by Manda Scott
“Only from those who choose not to see what is before them.” Mac Calma began to twist the sea from his tunic. The wool was wrecked; pulled out of shape by the sea. Nothing he could do would repair it. “Segoventos knows who I am,” he said. “And Brennos, the mate.”
“Do they?” Caradoc was scathing. “That was brave. With all of Gaul under the heel of an emperor who has outlawed ‘barbarian soothsayers, seers and bards’ and the ports full of men desperate to prove their patriotic ardour? Or perhaps you haven’t seen a man crucified yet and think it no risk?”
He was pushing deliberately beyond the boundaries of acceptable behaviour. Three Gaulish dreamers had been crucified at the behest of Rome in the past year. All three had trained on Mona and, given his age, it was likely that Luain would have known them. Even had he not, the shadow of their dying still hung over the land. As a sacrilege, it defied description, but more than that, it confirmed the uncomprehending brutality of the enemy.
Luain mac Calma abandoned his tunic and stared out to sea. “I have seen it,” he said. “It is not something I would court unnecessarily. In this, I believed I was taking no more risk than was wise. Some men I would trust with my life. Segoventos is one of them.” He looked up. “I had considered that you might be another.”
Caradoc of the Ordovices, acknowledged warrior of three tribes, tilted his head, as if testing the thought. He was calmer than he had been, enough to smile with due irony as he said, “That would presuppose that I knew who you were.”
It was not the proper way to ask for an introduction but nor was it overly rude. The singer looked across at Macha, who nodded; a man should not have to make his own introductions in the presence of another who can make them. She, too, could raise the singer’s lilt when she chose.
“Caradoc of the Three Tribes, warriors and dreamers of the Eceni, let me introduce to you Luain mac Calma, once of Hibernia, now merchant, singer, healer and dreamer of the elder council on Mona.”
So they shared them both, Mona and Hibernia, the two islands blessed by the gods. You could hear it in their voices, a blending of lilt and intonation, as if they had learned at the same knee—or over many years sharing the same bed. It should not have been surprising. The training of Mona was twelve years from beginning to end, and there was no reason to suppose that Macha had spent all of it chaste, any more than one could suppose that Airmid would do so. All summer, Breaca had feared the arrival of a dreamer from Mona and the summons he must bring. Now, with Luain mac Calma standing on the shingle and arm’s length from Macha, Breaca looked, not to Airmid but to her father. He felt her eyes on him and smiled his brief, flashing smile. It warmed her, as it had always done.
Caradoc was watching her. The anger had drained from him, leaving him thoughtful. She felt him weigh the fact of what he saw against the fictions he must have heard of the child-warrior of the Eceni. He, of all people, should know the difference between the truth and the myth that grew around a single act. Her blade still lay across her hands, an offered pledge, untaken. The laws of the warrior’s oath were clear; in accepting, he would bind them both to mutual protection on the field of battle and off it, to be broken only in case of death, dishonour or blood-debt. It was neither offered, nor taken, lightly. Caradoc stepped forward and laid his right hand on the hilt. With no formality at all, he said, “Thank you. I accept the oath.” His smile leaped between them, privately.
The night was ending. On the far horizon, dawn slipped like a silvered knife between the storm and the sea and the textures of the light began to change. Things the night had hidden came shadily into view: the rope burns and bruises of the shipwreck and the white scar of an old burn on Luain mac Calma’s forearm. Further back on the headland, the fire had grown and the snap of burning driftwood brought sparks and drifting smoke. The men of the Greylag had stopped work on it and were sitting in a circle, putting effort into drying their clothes and their hair and making it clear they had no interest in the small group gathered closer to the shore.
Eburovic said, “We should join your shipmates at the fire before the idiots kill the flame with wet driftwood and we find ourselves sitting out the rest of the night by a heap of cold—”
“No. Wait.” Breaca stood very still, so that her eyes did not lose the thing they had just found. “There is another ship, a bigger one.” The light changed, making the shape more solid. Her eyes widened. She pointed out to sea. “A much bigger one.”
They gathered round her, following the line of her sight to where, far out on the horizon, the ghostly outline of a ship big enough to hold ten herds of horses sat low in the waves. Luain mac Calma was first to see it with her. “It seems we are to be honoured with more company.” His voice was run through with other tones than a singer’s. He turned to her father. “May I take it you are not trading directly with Rome?”
There was a moment’s silence. Eburovic did not move his gaze from the ship. “We are the Eceni,” he said shortly. “We do not trade with Rome.”
“Of course not. I apologize. And in any case, that’s not a merchant vessel. It’s a legionary troop ship, and the last time one of those came on our shores it was an accident—one of Germanicus’s ships blown off course and foundering. Caradoc’s father rescued the survivors and returned them to the grateful arms of their emperor.”
“And the time before that?” asked Caradoc, softly. He must have known the answer.
Mac Calma turned and spat against the wind. “The time before that it was Caesar and the first wave of a Roman invasion. Let us pray to all the gods that it is not so again.”
If it was an invasion, it was destined for early failure. The ship wallowing offshore was three times the size of the Greylag and her crew five times as numerous. In familiar water and with a favourable wind she was one of the fastest ships in the known world. In foreign water, in catastrophic weather and with a master who knew nothing of the coastline, she was doomed. With the growing light of the dawn making the unfolding disaster plainer, Breaca joined the others by the fire and listened as a frantic, grieving Segoventos bellowed orders in the teeth of the wind to a man who was never going to hear them, about the sandbar and the tidal race and the need to steer between these two to bring the ship aground within reach of the land. The moment of impact was inevitable and painful and many of those who had lived through something like it turned away. Those who did not saw the ship foundering far out beyond the Greylag, and knew the distance to shore was too great for any to survive. By common consent, they waited, to see what could be done for the dead.
The first bodies washed up with the turning tide. There were not many; the ocean, having lost one crop, was not ready to give up the fresh one. A woman and a child came in together, clad only in underclothes as if woken in haste. Macha reached them first. She carried the child as she might a newborn infant, laying him at a safe place above the tide line. Breaca and Airmid together carried the mother. Luain and Eburovic made a stretcher of paired beams and laid planks across it and waited down at the shoreline for the rest. A mariner came presently, lashed by a single turn of rope to a fractured beam. It, or one like it, had crushed his skull before he was washed ashore. Others followed: a handful of Roman legionaries who, extraordinarily, had thought to keep their weapons with them as they swam and, more extraordinary still, had not simply sunk to the bottom but had fought clear of the ship and kept themselves afloat long enough to be caught and carried by the tide. The swords had slipped from their sheaths and gone to feed the ocean but the rest of their armour was sound. Breaca, ’Tagos and Caradoc stripped them in silence, working their knives into water-swollen buckles and knots, freeing them up slowly so that none had to be cut. Four scale-on-hide jerkins and as many good leather belts were removed whole and set to dry by the fire with Hail guarding them, while the bodies were freed of seaweed and laid out with the rest.
A long time after that, two boys came in, no more than Bán’s age. Each was naked and bore on his shoulders and back the scars of slaves.
The men of the Greylag gathered them up and carried them to join the others; all were accorded the same respect regardless of rank, as strangers would be who were not enemies in battle.
Breaca was by the fire turning the rescued armour when Curaunios, the Greylag’s second mate, called out from the shore.
“Here! Help me here. There’s one alive. Where’s the healer?”
It was an odd thing to call, but she learned later that Curaunios was from Gaul, of those families amongst the Aedui for whom Rome was not always the enemy. Breaca ran with Macha and found the two men kneeling in the sand, the one spewing water as Caradoc had done, the other supporting him gently. It was the first time she had seen either a living Roman or one of the warriors of southern Gaul. The Gaul was vast, a great blond bear of a man, with skin that had reddened under the lash of the sea and hair that was already streaked with grey.
The Roman was younger, not much older than Caradoc. He was naked, his skin summer dark to match the oak brown of his hair. Even from a distance, Breaca could see the marks of rope burns on his palms and strips of waterlogged skin that hung free from his shoulders. More spectacularly, a network of battle scars laced back and forth across his upper body. Unlike the slaves and more like the legionaries, he carried the bulk of these not on his back but on his chest and right forearm where enemy blades had passed his guard, and all of them were old. On his left side, below the ribs, a puckered cavity big enough to take a balled fist showed angry purple lines around the edges. Better than words, it said that he had spent his summer fighting and may have learned how to block the sword-cuts coming for his throat but was less adept at avoiding the spear aimed through his ribs for his heart.
Caradoc, who had direct experience of Rome, said “Equestrian,” as if that explained it, and spat. The others gathered with him, watching with curiosity, uncertain of what to do. Segoventos pushed past them to stand before the man, explaining in heart-rent detail all the ways the ship could have been steered to safety. More than any of the others, he carried the guilt of watching a ship die and not having died himself to save it. He spoke to the Roman as a way to cleanse his soul, not because he expected to be heard.
The Roman had not been the ship’s master and he had no feel for the sea. He knew only that he was alone and surrounded by strangers in a land he had never intended to visit. When he could take a full breath without choking, he shook off the helping hands, bunched his fists on the shingle and pushed himself to his feet.
And stopped. The tip of Breaca’s blade drew blood from the water-softened skin at the tuck of his chin. Caradoc, warrior of three tribes who had killed at least once in battle, held the hilt and kept the blade level. Breaca stood ten paces away with the empty sheath strapped to her back and her hands by her sides; she had pledged him the blade, and she would not stop him taking it unless his enemy was of the Eceni. Her scarred hand throbbed.
“You are Roman?” Caradoc spoke in Latin, levelly and without emotion. Even for Breaca, with no knowledge of the tongue, the meaning was clear.
The foreigner stared at him and said nothing. Caradoc nodded. The lethargy of the sea was completely gone, replaced by a balanced keenness. His gaze floated easily round the gathered group. His eyes, seen in the odd, snowdense light, were of the same metallic grey as the blade beneath them. His hair was drier than it had been, and paler. “This man is the enemy of our people,” he said. “Does anyone wish to dispute that?”
No-one did. Seamen and Eceni alike shook their heads. Without thinking, Breaca reached for her belt knife and drew it clear. Caradoc saw it and nodded his thanks, lightly, to her and then to the group.
“In that case, I claim blood-right; for the death of my mother’s grandfather, for the men who fought beside him against Caesar, for the dreamers of Mona who died last year in Lugdunum, capital of the three Gauls, for all those unnamed of our people who have died in slavery under the yoke of Rome since they first brought their warships to this land, for all these and more, his life is mine.”
He raised the blade with both hands. The man on his knees before him, who was both Roman and a soldier and had just survived certain death in the sea, thrust himself to his feet in the space before the killing stroke and made a grab for the hilt.
Caradoc smiled and stepped wide and took his left hand from the sword, changing grip from that of an executioner to that of a man entering battle. He nodded with a detached respect. “Good. Thank you. I would not have liked it like that.”
The blade swung in a long, singing arc with a man’s neck at the apex—and passed on and through without drawing blood. The Roman lay on the shore, spitting sand from bloodied teeth. A red mark showed on his shoulder where he had been thrust to the ground. Caradoc frowned and changed his grip for the back swing. Segoventos, ship’s master, who was bigger than both of them put together, reached a hand to the younger man’s arm so that the blade stopped still as if grounded in oak. “No,” he said. “He is not yours. You have not the right.”
Caradoc freed his hand. He took a step back and kept the blade, but the tip was lower than the hilt and he was not within reach of his victim. He shook his head, like a dog out of water, gaping.
“Segoventos? He’s a Roman. He needs to die.”
“He is a shipwrecked man, as you are. If the gods wanted him dead, they would have taken him. You have not the right to say otherwise.”
“I have more right than you. This is not your land, Gaul.”
“Nor yours—son of the Sun Hound.” It was said quietly; Segoventos only bellowed for the important things, like the life of a ship. For the rest of the time, his size spoke for him.
Caradoc let his breath out in a rush. He spun to face the others. The men of the Greylag, who had known him for six months as Math, boy of the Ordovices, were eyeing him with undisguised curiosity, waiting for him to deny the parentage that had been named and then, when he did not, making all the assumptions that went with it. Caradoc looked past them to Eburovic and Luain mac Calma. His nostrils flared tightly. “This is your land. Will you do as my father did and let him go with guest-gifts and the promise of trade?”
“No.” Macha stepped forward to stand in front of the Roman. She did not point, or gesture or raise her voice, but Breaca had never seen so clearly the authority of the dreamer used at will. “You know that is not the way of the gods. Your father acted against the will of the elders in what he did and I have no doubt he will be called to account for it, in this world or the next. But what you are doing is no better. You are not facing this man in fair combat. He is not even armed. He is not responsible for the acts of his fathers, any more than you are for yours, and even less so for men whose blood he may not share at all. If he is an enemy, it is in his own right and it is not for us to say so here. We will not compound your father’s error. Instead, we will take this man back and call a meeting of the elder council and let the gods and the grandmothers decide his fate.”
“You will call a council in this weather?” Caradoc spread his arms wide, taking in the snow and the ice and the aftermath of the storm. “Can your dreamers fly through the air like the deer-men of the northlands and join their councils in the deepest drifts of snow?”
“Hardly.” Macha smiled, thinly, and he was reminded yet again that he faced a dreamer. His eyes dropped before hers did. “We can do nothing while the snow holds us bound. It was enough to come here and we are not yet back safely. If we return without loss, there will be eighteen new mouths to feed and sleeping places to find and that will keep us occupied until the snow lifts. When it does, the council will meet. In the meantime, the man is a guest, as you are. He will not leave us; he is a lone man in a strange land and if we can find little food in it, he will find none.”
“You think so?” Caradoc chewed on the flesh of his cheek. Slowly, he reversed the blade and returned it to Breaca. “And if he does not understand this and still tries to run?” he asked quietly. “The Romans believe themselves masters of everything. Would you let him roam fre
e in the Eceni heartlands?”
“No.” Macha paused and turned round. Luain mac Calma had moved down the shore to stand beside the Roman and was translating her words into Latin as they spoke. She spoke slowly, so her meaning was not lost.
“I believe this man to be intelligent. On that basis, he will be allowed to live. If he is stupid and tries to run, then you may hunt him down as you would hunt a wolf who has broken into the foaling pens. The elders will not prevent you.”
The Roman stood upright on the shingle, ignoring the cold. He was a head shorter than Luain mac Calma and the contrast made him seem smaller still, but he stood like a warrior and did not show the anger Breaca might have expected. He thought for a moment after Macha finished, then answered briefly in Latin.
Unexpectedly, mac Calma grinned. Inclining his head with elaborate courtesy, he said, “Our new guest thanks you for your offer of hospitality and is honoured to accept. He assures you he will not break into the foaling pens.”
“Good.”
Macha turned away from the sea. Those who had been watching turned with her and began the long walk back up the shore towards the horses. Bán and Hail went ahead, driving the new animals, keeping them well away from the home herd in case of fighting or disease. Eburovic brought up his spare riding horse and offered it to Segoventos, ship’s master, who accepted. Others were mounted, some two to a horse, until none were left walking. The foreigner rode double with Luain mac Calma, with ’Tagos riding alongside.
Macha held back until Caradoc and Breaca, coming last, caught up with her. The warrior rode as if born on horseback, his hands guiding the beast along a path barely seen in the opening dawn, his mind clearly elsewhere. He made space for Macha beside him, granting the deference due to a dreamer. When there was no-one but Breaca to hear them, she said, “You will not fight the Roman, I will not permit it. But you may like to give thought, before we return to the roundhouse, as to how you will respond when our young bloods find it necessary to challenge you.”