Dreaming the Hound

by Manda Scott

  These were not youths who had grown under the yoke of Rome, but adults who had survived invasion and occupation and revolt and the savage reprisals that had followed it. These were the men and women who valued life above honour, or who felt that, in living, they served their people better. These were not ones who had stood and fought the legions, or spat on the auxiliary, or openly continued to act as dreamers for their communities in the face of Rome’s ban.

  Very few of them had been trained on Mona; they did not live in the dreaming as Airmid did, or know the winter tales and their hidden meanings as Dubornos had been taught. Even so, they had found the courage to travel at the end of the year, when the trackways were hock deep in slick mud and Roman patrols still scoured them, and they remembered the spear-trials of old, and could bear witness to them, as was needful.

  The young warriors threw in groups of four or five, lining themselves along the mark, readying themselves as if they had trained for life, and not simply two months of evenings in the forest. Their blades caught the reddening light of the fire pits, making suns in the gloom. The song of the spears filled the great-house and became less, as each one sought to join with the soul of the warrior who held it.

  “Just still the voice of your mind,” Breaca had said, long ago, and Eneit, who had understood the full measure of that, had said, “Just?” and had done it even while he laughed at the impossibility.

  The newly made warriors were not Eneit, but they gave all their hearts to try. Cunomar stood to one side, waiting to give the order to throw as his mother had done in the forest lifetimes ago, when, for him, the song of the spears had been impossible to hear.

  Each time, with each new group, he felt the tension and nerves and growing calm as they strove to listen only to the voice of the spear, not the voice of their own fear and doubt. Each time, when he thought time had stretched too far and it was not possible to find the stillness, it crept on him and he said, “Throw!” quietly and they did and their spears hit the targets as he had known they would do, except for four who would be allowed to try again in spring; they had not risked so much to fail this close to the end.

  At the end, forty-nine warriors of the Eceni stood before Cunomar, in the presence of their elders, and swore oaths on their spears as had their ancestors, their lives for his, each life for the other, in the sight and care of the gods, for all time.

  “Your son has come into his own. Responsibility has settled what the bear-dreamers began.”

  “It would seem so. Through winter we will know for certain.” Breaca leaned on the oak post to one side of the threshold where the firelight caught her least. For now, it mattered that Cunomar hold the attention of the new warriors and their elders and that his mother keep to the shadows.

  Ardacos crouched on the floor at her side, mending the binding on his spear. Their voices were lost in the rising murmur from the ranks of elders who lined the fire pits to the north side of the space. In the other half, the last of the newly made warriors rose to her feet and, defying the solemnity of her peers, raised her spear high above her head and spun it, whooping an old Eceni war cry. After a moment’s shocked silence, those around her did the same. The roof thatch resounded to the high pitch of battle.

  Ardacos turned to Breaca. “She’s like Braint. She fights like a wildcat. If she lives past her first battle, she will be good.”

  “We have to bring them to battle for that to happen and we can’t do that yet.” Breaca pushed herself away from the doorpost. All attention was on the howling youths and Cunomar, who, soberly, had stepped forward to calm them. In the time it took for silence to fall, Breaca walked round the side of the elders and reached her place at the far wall, opposite the door. There, a bundle of folded horse hides made a bench. A bronze shield hung on the wall behind, with the serpent-spear bold on its surface so that when she stood, the two heads of the spear seemed to emerge from her heart; if she sat, it crowned her.

  She stood. Ardacos had followed her and now laid some wood in the nearest fire pit. Flames caught and grew and were caught in turn by the bronze of the shield and sent outwards by the curve of the metal so that, slowly, it became a second fire, and the iron of her drawn sword in the middle a star.

  The attention of the elders came to her, drawn by the blaze of light and metal, by the white lime paint on her face and arms, by the warrior’s braid, worn openly for the first time in the east, with the silver feather, black-quilled, for the uncounted numbers she had slain in battle.

  Presently, when the sea of turned heads had become, instead, a sea of faces, of eyes reflecting the fire, Breaca nic Graine, first born of the royal line, said, “Welcome, elders of the Eceni. Against Rome’s edict, you have come here. There is not one of you who has not risked life to be present. Knowing that risk, you have borne witness to the first spear-trials to be held on Eceni land for seventeen years. Seventeen. Those who have today become warriors were not born when Rome’s legions slaughtered their fathers and grandmothers, their aunts and cousins. If we allow another twenty years to pass, the children of these new-made warriors will grow in a land where the spear-trials are at best a memory, at worst, forgotten.”

  They were hers, every part of their attention. She let them dwell on that, and signalled Cunomar. Smoothly, the product of much rehearsal, he led the forty-nine youths of his honour guard to make a curving line behind her.

  She sat down, so that the bronze shield spilled red fire onto her hair, and flushed the skins of the nearest warriors. “Tonight, an honour guard is born, of those whom you sent to us in the summer. They are not many, but given ten times as many we might bring the legions back to an eastern war …”

  A dozen elders winced at the word. Those who had not sent youths, but might have done, sat stone-faced and dared her to continue.

  “… but that war cannot begin without the express consent of the elder council. It has always been so and if we are to fight to preserve our heritage, we will not ignore the old ways. The time is not yet. Too many cleave to ’Tagos, who is held to rule us under Rome. The balance is fine. While he lives, we cannot openly raise warriors against Roman edict, and so—”

  “Will you kill him?”

  The question came from one of the strongest dissenters: a square-jawed man with greying hair who had shaken his head and murmured to his neighbour from the first moment the Boudica spoke of war. He was of Unagh’s steading, the wild-cat girl with Braint’s heart. She stood near Cunomar, a picture of mortified youth.

  Breaca allowed time to consider the question. “If he were dead, would you vote for war?” she asked.

  “Not if you had killed him.”

  “Which is one of the lesser reasons why I will not. Greater is that I have never and will never kill a man or woman of the Eceni simply because their beliefs do not match mine. ’Tagos believes the people are best served by their closeness to Rome. I believe that under the yoke of the legions, the Eceni will cease to exist. In this we are different, but the Ninth legion has its fortress a day’s ride to the north and the Twentieth still has three thousand men at Camulodunum, and we cannot presume to defeat these two. I know this; I do not intend to bring our people to the brink of ruin. But it may be the gods will grant a time to act and we should prepare for that, or for ever regret its passing.”

  The fire-shield weighed nothing; it had been made to honour the gods and the elders, not for battle. Breaca lifted it from the peg on the wall and hooked the strap over her shoulder, settling it in battle position. The flames at her feet were lower than they had been; the ashes glowed red on the shining metal. She tilted the shield so that light flowed down and she was in shadow, her voice flooding from darkness, with Mona’s power behind.

  “You have each risked your life to come here. The spear-trials are done and you are free to leave. But I invite you first to stay and to talk for as long as it takes, as we did in the elder councils of the days before Rome, to determine the case for war. If your decision is that we should fight, it will s
till not be easy, but we can begin, then, to determine how it may be done.”

  “And if we decide against? Will you return to Mona as was asked of you by some of us two years ago?” Unagh’s elder asked it, his face too masked to read.

  “No. I am Eceni and my children with me. We will stay and we will act as the elder council requires of us. My son’s honour guard will disband and the warriors will be offered the opportunity to follow their souls to the lands of the Caledonii or to return with you to their steadings.”

  “Is that the view of you all?”

  The Boudica stood again at the head of the council, with Ardacos and Cunomar beside her and the bronze shield at her back.

  Her eyes were full of smoke and the grit of no-sleep. She ached to sit down, to lie down, to sleep and not to have to talk ever again of Rome and all it might bring, or the Eceni and what they might grow to be in a land free of occupation. Over the span of a day and a half, the gathered elders had talked and argued and talked and eaten and talked and slept and woken and gone outside to use the middens in twos and threes and talked and come back in again and talked further.

  Others had found places for themselves among the fire pits and rolled in their cloaks and snored lightly for a time before their dreams and the talk around roused them once more. Cunomar and his newly made warriors had slept at the side through the first night, waking at dawn to bring wood for the fire pits, and to cook. Ardacos had left early and gone out into the forest to prepare for the last part of the new warriors’ rites, which would come later.

  Only the Boudica could not be seen to sleep, but rode like a skiff on the tide swell of their words and kept them ever moving forward.

  Snow was falling outside when she took her place again at the shield and looked out over the weary, hoarse assembly of her people.

  “Is that the view of you all?” she asked a second time. “If there is one against, let that one speak now. We must have everyone, or we have no-one.”

  At her side, Cunomar held his breath. Further along, she saw Unagh tense and then relax as the grey-haired elder from her steading shook his head. Around, others sat quietly. All dissent had been talked out of being, or was hidden, to raise its head another day.

  Breaca let herself smile, careful not to break the mask of un-sleep. “It is agreed, then, that you will spend the winter finding those men and women within your steadings and around who may have the heart for battle, and may answer a call without betraying us before we start. This is only the first step. While ’Tagos lives and stands against us, we cannot bring the warriors together. This is clear and I swear now before you all that his death will never be my doing. Even so, if we can begin to find those who have the will to fight, and to arm them, and to train them, when the gods send that the time is right, we can act. My thanks to you all.”

  She stepped away from the shield and the council was over with no more ceremony, so that the elders began to rise and stretch and seek the door and find a way to fresh air and snow and to plan their journeys home.

  The great-house had cleared by early afternoon, so that only the new warriors of Cunomar’s honour guard were left. For a while, they had been rowdy with relief, taking their leave of the parting elders, but, as these thinned and were gone, the youths had become quiet again, awaiting their final test. If they wished to be reckoned amongst the warriors of the she-bear, not simply as Cunomar’s honour guard, then they must follow Ardacos in a bear dance and for that even Breaca could not be present. Already the skull drums rattled inside the great-house. It was not a rhythm to hear long and stay sane.

  Her horse was nearby, brought from the paddocks by Unagh, who had seen the need. Breaca struggled to fit the great bronze shield across her back and considered the effort of mounting and riding to ’Tagos’ steading. Graine was there, and Airmid, and all comfort. If she rode sensibly, she should be there a little before nightfall; sooner if she rode stupidly fast, later if she slept and let the mare pick her own way through the dusk.

  “Thank you. I’m glad that I—” She turned, looking down towards the trackway. “That’s Dubornos …”

  She knew the horse; it was lame on the left fore, but not badly so, and Dubornos cared for it and would not set it aside. The sound of it ridden hard up the trackway was unmistakable, even with snow underfoot.

  Ardacos came to her side, and then Cunomar abandoned his playing of the skull drums and joined her, so that they were all three together as Dubornos dragged his horse to a halt and did not dismount, but turned it, saying, “The Latin slavers are at the steading. ’Tagos has offered them guest rights, and wine. They have already spoken twice to Graine. Airmid has her now, keeping her safe, but if they ask for her, ’Tagos may not stop them.”

  Breaca stared at him, not hearing. “To buy? That can’t be. Even ’Tagos wouldn’t—”

  “Not to buy, not yet, but perhaps to make an offer, and they will know what they come for if they return in the spring.”

  Breaca was already mounted. Sleep, so recently her only thought, was forgotten. Cunomar said, “Wait. My horse isn’t far. I’ll come.”

  Breaca’s horse was already moving. “No. Your warriors need you. This is the price of leadership, and in any case, this is not the time to let Rome know what we have. If we need you, I will send Dubornos back again.”

  With that, she followed Dubornos, riding as she had never ridden before.

  CHAPTER 25

  THE SLAVER WHO BORE THE BADGE OF THE LEAPING SALMON had never seen a warrior of the Eceni, dressed for battle, with her hair braided at the side and a shield as wide as his arm across her back and a spear in her hand, riding a horse black with sweat and herself no cleaner.

  He did his best; smiling a little stiffly and trying to hide his left hand that made the sign against evil even as his right hand reached to draw the legionary short sword from his belt. The ex-legionaries who formed his bodyguard had less need to feign the courtesies of guests; they drew their swords openly. One of those behind who watched the wagons leaned in to take the reins of the dray horses.

  Breaca walked forward, catching her breath. It was a little before nightfall, with the light less than perfect, but still, she knew how she looked and she was not what a slaver valued in his wares. Led by Dubornos, she had taken a shorter, uncleared path in the closing parts of the ride; thorns had dragged at her, lacerating her arms. Blood had mixed with the white lime paint so that she was marbled in the colours of the gods. Her hair stood up stiffly in white spikes at the front where she had swept it out of her eyes as she rode. She stank of bear grease and sweat and raw blood and the slavers’ horses were terrified of her.

  The conventions of Rome demanded other things from the wife of a king. In a havoc of shattered propriety, ’Tagos stepped forward from the gates and took her arm, turning her at his side.

  “Philus of Rome, allow me to present my wife, Breaca, mother to Graine, who will one day lead the Eceni.”

  ’Tagos was more of a diplomat than she had imagined. He spoke with aplomb in circumstances that begged for panic or ridicule and Philus could not but follow the lead he was given.

  Sheathing his sword, the slaver bowed his head. “My lady, you … I … that is, you …”

  Breaca moved closer and words abandoned him, lost in a welter of sweat and the stinking remnants of bear grease.

  With evident effort, he gathered himself, striving for courtesy. “My lady, you find me at a loss. I had heard word of your skill as a smith and I have seen the exquisite beauty of your daughter, which was described by our late governor, may the gods rest his soul, but I had not expected her mother to be so … to have such … but I have no gifts left that would match you. I have given them all to the king, your husband.” His gaze shifted right and left, to his closest companions, who stared fixedly ahead and would not put up their weapons.

  Breaca grinned artlessly. “Your brooch is beautiful,” she said. “I had imagined it Belgic when I first saw it, but now I see it closer, it is clea
rly not so. The Caledonii make the leaping salmon in such a fashion, with the small pieces of jet and the silver scales so perfectly set. Am I right? Is it one of theirs?”

  She was within reach of the slaver’s horse. It fought to step back so that Philus could barely hold it one-handed. He grimaced, sweating, caught between the opposing absolutes of diplomacy and his own clear need to keep the badge that was his symbol.

  Breaca took the last step to his saddle horn and would have reached up, but that Graine ran forward from the gates and caught her hand. At eight years old, Breaca’s daughter was no longer quite a child, but not yet nearly a woman. As either of these, she would have been beautiful. Hovering in the no-time between them, she captured and held the attention of the mercenaries as her mother had not done. She wrinkled her nose, theatrically.

  “You smell of bear,” she said, “Ardacos promised you wouldn’t.” And then, with the wide-eyed innocence of the young, “Philus says that I will be the talk of all Rome, that the emperor would wish me at his bedside.”

  Graine had been trained in her dreaming by Airmid; she could put any meaning she chose into her words. With her voice, she conveyed the sense that she had been paid the greatest compliment of any child in the empire, while every adult present built an inner picture of the Emperor Nero’s bedside and how a child might be treated there. The air closed tightly cold.

  “Did he? Our guest thinks ahead of himself, it seems.” Breaca was not a dreamer, but she knew how to call death to walk in her shadow and to let the promise of it loose with her voice.

  The slaver flushed scarlet and paled to an ugly, liverish yellow. His fingers fumbled at the clasp of his brooch.

  “My lady, I spoke only to honour your daughter. I apologize for any misunderstanding. Perhaps you will do me the honour of accepting a gift in earnest of my good intentions towards you and your family?”