by Jules Watson
Yet she could sense the silence which had crept over the dun as houses were abandoned. Now that silence lurked by the gate, waiting for its possession to become complete.
Outside, though, everything was a bustle of jingling harness, snorting horses and shouted orders. Beyond the hundreds of milling riders, the plain was covered with the ranks of foot soldiers, and the sounds of their voices and impatient stamping and adjusting of armour and weapons was a faint roar.
And below all that ran something else that Rhiann could hear with her heart, and so less easily ignore: the soft murmur of women and children releasing their men and fathers to war, their hands reaching up to horses, the stumbled words that tried to gather years of love into one farewell, yet could never manage it.
Rhiann shifted uncomfortably in her padded saddle, glad that the sight she could bear least was being conducted in utter silence. For off to her right, Caitlin stood by Conaire’s knee as he bounced Gabran on his horse. The little boy was holding the reins in silence, bewildered, perhaps picking up from his parents that all was not well. Rhiann’s hand crept to the amber necklace at her throat. She was lucky that she was following her love, yet she too was leaving behind those with a claim on her heart.
‘Rhiann.’ Fola was breathless, pushing her way through the people to stand at Liath’s head. Some way behind her, Eithne was lingering with Rori in the shadow of the walls, their heads bent close even though Eithne had to strain to hold back Cù on his rope. ‘I have looked everywhere,’ Fola gasped out, ‘but I cannot find her. She was here to say goodbye to Caitlin …’ She spread her hands helplessly, and Rhiann swallowed hard, a knot of disappointment tightening in her belly. ‘I am sure she will come … perhaps she will try and see you alone.’
Rhiann nodded, knowing that Linnet hated to farewell her in public. She reached out to flick Fola’s braid from her shoulder. ‘I will return, you know. This is not the end.’
‘I know.’ Fola looked up at her, and her dark eyes were now calm. Over the past few days she had remained silent, but no longer seemed angry.
‘You do?’
‘Yes.’ Fola’s mouth lifted wryly, in the old way. ‘I never had the skill with seeing that you do, but three nights of fasting and little sleep gave me something in Declan’s pool, at last.’
‘You fasted for three nights, just to get a glimpse of my fate?’
‘You are not the only one who loves, Rhiann,’ Fola said softly.
‘That is true.’ Rhiann leaned forward to still Fola’s fingers on the bridle, for they were not as calm as the owner’s eyes. ‘But what did you see?’
Fola sighed, folding her arms in the sleeves of her dress. I saw you and I together again, with stars above our heads, and sand beneath our feet. That is all. So much hunger, for so little!’ She grinned. ‘Yet I am content with that, and will hold true while you are gone. I am sorry for being angry.’
‘I am sorry for making you so.’ Rhiann tried to continue, but was distracted by Caitlin’s sudden appearance. Her sister ducked under Liath’s neck, Gabran in her arms, as from somewhere in front of the mass of horses, a horn blew.
‘Here,’ Caitlin said, thrusting the squirming child at Fola, who sagged under his weight, mouth open. To Rhiann’s astonishment Caitlin then ducked away again, the side of her averted cheek bright red.
Fola raised her eyebrows, stroking the soft hair on the crown of Gabran’s head as the boy began to wail, wriggling to get down.
‘Here, my beautiful boy.’ Beckoning, Rhiann got Fola to hold Gabran up so she could kiss his sticky cheek, which did little to allay his distress. ‘May the Goddess watch over all of you,’ Rhiann murmured, giving Fola a hurried priestess kiss as Gabran broke into loud, hiccupping sobs. The restless throng of horses were all starting to flow in the same direction, and so Rhiann gave Liath her head at last and moved off.
She was nearly at the bridge over the river when there was a ripple in the ranks, and over her shoulder Rhiann glimpsed Caitlin’s golden head darting through the milling horses to sweep Gabran up and rain kisses down on his screwed-up face. Rhiann considered waiting for her, but soon spotted Conaire leading both their mounts back against the onwards stream of men and horses, and so she let her sister be.
By the time the leading ranks of the warband entered the lower reaches of the valley of ancestors, it streamed out far behind, with 500 cavalry arrayed in front, sides and rear of 2,000 foot warriors. In front of Rhiann rode Eremon, with Rori holding the Boar standard until Conaire caught up again, and next to him Lorn under the White Mare. Behind the foot soldiers the chariots of Lorn’s troop were being transported in the care of his clansmen.
It was as Rhiann passed the cluster of ancient stone uprights that marked the end of the tomb mounds, that she at last saw Linnet. ‘I must go to her,’ Rhiann said to Eremon, kicking Liath up beside him. His eyes shadowed by his boar helmet, Eremon glanced back to the long, wavering lines of men streaming in a haphazard order that bore little resemblance to Roman marches, despite his best efforts. It would take some time for them to clear the valley.
‘Catch up with us when you can,’ he said, briefly touching his fingers to Rhiann’s lips in a private kiss.
Rhiann urged Liath away from the men, splashing across a shallow stream to reach the turf around the stones. The monoliths were set in pairs, leaving an avenue that ran between them, and after Rhiann slid carefully onto a low stump nearby, Linnet drew her around the tallest upright, out of sight.
‘I said my farewells to Caitlin this morning … but had to speak to you alone,’ Linnet gasped out, holding her side as if she had been running. In the shadow of the stone, carved in ancient times with spirals and hollows, Linnet’s face seemed to glow with some Otherworldly light.
‘We have said all but farewell,’ Rhiann answered, her voice faltering.
Linnet laid her hand along her cheek. ‘Many times have I watched you leave, daughter. I even saw that you would be changed by your last journey to Calgacus.’
‘And you were right.’ Rhiann smiled shakily, laying her hand over Linnet’s. ‘Let us pray this journey is as fruitful.’
Yet Linnet’s eyes were looking past her, down the avenue of stones, staring at something beyond. ‘It is not only you who will be changed this time, child – the world will change.’
A chill crept up Rhiann’s arms beneath her sleeves. Have you seen who will triumph?’
‘I have seen … burning and swords. Many will die.’ Linnet’s voice was faint, and then she focused on Rhiann’s face again, as if memorizing her bones. ‘And there are words for you, that came in a dream.’
A sudden gust of wind soughed across the empty grasses, and it was as if Rhiann and Linnet stood in a world of their own. Rhiann barely heard the tramp of feet from the path behind. ‘Tell me,’ she whispered.
Linnet closed her eyes, opening her chest so that her words were carried on the wings of the priestess voice, vibrating with the wind. ‘On the mountain, it is acceptance you must find above all other things. As the journey is made clear, so let your heart fly free of what you wish to see, what you have seen, what you are seeing.’
Rhiann was silent for a moment. ‘I do not understand.’
‘Nor do I. Nevertheless, that is all I can give you, except something from my own heart.’ Suddenly, almost fiercely, Linnet took Rhiann’s face in both hands. ‘That I do not think this is our final parting, child of my heart.’
‘No.’ Rhiann fought back tears. ‘I do not think so, either.’ She glanced over her shoulder to the front ranks of men, who had long since disappeared into the higher reaches of the valley. ‘I must go now.’ Rhiann pulled Linnet to her in an embrace, and remounted.
Yet as she neared the stream, Rhiann wheeled the mare. ‘Aunt, I will call up a vision of that next meeting of ours, in Thisworld and no other, for the time being.’
Linnet smiled. ‘For the time being.’ She rested her palm flat on the sunlit shoulder of the largest stone, as if listening. Her pr
iestess ring gleamed once and then was still.
CHAPTER 65
They met the first farmers six days out from Calgacus’s dun. A small, ragged group of them came sliding down a wet scree slope, clad in rough tunics and trousers, with an assortment of shaggy sheepskin cloaks and furs tied around the packs hefted on their shoulders. They wore no armour of any kind, and only carried rough spears of sharpened ash and a mixed collection of farm implements, such as mattocks and picks.
As the Epidii warband continued along the shores of the great loch which ran north to Calgacus’s coastal fort, more men appeared, trickling down the slopes of the hills from every high pass and remote valley, emptying all the isolated homesteads. They fell in with Eremon’s men, swelling their ranks until the gathering streamed away along the entire length of the loch.
‘That’s where our army is coming from, then,’ Conaire remarked one day to Eremon, as they sat waiting for Lorn to bring his chariots over a shallow river ford. He frowned. ‘Though what good these farm boys will be in battle, I do not know.’
Eremon shot a swift glance at him, patting Dòrn’s shoulder with a murmur. The stallion had shied, as Lorn, ankle-deep in rushing water, shouted a curse at a chariot stuck in the muddy riverbank. ‘We have done more with far fewer.’
Conaire’s gaze strayed over his shoulder towards Caitlin and Rhiann, who had now disappeared among the hazel woods that ran east from the river. ‘When we had fewer,’ he murmured gruffly, his frown a deep valley between his brows, ‘we won because those we had were all warriors. But this …’ Conaire gestured at the herdsmen and farmers splashing through the icy water, dodging Lorn as he stormed around the bogged chariot wheel.
‘My brother,’ Eremon said, calming Dòrn again, ‘if we are lucky, we will outnumber the Romans three to one – there is no other way I would face them. The force of our charge must carry the day.’
Conaire snorted, and to Eremon’s surprise his normally open, amused expression had hardened into belligerence. ‘Eremon, if you thought it only about numbers we never would have trained the Epidii so carefully these last years. I’m no idiot, man!’
As Eremon stared at him, speechless, Conaire flushed and fixed his gaze on the twitching ears of his stallion. ‘Brother,’ he said more softly, ‘it is me you’re talking to, remember? Don’t treat me like the others.’
‘I … ah …’ Eremon’s eyebrows shot up. ‘I suppose I have become used to it.’ He scratched the back of his sweaty neck, under the edge of the helmet guard. ‘Certain platitudes have become habit.’
‘Well, spare me, please.’ Conaire eyed Eremon with grudging forgiveness. ‘So? Speak truly, and it goes no further. Ever since we joined this Great Glen you’ve had something stuck in your gullet.’
Eremon tilted his head to stretch his neck, letting the stifling mantle of fear settle over him. He stared forward between Dòrn’s ears, gathering his reins in tight hands. ‘Somewhere down deep, I’m so scared my bowels ache with it. We have trained the Epidii and some of the Caledonii, but that is, what, three thousand men? And what about the rest? Few warriors face a Roman army and win, no matter how fierce the charge.’ He sought for Conaire’s blue eyes, held on for dear life. ‘You see, brother, I cannot be sure that even with triple their number, we can win.’
The chariot came free with a loud sucking noise and rattle of wheels. Muddy to the knee, Lorn stalked back to his horse. With yips and the snap of reins, the creaking phalanx of chariots closed around Eremon and Conaire, sweeping them along the path through the trees.
‘Mars release me.’
Agricola heard the muttered oath from Lucius, but he was far too pleased with the view in front of him to reprimand his legate. He squinted back out across the bay at the white sails of his fleet, all twenty ships at anchor.
‘I have been looking forward to this sight,’ Agricola remarked to his officers. ‘And the requisition has also gone out for every available trading ship from Londinium north, although they won’t be as pretty.’
They were standing on one of the oak piers of the makeshift port established two years before on the south bank of the Tay inlet, on the eastern edge of hostile lands. Behind on the shore lay a cluster of barracks and storehouses, home to the garrison of 300 that guarded the port.
The Venicones lands had proven a rich source of stores for Agricola’s invasion force. Of course, he amended to himself, those lands that spread west and south from here were no longer a larder, but ashes. It was a good thing that after this year, he would have all Alba from which to feed.
Briskly, Agricola rubbed his hands together. Apart from Lucius, the other officers were bright-faced, showing little strain from the marching, the camping or the cleansing of the land with fire and sword that had brought them to this northern shore. Yet Lucius himself was pale and red-eyed.
The eyes could be accounted for by the pall of smoke through which they had been riding for weeks; their clothes and hair stank with it. Yet the pallor was something else. It could not be cowardice, could it? Agricola wondered. Surely not. No legate of his would have such a weak stomach for witnessing the punishment that had been inflicted on Alba. Then he remembered that Lucius had already taken this northern road once, and not far from here was where disaster first struck. There would be no such disaster this time, Agricola promised himself and his gods.
There was a suitably respectful silence, before Lucius spoke up wearily. ‘How can we be sure the devils won’t just run as they did before?’
‘They won’t run.’ Agricola looked out to sea, shading his eyes from the harsh glitter off the waves. The surface of the bay was ruffled into white-caps by a rising wind, and his sleek, beautiful ships strained on their anchor ropes. ‘The bait has been set, and they will take it.’
‘And the trap close around them,’ the young tribune Marcus joked, the others joining in with grim laughter.
Agricola allowed himself a thin smile, breathing deeply of the sharp air, letting it fill his chest as wind filled a sail.
Stretching the nagging ache in her back, Rhiann took a moment to realize Caitlin had drawn up her horse in shock. ‘Mother of all!’ Caitlin squeaked. Blinking away her exhaustion, Rhiann straightened.
They had previously come to Calgacus’s Dun of the Waves on the banks of the Ness river for a council of war. They had seen the river plain before its gates clustered with men, thick with the smoke of campfires. Yet to see that same effect multiplied ten times was more than arresting.
Every handspan of ground was sprouting with tents, lean-tos, banners and racks of spears. The grass was nearly obscured by ruddy leather, hides and standards of all colours, and of course, men – men clothed in every hue of cloth, fur and skins, the whole tangled mass of them glittering with helmets and swords, the farmers with their picks. Yet the hum of voices was less thick than the dense wave of smell that assailed Rhiann’s nostrils: of sweat, horse, birch tar, lanolin, mutton-fat and greasy meat.
‘I imagined it, that many men,’ Caitlin was saying, ‘but thinking, and then seeing …’ She shook her head. ‘Goddess, Rhiann, do those banners not stir your heart? Look!’
Rhiann slid a hand up the back of her neck and rubbed it, seeking for the knots that ached so much. She felt as if every part of her had been trampled by horses, and though her mind could marvel at the sight before her, her feelings kept sliding into fuzzy exhaustion.
As they pulled up before Calgacus’s main gate, Caitlin slipped nimbly from her saddle and patted Rhiann’s knee. ‘I’ll give you a deeper massage this night,’ she whispered. ‘They have helped, have they not?’
Rhiann eyed Caitlin’s bright eyes with envy. Though her old riding buckskins were stained with the dirt of travel, and her hair was half-bound tangles, Caitlin at least was bursting with health. The sun had sprinkled her cheekbones with freckles, and she had regained the ease in the saddle that she once enjoyed. She had found an eagle feather and tucked it into her braids, and it stuck up jauntily over the top of her head, ec
hoing the arrows in her quiver. ‘They have helped greatly,’ Rhiann conceded, ‘yet I doubt I will ever feel in one piece again. Fola was right; riding while pregnant is not to be recommended.’
Caitlin clucked in sympathy, unable to hide the excited bounce in her heels. After a few days she seemed to have pushed her grief for Gabran into a place she only visited at night, or when she lapsed into thought.
Calgacus had been alerted to their arrival and was waiting for them before his gate, the kings and war leaders of the other tribes clustered about him. Rhiann shook off her exhaustion long enough to feel a flush of pride at this honour accorded to Eremon, which was furthered when Calgacus embraced him as warmly as he would a son, before all those nobles. Rhiann’s pride deepened to satisfaction when her eyes fell on the glowering Creones king. He had brought the men he promised, though he looked far from happy about it.
Eremon helped Rhiann dismount, and she was glad he was holding her tenderly by the arm when she reached the ground, for her legs were so cramped she nearly fell over. Her fingers dug into his skin as she cursed under her breath, and Eremon shot her a look of concern mingled with amusement at her choice words. Slowly Rhiann straightened, suddenly conscious of her exposed belly before all these men and wishing that she had ridden inside the gate out of sight.
Yet Calgacus dispelled her embarrassment. As the other kings dipped their heads to her, he greeted her with a deep bow, taking her arm to turn her away. ‘You must be very tired from your journey, lady. There are still some women here to attend you –they have a bath waiting.’
A bath. Rhiann’s whole body ached with yearning. For a moment she hesitated, until Eremon leaned close to her ear and gave her braid a tweak. ‘Don’t worry about missing anything,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll tell you all later.’
‘I’ll hold you to that,’ she returned sweetly, and let a serving woman lead her away.
As dusk fell, the kings returned to their guestlodges to bathe before the night meal. Calgacus invited Eremon to his private alcove on the second floor of his hall, screened from the rest of the bed gallery by a long wool hanging depicting a hunting scene of stags and boar. The brazier squatted on its three legs, cold and unlit, for heat floated up from the great fire below.