by Manda Scott
“Bán, you’re not dead.”
“I know.” He lifted a palm and kissed it, tipping it towards the light. There were women among the Parisi who were said to see a man’s life in his hand. He rubbed the ball of his thumb across the lacework of calluses and scars and followed them through to their conclusions. “When Gaius is gone, what will we do?”
“This. And march back to the Rhine. And train. And see if we can take that mad killer colt of yours and turn him into a cavalry horse. And wait until Galba says he can spare the legions, and sail back across the Ocean to fulfil Gaius’s promise to Amminios.”
“Will he still do it, with Amminios dead?”
“He has to. It is what will save him. The Senate may loathe him, but if he can bring them Britannia, the people will let him keep his head.” Corvus rose on one elbow. “I was serious last night. You don’t have to take part in the invasion against your people. This notwithstanding, you can leave if you want to. I will find you a ship that will take you home.”
“Corvus?”
“Yes?”
“My people are dead. Iccius was the last and my soul died when he did. I was born anew yesterday, in this place, with people who are my own. I was Bán of the Eceni. Now I am simply Bán, who rides a horse named Death. Wherever that takes me is home.”
IV
LATE SUMMER-AUTUMN A.D. 43
CHAPTER 25
The salt marsh lay on the far eastern coast, south of the sea-river at the place where a single ship—or an invasion fleet—sailing from Gesoriacum or the mouth of the Rhine, and seeking the shortest crossing with the best tides, might make landfall.
On the day of the last new moon before the autumn equinox, there were no ships in sight. The sea rocked with unhurried rhythms and the occasional whitecap flashed on the waves. Such wind as there was blew from the shore out to sea. The land was as quiet. The salt flats simmered under the mid-morning, late-summer sun. Wading birds stilted over tidal mud. A raft of reed-billed oystercatchers, called sea-pies by the local Cantiaci, stirred and settled, piping in high fluting notes. Breaca, seated on a rock, turned to see what had disturbed them. The horizon remained free of ships but, after a while, she felt through the soles of her feet the throb of approaching hoofbeats. The birds made good guardians, if not as good as they had been in the late spring when the tribes had first gathered. In the beginning, they had billowed up in great pied blankets, shrieking at every cough and call. Four months on, they dipped and piped among the pools even through sword practise and were roused to flight only by the hounds.
The incoming warrior dismounted at the canter. He landed heavily and did not have his hands free to balance himself. Breaca listened to his few steps of unsteadiness but did not look round. Those who mattered had gathered at daybreak and stood strung along the shoreline, staring out to sea. Caradoc was there with fifty of his Ordovices as honour guard, his hair a spark of gold amidst the white cloaks. It was eighteen months since he had led the warriors of the war hammer in the left wing of the battle against Berikos of the Atrebates and the patina of victory still sheathed him.
Togodubnos and his cluster of yellow-cloaked spear-leaders stood not far away—a grizzled badger, showing his age and the strains of leadership. For the two days of that same battle, the massed spears of the Trinovantes had held the centre ground solidly against the enemy when the wings had been forced, temporarily, to retreat. They, too, radiated a palpable pride.
To their left, Gunovic and ’Tagos shared the blue of their people but little else. The Eceni, led by Gunovic, had merged with the spears of Mona and had won honour for both on the right flank, particularly on the second day. ’Tagos had not fought then.
Further back, Ardacos and Gwyddhien, Cumal and Braint, Maroc and Airmid made a solid block of grey as they had done on the battlefield—the first time since Caesar that the Warrior had led the spears of Mona in conflict. Breaca, at their head, had felt an echo of the certainty she had known on the night of the choosing and had seen it touch those who followed her. It had not swept them to immediate victory, but it had woven them together into one tight unit and fewer had died than she had expected. Now, a year and a half later, the serpent-spear showed fresh again on their shields, in preparation for a greater war.
The incomer was not any of these, but still acted as if he were owed a place at their council. He strode past Breaca, shedding straw like a poorly finished thatch. At the meeting stone, where the speaker should have stood, he hurled his burden to the ground. The sheaf-ties broke, scattering late-cut wheat, white from too much sun and blued at the edges with mildew. The threshing had been done badly, if at all. A full ear fell against Breaca’s leg and dropped a patter of corn round her feet. As if the quality of the harvest was her only concern, she picked a kernel and bit into it. The outer layer was slimed with mould and slipped unpleasantly between her teeth but the inner core was dry and hard; if the good weather lasted, it would not be impossible to salvage the crop. Tilting her palm, she dropped the kernel back to the grass.
“What does it tell you, Warrior of Mona?”
The man’s shadow cut across her legs. His voice made of her title an insult. She looked up, shading her eyes from the sun. Beduoc of the Dobunni, oath-breaker and untrusted ally, had been handsome in his soft, southern way until the weight of his treachery had marred him. The lines of his bones still stood well under the drink-slackened skin and the twisting mouth. His eyes were red from the dust and heat of the ride. Sweat greased him. Stubbornly, he threw his question again. “The corn, Eceni. What does it tell you?”
That, too, was an insult did she choose to take it so; she was of Mona first and of the Eceni second for as long as she was Warrior. To say otherwise was to deny her station. She met his gaze and he broke away first. “That the Dobunni gather their harvest late?” she offered.
“Late?” He spat onto the stone at her side. “It is not late. It is not in at all. I cut this with my skinning knife as I rode away from the homelands. The rest stands in the fields, feeding the rats and the starlings.”
He stepped away and ran his gaze across the stubble behind them. “You see nothing here.” He spread his arm, casting guilt on them all. “You have cut every standing ear along the shore and for two days’ ride inland so that you may eat and the Romans, when they land, may not; but everywhere else, from here to the far western shore, uncut corn stands in the fields feeding the birds. In the lands of the Dobunni, the pigeons gorge from daybreak to dusk. By noon they are filled beyond flying so that toddling children can lift them off the ground and carry them home to have their necks wrung. Our grandmothers cut them open and take the corn from their gullets so that we may have bread to eat in winter, knowing that they will have none from the harvest. Our land is empty, tended by infants and cripples, while every able-bodied warrior waits here, watching the empty sea for an enemy that will not come. Our children know hunger and the first frosts are a month away. It is time to act while we can still salvage something for the winter.”
That part of Breaca that was dedicated to Mona listened with an ear that said if his life had been different Beduoc of the Dobunni could have been a singer; the tones were there in his voice, patterning the anger. In a corner of her heart, she mourned the loss of a talent. The rest of her watched the beginnings of agreement build in the main body of warriors, if not the leaders and dreamers. Beduoc was neither liked nor trusted but they listened to his word. His people, the Dobunni, were only lately allies and even then only his half: the portion whose land bordered that of the Catuvellauni and who could most easily forge new bonds. On the first day of the battle, they had fought with Berikos and his Atrebates. Their warriors had swung their blades with a single-minded savagery and the bloodshed on the left flank, where they held their ground, had been terrible. Caradoc had led the Ordovices in charge after charge against them and neither side had given quarter, so that the bodies had piled high on the death pyres that night.
The cost had been repaid. On the
morning of the second day, Beduoc himself had come into the camp to swear allegiance to Togodubnos and his allies. No-one trusts a man who will break his blood-oath, but of necessity they had accepted his offer and all had agreed that it had been good not to face the war spears of his people through the second day of battle. In likelihood, it was this that had swung the day in their favour and it was not Beduoc’s fault that Berikos had escaped and made his way to Rome.
A ripple passed through the gathering. ’Tagos, who had gained a place on the council of the Eceni, stepped forward. He stooped under the pressure of perpetual pain and his right sleeve hung empty below the elbow. His voice was clear and carried to the far reaches of the gathering.
“There is another matter. The Cantiaci have been our hosts throughout the summer but we cannot presume too far on their goodwill. We eat their corn and drink their water, we hunt their game and burn their wood on our fires. And for what? A year and a half have passed since we reclaimed the land south of the river for Togodubnos’s son. It has taken that long for the new emperor to raise his legions and now he holds them at the brink of the Ocean and still they do not come. Claudius is no different from his predecessor. Caligula, too, was a showman without the stomach for a battle. I say it is time to go home. In the lands of the Eceni, also, the corn stands uncut in the field and our people fear the white bear of winter.”
’Tagos was not the man he had been before the battle. His gaze rode the circle, daring them to call him a coward. None did so. He was no longer a warrior, but in letting go of the name he had earned their respect. It had not been so on the first morning of battle when he had ridden out at the head of fifty Eceni spears. His loss of an arm to Amminios’s war eagles had made him a hero of sorts amongst those who had previously honoured Caradoc and he had worked doggedly afterwards, teaching himself to wield a sword left-handed. Gunovic had made him a shield that could be strapped to the stump of his right arm and he had fought well with it in the challenge fights against the young bloods of the Eceni, who stood in awe of his warrior’s braids and his kill-feathers and the clear evidence of his part in the greatest massacre of their age.
It had been different in battle against the Atrebates. The warriors of the southlands knew nothing of his past nor cared for the red-quilled feathers in his hair. They saw only that he was a one-armed swordsman and that a spear thrust from the right stood a better chance than most of biting flesh. He had lived through the first day because his friends had linked shields and made a wall around him. Two had died that he might live. It was the loss of Verulos that had changed him—the halting lad with the lame foot, father to Nemma’s child, who should have been fighting from horseback but had chosen to stand and defend his friend instead. That night, ’Tagos had lit the fire in honour of the dead. By its light, in front of everyone, he had uncombed the warrior’s braids from his hair and laid his feathers in the heart of the blaze. His battle friends had sat with him in silence until the fire died down and then had left to make their own peace with the gods. It had been a good deed and the right one, but it had clearly marked the end of his warrior’s road. It took more courage than most, then, for him to put his voice to going home and, because of it, his words carried weight with those ranged round him on the salt marshes.
Gunovic stepped up to join him. He had fought like a bear; no-one could impugn his courage. His eyes slid past Breaca’s and came back, pained with the need to straddle both sides of a line.
“’Tagos is right. If Claudius’s troops take ship now, they risk being caught by the autumn storms on their return as Caesar’s did. They know this better than we and it affects their actions. I have word this morning from Luain mac Calma to say that the two German legions have set down roots in Gesoriacum and are refusing to take ship. Further east, the Spanish legion waits at Juliobona and it, too, has not yet embarked. There is not one legionary willing to put to sea. If the new emperor wishes to buy credibility from the Senate to shore up his claim to rule, he will have to find other coin than the lives of his men or the conquest of Britannia.”
If it had been anyone but Gunovic, Breaca would have rejected his reading of the situation outright. Because she could not, she said, “Claudius has spent all summer gathering his army. He has twenty thousand legionaries and as many cavalry and auxiliaries standing idle at his ports. He has commandeered a navy greater than Rome has ever seen. Are you seriously telling me he does not intend to use it?”
“Not this year.”
The gathering cracked apart. It seemed that even the youngest warriors—particularly the youngest—had known of it, or had dreamed it, or had seen it in the movements of merchants along the coast.
“He’ll come in the spring—if he ever comes at all—”
“Caligula did not have the courage to attack and Claudius is the lesser man. He has no stomach for a fight he knows he will lose. Caligula at least had accompanied his father to the army; this one knows nothing—”
“It’s all for show. Rome does not care what lies beyond the encircling Ocean; they need only feed the imaginations of their people—”
Only the dreamers sat silent, and the two sons of Cunobelin. The rest clamoured like gulls fighting over the midden scraps. Behind them, real gulls in their thousands rode the turbulent winds beyond the salt marsh, whitening the sky. The sea rolled beneath them, too gently for the time of year. The sun fell on the polished waves and shattered, blinding bright. A horn sounded distantly and the gulls moved at its command, flashing like shoaling fish as they wheeled and dropped to settle on the water. In an ordered fleet, each one raised a wing to catch the wind. Invisible currents sailed them in to beach on the marshes. Their eyes were red, bleeding, and when they shook their heads the spatter of it stained the sand. Above them, a war eagle soared on a thermal.
“Breaca?”
She had slipped from the rock. Airmid knelt in front of her. Maroc was at her shoulder. He was the Elder now—had been so since midwinter when Talla died—and it changed the feel of him. His eyes carved hollows in her skull and let light into her soul. Calmly, as if it was part of an interrupted conversation, he said, “Breaca, the gulls have not yet come.”
She could see that. Exhaustion drained her. She nodded, lacking the will to speak.
Caradoc was closer than he had seemed. The summer had tempered him, bleaching his hair paler than the straw and making smooth leather of his skin. The complex grey gaze studied her with a warrior’s judgement. She expected no less. In the four years since she had sat the grey mare on a hilltop and put aside anger and hurt in the face of a greater threat, she had reached a pragmatic accommodation with Caradoc that worked for both in their service of the land and its people. He treated her as a distant half-sister with whom there had been an unhealed family rift, no longer spoken of. She treated him as she might have done Amminios if, after losing the Warrior’s Dance to Bán, the middle brother had joined his siblings in the war against Rome and proved himself a competent leader of men—with respect and a necessary distance. Now he crouched on his heels with his palms on his knees and she felt the pressure of his scrutiny.
From her left, Maroc asked the single necessary question. “When do the white sails make landfall?”
She stared up, lacking an answer. Airmid came to kneel at her side. Airmid’s dream in the night had been of herons by the thousand, killing all the frogs, and she had been gathering the courage to tell it. The gulls were worse, but not for her. “Look at the sun,” she said. “It will tell you.”
Breaca closed her eyes to think. The day had been too bright and the sea too smooth—god-smooth, not the real thing. She had not seen the sun. She shook her head.
“The shadows, then.”
She looked down. The answer lay at her feet in slanting shade. “Afternoon, midway between noon and dusk.”
It was not what they wanted. Maroc sucked on a tooth and Breaca was a novice again, learning to read Latin and doing it poorly. Shame flushed from her neck to her hairline. Patiently
, Airmid said, “Not that. Look at the sun’s angle. What is the time of year?”
The sun gave no answers. In her mind, Breaca looked at the turf and at the leaves on the small, wind-weathered birch that grew alone on the rise behind. The grass was harsh and brown and crusted with sea salt. The birch was near naked, a thing of straggled silver bark and sparse, sun-green leaves.
She opened her eyes. The real grass was less brown, the birch had more leaves, but their colour was the same. A strong wind would strip them and make the tree of her dream. “Not long from now. A month. Maybe less. After the first storms of autumn.”
The warriors had fallen silent. Those of the Dobunni whose grandparents had rejected the gods made the sign to ward against evil. Others raised a palm for Briga, or Nemain. Gunovic watched her like a hound guarding its whelp. With clear regret he said, “Breaca, are you sure it was this year? Could it not be next?” He was a man of integrity; he could do no less than ask the questions that seemed obvious to him.
She glared, unreasonably angry. “Would the gods send warning now of danger a year away?”
He shrugged, unconvinced. Maroc, who should have known the answer, said nothing.
Beduoc said, “We should still bring in the harvest. The gods do not give luck to warriors who ride to the battleground starving, on unfed horses with hounds whose hearts are set on hunting rather than the battle ahead.”
Around him, others nodded—men and women who had more to lose than a single life and less than a nation. Not one of them led less than a hundred spears. They were weary of waiting. They turned as one on those clustered round the speaker’s stone and their message was clear.
“Go.” Togodubnos spoke for the others. He turned his shield to face them so that the mark of the Sun Hound, gold on white, gave weight to his words. “Take your warriors. All those who have corn still standing should ride home now and bring it in. I will return to the dun. If the moon turns and you have not enough for winter, send word to me there. The granaries of the Trinovantes are far from empty. I will ensure that stores are sent to those who need it.”