unpleasant experience for her.
When they camped for the night she fell into an exhausted sleep immediately, her head pillowed on the stallion’s neck. As before, Kazhak took the first watch—the Scythians were wary and always expected trouble—but this time when he came to rest he did not attempt to awaken her. He was embarrassed that his full strength had not returned since his injury; he did not want to lose face again by having the woman hit him and temporarily incapacitate him during their struggles—if she struggled. Hard to know. Strange Kelti woman.
He would take her later, when the injury no longer bothered him.
He sat on the ground durin
g his watch and looked with brooding eyes at the stars. He thought of the dead brothers who had begun this trip westward with him with such great expectations, full of life and the lust for adventure, the hunger to see new grasslands and take new loot, only to fall to the swords and spears of men who were fighting for their own toehold on place and prosperity.
He must be careful to return his remaining comrades alive to the Sea of Grass. It would be a shameful thing for a Prince of the Horse to lose all his men at one time; the other men might say he was not a good warrior.
He thought about these things, not about the yellow-haired girl who lay sleeping behind him.
Epona’s sleep, heavy at first, gradually fragmented into dreams. Dreams of smoke swirling, and … unnamed menace, accompanied by chanting … dreams of slaughter in a golden field.
She awoke without feeling rested. Her eyes were full of grit.
They ate a scanty meal and were riding again before the sun had cleared the rim of the world.
There was a new scent on the wind, wet and muddy, heavier than that of a clear, fast-running stream. The soil beneath the horses’ hooves changed again, growing deeper, and Epona could feel the gray stallion tiring from the greater effort required to pull his feet out of mucky earth.
“Too many riders on horse,” Kazhak said. “You walk now.”
Feeling lessened in status, she paced resentfully at the horse’s shoulder. He, too, was flaring his nostrils at the changed smell of the wind.
“Father river ahead,” Kazhak said. Epona did not answer; she was in no mood to talk to the Scythian, not after the events of lastday, though his amber beads still hung round her neck, forgotten. She had no wish to make pleasant conversation with a man who had killed her people unnecessarily, with no respect for their spirits and no dignity allowed to their dying.
The surface of a wide river glinted ahead of them like a band of polished metal. Father river. Epona looked toward it with interest. How Uiska would have enjoyed this sight, the chance to commune with such a powerful spirit! The river dominated the landscape as they approached, winding serenely through banks of rich brown soil, embraced fondly by crowding vegetation.
The river was too mighty to go unrecognized. “What is the name of the father river?” Epona was forced to ask Kazhak.
“Is called Duna. Is said to rise in territory of your race.”
Duna. In the language of the people, Danuba. Rigantona had been born on the upper reaches of the Danuba. Epona experienced a vivid flash of the sights and scents of home, the lodgefire glowing golden on the log walls, her mother’s loom in its corner, symbol of stability. The back of her throat ached with sudden pain.
“Duna flows through many lands,” Kazhak was explaining. “Better than road. Man follow Duna, can go anywhere worth going. That way, some days, is big settlement and trading center of your people, they call it Ak-Ink.” He waved his hand in a broad arc that might have indicated any direction.
“Abundant water,” Epona translated.
“Is so,” Kazhak affirmed. “Much water everywhere Duna flows. People build little boats, build settlements, dig in dirt. Too many people. We go around, not see.”
Epona was disappointed at missing the opportunity to visit Ak-Ink, well known as far as the Blue Mountains, but she was thankful the community would be spared the attentions of the Scythians.
Slaughterers of my people, she thought, and not in fair battle. Yet these are my people too, now.
The lesser river they had been following flowed into the Danuba, Kazhak’s Duna, and was swallowed up as a little child disappears in the embrace of a mighty parent. The party of horsemen followed the bank for a long distance before they found a place safe for fording.
As Kazhak had explained, the Scythians used rivers for roadways as confidently as the people of the Kelti used trails with notched trees for directional markers. The Duna wound its way down toward the lowlands, its banks usually offering easy riding. As the footing firmed again Epona was allowed to ride and walk alternately. She wondered why Kazhak had not made her walk in the mountains, where the way was so difficult for horses—except speed had been all important then.
Escaping the shapechanger.
Epona intended to maintain an angry silence indefinitely as a tribute to the dead, but she was of the Kelti, and used to the sound of conversation. The close-mouthed Scythians were starving her ears, so at last she asked Kazhak, “Where does the Danuba … the Duna … go? What is its outlet?”
“The sea of Kazhak’s people, the Black Sea,” the Scythian replied. He spoke proudly, as the Hellenes boasted of the great seas at the center of the world, the famed blue waters that embraced their own lands. “Duna flows east, then south, but then east again, to the sea. Father river very wise; returns to the rising sun. Kelti not know about Duna? Stupid. Duna most important river anywhere.”
Epona’s anger returned fullblown. This savage, this wanton killer who had unhoused the spirits of her people for no good reason, dared to call the Kelti stupid! She balled her fists and choked back furious words, stalking beside the stallion in a rage so palpable the horse rolled his eyes and edged away from her.
Kazhak was aware of her mood too, but he ignored it. She was only a woman.
After riding for a long time in silence, however, it was the Scythian leader who missed the sound of a voice. He realized he had enjoyed showing off his knowledge of the regions through which they rode. Why deny himself that pleasure? It was the proper function of females to provide an admiring audience for the male.
He cleared his throat as a prelude to speech and waved one hand vaguely southward. “That way, long ride, is land of Illyricum,” he informed any listening ear.
Illyricum. Epona instantly recalled her mother’s fascination with the tales of Illyricum, the silks and splendors, the treasures brought to the cities from the comers of the earth. For her mother’s sake she should question the Scythian about Illyricum, but that was Rigantona’s interest, after all, and not her own. What did my mother ever do for me? she thought. I will never see her again to tell her what I might learn, anyway, and I am glad I will not.
Mother.
Kazhak went on talking. “Much of Illyricum is mountains,” he said. “People tough as best leather. But as you ride south, they get softer. Town people.” He spat in contempt, being careful to avoid Epona. She did not notice the small courtesy.
“Ride southeast many days more,” Kazhak said, “see lands of Moesians; Thracians. Interesting places. Grasslands, swamps, red flower called poppy makes men fall asleep quick, river of roses …”
“A river of roses?” Epona asked in spite of herself.
Kazhak shook his head in the gesture she had already learned was a sign of assent among the Scythians, as a nod was the sign of negation. “Maritsa, river of roses. Is valley of roses, flowers everywhere, people pressing oil from petals, singing about roses, oil, sun, war, food … sing about everything they see and do, those Thracians. Noisy people.”
He sounded amused. He did not look down to see if Epona was paying attention. She was not talking so she must be listening; women did one or the other. Being female, they could not simply be quiet and think.
“When Kazhak boy,” he said, “go with Kolaxais and brothers to get Thracian stallions for our herds. Wonderful fast horses, but with big heads, like ox. Good women there, too; pretty.” He smiled to himself at some memory. “But southern women spoil early, like eggs in sun,” he added, the smile fading.
Epona would not give him the satisfaction of a response.
Glancing down at her, Kazhak noticed the angry set of her jaw. “Much copper in lands of Thracians,” he continued blandly. “Men mine copper in valley of Duna for more generations than number of hairs on your head. Build towns, make bronze. Work some iron, too—horse bits, few weapons, but not great swords like swords of Kelti. No one works iron good as Kelti. Your smith, your tribe, very smart. Very strong. Good heads.”
Was he now offering her p
eople some clumsy compliment with his cup hand? It would not soften her. She grated her teeth together and kept her eyes on the land before them, watching the hills give way to a distant plain spread like the lap of the earth mother.
Could that be the Sea of Grass? Surely not; the journey had already seemed interminable, but her own knowledge, gleaned from traders’ talk in her village, told her they must still be in the territory of the Pannonii or the Boii; perhaps the Kotini or the northern branch of the Taurisci. But she would not ask.
Kazhak continued his monologue, trusting her to listen, expecting her to appreciate the effort he was making. Men did not have to discuss anything with women; she should feel honored that he spent time talking to her.
“In Thrace many different tribes, no one like any of the others,” he said. “Stay all separate. Mountain people, plains people, swamp people. Each tribe proud, think other tribes”—he hunted for the word—“inferior, is it so?
“But land is southland, gets warm, gets too much sun, Kazhak thinks. Makes people do funny things. Very funny,” he reiterated.
Against her will, she was interested. “What do you mean by funny things?” Silence had become an intolerable burden, its supporting edges nibbled away by her curiosity.
“Some tribes in land of Thracians eat no meat,” Kazhak explained. “No flesh food, not even sheep and goats. Live on roots, milk, cheese, honey. Act like women. Do not train warriors, never have good fight. Talk about peace, peace, while muscles go limp and flabby. Grow roses, sing songs. Weak people, those people. Strong wind will come someday and blow them away.”
“It sounds like a happy existence,” Epona commented.
“Happy! What good is happy? Children will be slaughtered, or starve; they do not know how to fight. All must know how to fight. Fight for life or die. All things know that, but funny Thracians think they can make it not true.” His voice rang with contempt.
“There are many gentle things that never fight …” Epona began to argue, but Kazhak waved her suggestion aside with a flourish of his hand.
The Horse Goddess (Celtic World of Morgan Llywelyn) Page 22