Songwoman

by Ilka Tampke

  The ancestors are with us. Already you have died.

  The spirits of the mountain hunger for your souls.

  They will dig out your eyes and smash your skulls.

  This is the will of the mountain, you are powerless against it.

  The land is with us. You will die this day.

  The soldiers still did not raise their eyes, but in the almost imperceptible shifting of their weight, I saw that our words found their mark. More than any weapon, the Romans feared the unseen forces that seethed in Albion’s mists and rivers. As our cries continued, I saw fear in their faces and the hastening of their breath.

  ‘Do not heed their savagery!’ cried Scapula over the din. ‘They call on magic because they are too weak to defeat us.’

  Against the backdrop of our noise, he had been pacing the river, murmuring to his scouts, searching the brown depths for the easiest crossing. Now he stood at the water’s edge and raised his arm. ‘Prepare!’

  In startling unison, the full Roman force brought their shields to their chests, their staunchness restored. It was its own kind of magic, and I marvelled at this oneness.

  The warriors’ cries had quieted with Scapula’s call.

  ‘Auxilia come forward!’ shouted Scapula.

  These lesser-valued soldiers moved down each side of the infantry and assembled at their front.

  Scapula brought his stallion to the shore. ‘Advance!’

  When the first soldier’s sandal was wet in the river, Caradog shouted for the arrows to fall.

  Our screams resumed with our weapon fire.

  The water began to run red as bodies eddied downstream. But for each auxiliary we hit, twenty more surged behind them, and no warrior could load fast enough to keep pace with their number.

  Swiftly, the auxilia waded through the river, flanked by those on swimming horses. The first to complete the crossing had borne ropes to form hand-holds across the water, which the others now clung to, their shields held aloft, protecting their shoulders and necks from attack.

  Still we rained down our arrows, piercing their outstretched hands, their submerged thighs, knocking shields from wet fingers with the force of our slings. By the grace of the Mothers, it was succeeding. They were suffering many hundreds of fatalities as we endured none.

  Those who survived the crossing quickly made formation and readied to march on our ramparts. No sooner had the first line reached the base of our defences, than the battle truly began. With carnyxes screeching from every ridgeline, a deluge of spears and stones poured down from the mountain.

  For every depleted row of Scapula’s men, there was another behind it, each advancing a few steps higher than the one before. But our position was too strong. They could not breach the first embankment.

  On and on we cast down our fire, with all our hatred for this enemy and what they had done. I watched the ground turning dark with their blood and the awkward shapes of their fallen men, spas-ming as fresh soldiers marched over their bodies and slid in the viscera.

  Shrieking curses, the warriors fought like gods, plunging their knives into the throats of whichever of Scapula’s men managed to raise their head above the lower ramparts, pulping with axes any hands that found purchase over the walls.

  The fighters on the upper slope still hurled their missiles, knocking down soldiers as they struggled to scale the fortifications without relinquishing their shields.

  Some of our men were now falling. Several naked painted backs lay slumped over the lower ramparts, while others had fallen to the wet mash of bodies below. But our numbers of dead were far fewer than Rome’s.

  I paused for breath, my throat raw from cursing. We were eagles, feasting on scrabbling mice. In the fire of battle, I lost all thought of the vision. I turned and grabbed a stone for my sling. We would triumph today. We would defeat Rome after all.

  A trumpet blasted from the enemy—harsher, more precise than our own wailing carnyxes—and the Roman soldiers halted their advance.

  ‘Testudo, front advance!’ shouted Scapula, mounted beside the legionaries who had not yet begun the ascent.

  Then, like some mystical conjuring, the auxiliaries slipped back like water and the legionaries surged forward into the tightest formation, each raising their shield above their head, locking it firmly against those beside him. It was as if the Mothers had birthed a mythical beast with a shell so unbreachable that our stones merely bounced from its surface.

  The tumble of our stones and curses died away as we watched this mighty tortoise stand proud, motionless, gathering itself for what would come. Then, with another shout from Scapula, and a trumpet call to relay it through the men, the immense animal began to move in slow, shuddering steps towards the mountain.

  When it reached the embankment it came to a stop. From beneath the shell we heard the sounds of picks clattering against stone. Under the safety of cover they were dismantling the walls.

  ‘Resume!’ shouted Caradog and the warriors recommenced their hurling of rocks.

  There were dents, small cracks, but the shield-plate held and the tortoise barely flinched as it nosed deeper into the rampart. With the loosening of the stones, the walls were easily lowered and spread in low piles, which now formed footholds up the slope.

  Still Scapula’s men were being killed, crushed by our boulders, but this was no hindrance to the greater animal for whom the skulls of fallen kin were just pebbles on the path of its steady ascent.

  Once the first Romans had found foothold on the narrow platforms, the warriors’ long swords were clumsy against the enemy’s jabbing gladia, and it was now the tribesmen’s blood that seeped down through the stones.

  ‘Mothers stay with us,’ I whispered. The battle was turning to fulfil the vision. I gripped the hilt of my sword to stop myself shaking. My pile of sling stones was still high but there was little use in launching missiles that would now just as easily hit our kinsmen as our enemy.

  With the first bank defeated, the shelled beast reformed and resumed its path upwards.

  All those on the higher defences stared down, realising with horror that our positions would not hold, that the strongest walls had already been overcome and ours would offer no obstacle. Caradog had moved down to fight on the lower banks and was now ascending to rejoin his own band. ‘Warriors, move up!’ he called to the fighters. ‘Move to the plateau and ready your weapons.’

  We were to retreat to the hilltop for open battle. Now it was the tribesmen who moved swiftly as water, deftly scaling the mountain, abandoning their defences.

  I commanded the unweaponed journeypeople to take shelter, while I tore off my headdress in readiness to fight.

  I embraced Caradog briefly as he crested, before he leaped to a platform to speak to the fighters. We had but moments to prepare for the hand-battle.

  ‘He has lost many men,’ called Caradog from the crag of rock. ‘We exceed him in numbers now. Split their formations! Force them to turn and break! Man on man we are greater. Fight with every shred of your soul—’

  His voice was cut off by the wet suck of a spear into flesh and the silent collapse of the tribesman who had stood at his feet.

  No longer assailed by our slings and arrows, the soldiers abandoned their testudo formation, drawing their shields tight before their chests and commencing the ruthless, thrusting attack that could fell an enemy as a scythe through a field.

  I took position beside Caradog.

  ‘Go back!’ he hissed. ‘Go back to Euvrain and the children and wait for me there.’

  ‘No.’ I raised my sword.

  We fought together.

  Caradog’s sword was like fire around him. I slashed and blocked at his side with all my strength. He used a shield and threw me one that had fallen with its owner. Intuitively, we fought back to back, to form a greater creature of our own, two-headed, one-souled, its claws tearing through muscle with furious speed.

  The Romans pushed forward, grim-faced, taking no pleasure in the battle the
y had so long sought. As each line tired, they were called by a lower commander to peel back to the rear, and a vigorous row stepped forth to replace them.

  Again and again, I threw my shielded weight against the legionaries, clattering against them, using my woman’s voice to curse and disorient them, before hooking my weapon up into their ribs. Between opponents I glanced around me. The Romans had method and unity, but we fought with nobility, lustful and raw. We fought with defiance. We fought for our story.

  The air filled with the sounds of killing: grunts, shouts, cries to the gods, the soft splash of entrails released to the ground. The grass was slippery with blood and shit.

  But despite our fearlessness, our frenzied pattern was no match for the ordered design of Scapula’s army, who were gradually consuming us.

  My sword arm was burning; the other throbbed from holding the shield. At the edge of my vision, I saw the fleeting shapes of another force cresting the mount. ‘Caradog, look to the north!’

  Scapula’s strategy was unfolding like cloth. As we had been fighting the legionaries, he had sent the auxilia to climb the flanks of the mountains and gather at our rear, so that we were encircled. Half our numbers turned to engage them. Now we met long swords and pikes, held by men who were not yet exhausted by conflict. Behind us the spears and swords of the legion pressed forward.

  Still we fought.

  The wailing cries of the journeypeople, sung from vantages of oak branches, grew louder. Caradog screamed desperate commands, trying to steer the warriors into positions that could meet both fronts. But it was no use.

  By which weapon would we die? Sword or spear? This was our choice.

  Unless we made another.

  I pulled Caradog from our war band, seeking the briefest respite within the shelter of our tribeskin. The Romans encroached to the southeast and west of us, but there was still a gap to the north. We had done enough.

  He looked at me, his face masked with blood spray, and I answered the question that glowed in his eyes.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘We must cease this fight.’

  ‘Meet me at the copper mine if we are separated,’ he said. ‘Wait for me there.’

  I nodded.

  He turned back to the war band and filled his mighty lungs with breath. ‘Retreat!’ he bellowed. ‘Retreat to the northern paths. Retreat to your safety.’

  Then, like a flock of geese lifting from the ground, the warriors fled.

  Immediately, the Romans tried to close off the northern retreat, but they were too slow for the tribespeople, who poured between rocks and down cliffs like spilled ale.

  Still there was killing, as many warriors remained entrapped by soldiers, but by far the greater number were streaming into the forests that would render them unseen.

  Caradog and I ran for the camps, to evacuate the remaining tribespeople before Scapula’s men claimed their human bounty. But as we turned a sharp corner on the path, three soldiers split us apart, sending me plunging down a slope of bracken, while Caradog jumped onto higher rocks to evade them.

  The slope levelled and I veered westward towards his war camp, passing tents as I ran, screaming to their inhabitants to leave and hide. Tribespeople were frantically untying horses and cattle, stuffing bags with blankets and food, and galloping out through the valley. Caradog was the most fiercely hunted of our warriors. It would be impossible for him to reach the camp uncaptured. He would have to take to the forests, and I prayed to the Mothers that he had. I was headed for the one whom I would not abandon.

  It was up to me to protect Euvrain.

  She was alone, feeding her infant, when I burst through the flap of the hide. ‘Euvrain, make haste.’ I could barely speak for the heave of my breath. ‘We must away to the forest. They have defeated us and are in pursuit.’

  She did not answer, but merely stared down at her suckling babe.

  ‘Euvrain…’ I crouched before her. ‘Do you not hear me? The Roman soldiers come. You must rise and gather the children.’

  Still she gave no response.

  ‘Then I must force you.’ I grabbed her wrist, but she pulled away.

  Finally she met my eye. ‘Hide yourself with my husband, if that is your desire, for he shall surely seek to rebirth this war, if he lives. But I will not run another step from the Romans. If their want for this land is so great, let them have it. I want only a home where my children might live in safety. If I cannot have this, let them have me.’

  ‘They will harm you, sister—’

  ‘They will not harm Caradog’s wife. I will be precious to them as a lure.’ She gave a quiet laugh. ‘They will not know his true wife is another.’

  Shouts from outside the tent told us that Scapula’s men were drawing close.

  I clutched her face, as beautiful to me as Caradog’s. ‘Please—they will take pleasure in defiling what Caradog has revered, Euvrain. Do not subject yourself to this.’

  ‘This war is over for me.’ She leaned forward and pressed her lips against mine, as soft as the air after rain. ‘Mothers bless you, Ailia.’

  I broke away, and looked back from the tent’s opening. ‘Caradog will be destroyed by your decision.’

  She laughed again. ‘If that is what you believe, then perhaps it is still I who know him best.’

  I could argue no longer. If I did not leave now, Caradog would lose us both. I pushed through the opening and ran.

  Already the soldiers had begun to set fire to the tents and the air was noisy with the screams of rape.

  I stood frozen at the mine’s entrance. The scent of deep earth drifted from the fissure. The mine was less than an hour’s foot journey from Emrys. Unless he had been captured, Caradog would be here by now. Once I entered, I would know if I had lost him. Of all I had faced today, this took the most courage.

  I shouldered through the stony crack and into the cavern within. The darkness was cold on my skin. ‘War King?’

  ‘I am here.’

  When we had held each other for long enough to steady the drum of our hearts, I told him of Euvrain’s decision.

  ‘We must go back,’ he said. ‘I have to find her.’

  ‘You might as well cut your own throat.’

  ‘Would you have us abandon her?’

  ‘It was I who went to her. She would not come.’

  ‘I have to speak to her, Ailia. I cannot leave her.’

  I rubbed my eyes. ‘Then let me go. If I strip my metals, I will draw no attention. Every Roman soldier will know your face after today.’

  Caradog nodded his reluctant acknowledgement.

  We emerged from the mine, squinting against the late brightness. There were only a few hours of daylight remaining. We had determined that Caradog would search for the warriors of his band who might still be hidden nearby, while I would go back to the camp. We would return to the mine before nightfall.

  Before we separated, Caradog said, ‘Bring her back, Ailia. Tell her the war will not continue unless she comes.’

  ‘I will,’ I said. I knew that she no longer cared whether the war continued. But I also knew that the war king would not rest unless she had heard his message.

  But when I reached the site of the camp, it mattered not what I might say. For there was not one living soul to hear it. Only the dark shapes of slain bodies among the smoking remnants of tents and carts.

  I stared around me. Every tribesperson that lay dead on this ground could have gained a good price at the Roman ports. There were no townships, no settlements nearby to be subdued by the atrocitas. This killing bore no purpose. It was the work of a man driven witless by fury.

  This was the story. As the Mothers had foretold.

  In the falling light, I walked from one slaughtered tribesman to the next, murmuring their rites to Annwyn, checking for Euvrain’s pale hair. But I knew I would not find her. Because she was Caradog’s wife. And Scapula would know how valuable a prize she was. I felt leaden as I imagined the cruelty with which he would possess her.
>
  I walked to the periphery of the scattered bodies, observing who, among Caradog’s closest warriors and their families, was absent, then turned to take my leave of this wasteland.

  As I approached the stony pathway that would free me from this horror, a movement caught my eye. I peered into the half-darkness to see a crouched figure against the embankment, rocking beside a smouldering ash pile. I took a few steps forward, for I could not see if it were kin or enemy. ‘Who is there?’ My voice quavered.

  The rocking ceased. Silence, then a thin cry.

  Still I could not see a face, but something in the wordless voice was as familiar to me as the taste of water. ‘Rhain?’

  Again he bleated.

  In a heartbeat I was crouched before him. ‘Teacher! Where are you harmed?’

  His head hung forward. Praise the Mothers, he lived and I could tend him to wellness. But he would not look at me. ‘Rhain, can you speak? It is Ailia…’

  Slowly he lifted his face to look at mine. Through the day’s remnant light, I saw what they had done.

  He wore a beard of congealed blood. His eyes were glazed and dull with pain. They had cut out his tongue.

  Never had I known such hatred. Every thread of my being was altered by it.

  When I could find my words, I drew my sword from its sheath and neared it to his throat. ‘I am going to release you, teacher. Is this your wish?’

  Rhain gasped through the raw wound of his mouth, then nodded.

  ‘Know this as you ride to the Mothers: every remaining day that I live will be in honour of what you have taught me.’

  He reached for my hand.

  I returned its grip then released it. ‘I need both my hands,’ I said with forced lightness. ‘I cannot cut quickly without steadying your head.’

  Then, after calling forth the Mothers to open the realms and carry this glinting soul to Annwyn, I moved to the back of him, braced his slight body between my spread knees, took hold of his hair, and opened his throat.