Stop, say Dowd. Stop it.
But its like we dont hear an the old blokes tryin to screw into a ball an the stones bite till they dont seem to hurt him no more an its like tossin stones at a log or an anthill. Dowd lean on Abans arm so Aban start like a dreams just let him go. Malk stop an Becca Rona Efia but Nathins bendin for more an he lift his head to look at what hes done. From the old bloke come a scratchy sigh. He shudder an go stiff, theres a stink from his curta an alls still alls done. Only Nathin pantin, the group in his sights an, Whos a girlyman now, he say. Whos a scaredy crow now?
Its, say Malk. Its what he ask for innit. Its what he want us to do.
Aban turn an start up Davys Way. Efia look after him. Wait, say Becca an shes pickin up the packs.
Lets go, say Rona but Malks gapin at the blood an the sand soakin it up an Rona take him by the hand. Beccas got her rashuns, Efias after her draggin her pack an Abans whos already far into the shimmer down the road.
You may speak of curses now, say Dowd, an he kick dust at Nathins feet.
Dont mean nuthin, say Nathin. Just speed his dyin is all. Some ole sod an now hes gone. Nathin look a last at the corse then sense hes on his lonesum. Wait for me, he shout. Flyin from what we done. The old mans deathday. His birthin back to nuthin.
After the Fast Time folk reckon the land starve, the waters shrink an thats why the steds gone small an theres ruins everyway of what once stood. The worlds a corse of what it were, so you got to make friends with the bones cos what else is there. The bones an stones is all. Stones as they always bin an Rona Becca Aban Malk Efia Nathin Dowd walkin on em. Chasin dusk long Davys Way. Hardly speakin to keep gobs wet. Heads clear of all thinks save the guidin stick in Ronas hand an maybe what grub to eat come dark. Then its group or plain sleep like a deep blue river. Only the heave have other plans for us, it up an bite well before the sun bury itself. The whisperin scrub wake an shiver. Then yewkas start bendin an swayin. The group tight up as wind yank the carpet of stones from under our feet. Sand an dust an twigs go flyin. Grit in yer face an hoods boomin. Have to walk crabwise then. Chew grit. Spit sand. Shout so you can hear.
What, say Aban.
Cover, say Rona.
Not under trees, say Becca. They fall an crush us.
Wait, say Efia. Itch.
What, say Becca.
Ditch. Dig down. Trees fall an we get a roof for extras.
All watch Efia as she lean into the wind up the roadside lookin. A ditch run where Davys Way meet the boomin trees. Here, she say an all follow after.
Down in the ditch the wind find us an tug at our hair an clothes. But not so strong nor loud. All look from face to face. Pick the dust off our tongues. Nuthin doin but wait for the storm to blow itself out. Ghosts howlin up Davys Way. Pale waves of sand in the failin light. Ditch the best place to sleep out the night. Hunker down.
The storms still lashin when Aban dig a shithole thirty paces from the group. Unload him an buckle up when he find hes trembling, his knees wont hold him, he has to crawl like a baby an all a sudden he cant. Cant be with the rest of us. He see us like fat grubs shelterin gainst the flyin sand. All huddle as one an he cant come near. Not while hes shakin an, whats this, snottin up an weepin like a kiddie. Oh, he say, oh, to tree roots an a scrabblin beetle. No facin Malk Nathin all blubby like this. Whats he even weepin for if not dumb hunger? No harm stayin where he is. No shame waitin for his shame to pass. Kneelin gainst the ditch bank hearin the wind shout, the trees thrash, he close his eyes to think him into blankness. Only a body shift up next to him.
Aban? Got you some grub. Nuthin much only dry cob an last of the meat.
You eat it, say Aban.
Efia hold out the food to him. Its for you.
Reachin for the grub Aban keep his eyes hid under his hood. Look long the ditch to Malk Rona Becca Nathin. Dowd on his lonesum. Aban chew the dry an rotty cob. Efia take jercan from her backpack. Offer it to him an he drink.
What we done, Efia say. Back then. What we done to the ole bloke. Ask Rona Becca Malk. They dont know what Im talkin bout its like they forgot already.
You do likeways, say Aban. Ole blokes got one road. We help him long it.
But his face, say Efia. The way he drop –
Its done now an over. Hes back where he start from like we gonna be. Dead an all his pain forgot.
Its killin, say Efia.
World take back whats owed it an we just part of the world.
So why you shove off then?
Eh?
Why you run first? An sittin now on yer lonesum? If alls for the good.
Efia look at him hard. Cant read his face in the storm dusk. No thinks comin off it. Cos, he say. Just need to.
Just need to, say Efia like a valley speakin back. What for tho? Hot work bein lonesum. Cooler when all gree.
Its hot sometime, say Aban then stop his mouth.
Hot, say Efia, when?
When all gree.
She nod at this. Tho the words cut deep an she want to send em far away. Rightyer, say Efia but so soft he ask her to say it again. Then Aban find her hand like a bird on his knee. He feel it there an see it. How it move upways. Rightyer, say Efia.
Like a hornid stung him he jolt from her touch. No!
Aban –
Groups safest. Best place. Dont go closin us off.
He find no more to say, only the heart in him freakin like a bird in a trap. Shufty back to the group. To Malk Rona Becca Nathin. That Dowd. Back to the safest place. Wait out the storm there. While it toss its playthins. The heave shakin itself in anger. All push together gainst the bitin. Aban far as can be from Efia tho his thinks are where she is. Till sleep creep over us an trouble for a time leave us be.
10
Blueface
Marcus watched the native priest. He heard him speak and saw the young men listen. Nobody marshalled his gaze or forced it to the ground where, surely, they meant to bury him, Marcus Cornelius Severus, second son of Tertius and Sabina Marciana, decurion of the XIV Twin Legion.
The day was fading already. Above all he feared the loneliness of what awaited him. The absence, between this instant and his last, of a single face to look on him with love.
Already his humiliation was under way. With his hands tied behind his back, he had had no choice but to urinate on himself. The warmth had brought a gross, temporary relief, till all that remained was his stink and the chill of wet wool. He was hungry too, and a thirst indistinguishable from despair furred his mouth. He listened to the hot purpose of the druid. To keep from thrashing in his bonds – to avoid further disgracing himself – he turned his head and tried to catch Glyco’s attention.
The cavalryman was asleep. Could it be? Had they –? No, his chest was moving, the bloodied head rose and fell with each breath. Marcus stared. It was unfathomable: to nap when their lives were rationed, to lend to oblivion what soon would belong to it for ever. He wanted, madly, to shout across the clearing, to cut through the diatribe and order his man awake.
Then a thought stung him. Glyco had a plan; he was gathering strength before acting on it. Or else he knew that rescue was on its way. Surely traffic on the road, a tradesman or a messenger, would have seen the blood by now – unless they had covered it up with snow – but then it would have seeped through. Only soon it would be dark. Even if the alarm were raised, what chance of rescue so late in the day? No, Marcus barked at the hope in his chest. Do not kindle. Do not burn.
He tried to persuade himself that he was dead, that the little time he had left was posthumous, a respite from the nothingness which was already his. A ghost clothed in flesh, he took gulps of air to savour its sweetness. He looked at the fallen needles of yew, and how the ice that furred them was made of the frailest crystals. It was his task to pay attention – for all this was about to be taken away for ever.
A fit of terror shook him, made his teeth chatter till they drummed in his skull, and he raged against himself for this lack of self-mastery. He sent his though
ts home: to his father and brother at the warehouse, to Elpis, his old nurse, asleep beneath the olive trees. He watched his parents, with all the household behind them, receive the news of his disappearance. He saw the wheatfield behind the villa, the dark candles of the cypress trees in the burial ground of his ancestors. His grandparents, cousins, the stillborn twins, were bound in earth that would never hold him. Instead – what? This sand for a grave? The slime of a British bog?
The druid’s speech climbed a crest and the conspirators cried out, three times, a word in their language that Marcus knew:
‘No.’
He fixed his working eye on Glyco and this time it was admiration he felt, almost love, for the man’s defiance. To turn the weakness of sleep into a weapon, to show the rabble his contempt for its frenzies.
He sensed that he was being watched.
It was the boy.
Marcus had given him little thought. Why did they hold him captive? Was he the son of a rival tribe? Was he a spy to merit his bruised cheek?
The boy held his gaze for an instant, then looked away.
Together and apart, boy and soldier watched the druid. Whatever else he had lost, the man retained his cauldron of hot words. He reached into it and his audience was spellbound, its nerves and sinews stiff with listening. Marcus was able, with what Condatis had taught him, to pick out some of the words: ‘foreigner’, ‘father’, ‘shame’. It was the straightest path for a firebrand, to probe the live wound between generations.
Marcus listened, and curiosity made a clearing in the forest of his dread. He noticed how like his wolfhound the druid looked: his hair thick and tangled, the black turning to grey, his starved frame lean and loping. He remembered from stories how the crazed warrior, by resembling the bull, the horse, the wild boar, took on the animal’s strength. He found himself marvelling at his enemy, wondering about the road which had brought him here, to pacified country and this senseless act of rebellion. The druid had been an imposing figure once. Somewhere, to judge by the damage to his leg, he had come to physical harm. Still, with his cavernous voice and burning eyes, with the priestly torc under his winter rags, he made one forget that he was a vagabond, a speck of ash from a conflagration. A ghost, like Marcus, outstaying his welcome in the world.
He saw the druid hand something to one of the boys.
What was that? It looked like a pouch.
Suddenly he wanted not to see. He wanted to be asleep like Glyco. The druid removed his gaze, very briefly, from his audience and sent it, swift as a hawk and with the same intent, towards his captive. Marcus saw, and then doubted he had seen, a smile on the man’s face. Then, from the seemingly fathomless recesses of his cloak, the druid extracted a noose of rope and gave it to the brute. To the redhead he handed a long dagger.
Marcus strained against his bonds. He fought stupidly, in panic and indignation, trying with what strength he retained to break the cords that held him down.
It was no use. As quickly as it had entered his body, the fight went out of him. He let the stake hold him up. He hung aslant the frozen earth, and a phrase he had heard many times from old soldiers in Aquitaine came into his head: ‘If your end is come, drink bravely of death.’
It had sounded easy then. What if he begged for mercy – disgraced himself in front of Glyco? His ghost would never rest from such dishonour.
The strange boy was watching him.
‘Keep your eyes to yourself, brat!’
The boy looked away, not for shame but because the druid’s speech was done.
Oh gods. The young men were looking his way. As one they turned; they bent their bodies in haste. But they did not come at him with their weapons. It was their injured colleague who called them. They gathered about him, the druid following.
It was difficult, through the press of bodies and in the dying light, to see what was happening. The injured lad cried out; he was in agony and it was agony to hear him. His comrades flapped about helplessly, they added what clothes they could spare, in this cold, to his cocoon of furs and leather. Why did the druid not do more to help? They were hidden in woods: the green wall of yews would conceal any fire … unless. Unless it suited the priest for his disciple to suffer. Marcus wished he had not drawn his sword: he had done his enemy a service in using it. The druid made a show of attending to the boy’s wound. The clouts strapped about the head were gross with blood. The stricken face dragged and stared, eyes rolling into its skull. The druid prayed in silence, then gave orders, sending the boys hither and thither in search of medicinal plants and water. It was a laudable performance: the killer as healer, ministering to the servants of his revenge.
The heavy youth, set on his mission, walked close to Marcus and let his fist drag against the decurion’s injured eye.
The pain was revelatory – the dragging of iron spurs through livid flesh. Marcus sobbed. He bit his cheeks to silence himself until he tasted blood.
He rocked himself as well as he could to see off the pain. He was aware of bodies moving about the grove, the rush and patter of orders in action. When he dared open his good eye, he saw the tall youth, the one with the pouch, watching him. No: he was watching the boy. Even through the clangour of his pain and thirst and fear, Marcus sensed how the presence of the child discomfited the conspirators. This tall one especially.
He looked again at the young captive. He had spoken harshly to the boy and regretted it, for here, alone of all the faces in the grove, was one in which fear appeared to win out over hatred.
The cold pressed like a hand on the earth. The sky was clear, with stars like thrown salt. Andagin squirmed to break the mould of his aching body; his teeth clattered in his head; his fingers and toes were blunted stumps. He wondered if he might die and thought, not of his parents or relatives, but of the cow in her byre with her wet snout and grassy breath. He tried to imagine himself against her warm flank.
Aesu groaned in his shroud of furs. Lugh sat beside him. Barocunas was helping the man of art, handing him ribwort plantain for a poultice.
A tawny owl hooted as his brother returned from the wood. Judoc knelt before the man of art and whispered. Andagin guessed, and blushed to guess, what he was asking for. He saw his brother come towards him with a skin of water.
Andagin swallowed the bitter coldness that hurt his teeth. ‘Give it to the soldiers,’ he gasped.
‘No.’
‘They must have water.’
‘They can eat snow.’
‘You know it is never enough.’
‘Forget about the soldiers. You give me trouble enough. I am to keep you under watch.’
‘What can I do? I am trussed up like them.’
‘For your own good,’ said Judoc. ‘I suppose you heard what our master said?’
‘I understood nothing. Please, please let me go home. I will say I hurt my leg and this kept me away. It will pain them all to be worrying for me.’
‘I cannot.’
‘But I promise –’
‘This is my path you walk in. That is my cloak. I am your elder and you will obey.’
Andagin’s chest filled with bad air. He fought to keep his eyes from flooding.
‘I have something for you,’ said Judoc.
He saw his brother reach into the recesses of his hide. ‘I do not want it!’
‘Still, I think you might.’
Judoc held out a clenched fist. He turned it over and opened his fingers. The stone lay in the cradle of his palm.
Andagin stared.
‘Take it.’
‘Where did you find her?’
‘Where it fell. Here.’
Andagin felt the intimate weight in his palm. He travelled its contours, the carvings his thumb knew. The tears came fast now: he made no effort to stop them.
‘I thought. It was gone. For ever.’
‘Some things come back. What do you think it is?’
‘I cannot say.’
‘Because you do not know?’
�
��Because some things must not be spoken.’
‘Well. Much good may it do you.’
Judoc stood up. It was not possible in the half-light to see the expression on his face. ‘Will you be warm enough in your two cloaks?’
‘I think so. Will Aesu –?’
‘That is for the gods to decide. You understand … Andagin, I must join the others.’
‘Yes.’
‘If you need me in the night – if you lose the feeling in any part of yourself –’
‘I will whisper.’
‘And I will hear you.’
Andagin watched his brother sink into darkness. He felt calm and clear-headed, as in the past, when a fever had burned itself out in his blood. The stone did this; the Goddess was with him, and in her stillness Andagin pushed through a tangle of thorns.
He knew what had been done and what was to follow. These bloodied foreigners – the sleeping one and the other who looked at him now and then – were as good as dead. The dark waters would take them. But they were not to be the only sacrifices. His parents, his cousins and friends, would pay with their lives for the lives taken. This was the lesson taught in the east, that the madman ignored in his rage. Perhaps it was too late already. Yet if Andagin saved these two – if a whelp of a tribesman brought these soldiers home – there might yet be mercy for the innocent. Reprisals could lose them everything: their homes, their land. But not their lives. Not the lives of those he loved.
It fell to him, to him alone. Everything he knew trembled like a spider’s thread at the pressure of a blade. His world. His mother. Nyfain. His da. Let them not burn the heath and salt the meadows; let them spare the fort of his ancestors.
He would have to betray his brother.
The Devil's Highway Page 10