by Jules Watson
With a howl, Lorn threw his sword to one side and leaped on Eremon, bearing him to the ground. As he went face down in the freezing mud, Eremon was shot through with a bolt of pure elation, because at last he could let the fire burst free. Howling back, he threw Lorn off and jumped on his chest, landing a blow to his jaw. Around them, the other men erupted into a frenzy of cheering and yelling, and Eremon caught a glimpse of Conaire’s wide arms holding them back, clearing a space for the two scuffling fighters.
That is, until three of Lorn’s cronies broke free, piling on to Eremon’s back where he sat astride Lorn, pummelling his face. The impact knocked the wind from him, and suddenly Eremon was at the bottom of a writhing mound of men, and Lorn’s fist came out of nowhere and slammed into the side of his head.
Stars spun for a moment in darkness, and then from somewhere above there was an unearthly yell, greater than that of all the other men combined, and Conaire came storming into the fray like a bull on the rampage. Eremon heard the grunts as Conaire laid about him with his huge fists, and the press above him lightened as the men were dragged off one by one and felled with a hammer blow, until only Lorn remained, now pinning Eremon down.
Lorn was cut above one eye, and the blood dripped on to Eremon’s cheek. ‘Yield!’ Lorn screamed, fastening both hands around Eremon’s throat. ‘Son of the bitch of Erin!’
‘Watch your tongue, puppy,’ Eremon gasped, and then twisted to bring his knee up, ramming it into Lorn’s groin. The Epidii youth howled again, this time in pain, and summoning a burst of strength, Eremon took the advantage and threw him off balance until they both fell sideways into the mud. There, Eremon wriggled one hand free, and swinging back his shoulder, punched his fist into Lorn’s mouth. There was another spray of blood, and the hold on his arms slackened for a moment.
They both struggled to their feet. But Lorn had not finished, and he now bowed his legs and curved his arms in the grappling position of wrestlers. So that’s how he wants to play it! Eremon took up his own stance, and for a fleeting moment they were still.
However, Eremon had one advantage that Lorn should have considered. From babyhood, his wrestling partner had been Conaire. And to win against Conaire’s bulk, he’d had to train himself to focus on skill, and not brute strength.
So his eye detected the ripple of tension in Lorn’s legs a split second before he jumped, and as the Epidii warrior crashed into his chest, Eremon let himself go slack. This turned the impact into a measured roll, and Eremon used Lorn’s own momentum to flip them both over until Eremon was again astride Lorn’s chest, pinning his arms with his knees.
‘Now you yield,’ he panted.
Lorn’s eyes burned up at him, his fury tangible. For a long moment they held each other’s gaze, and now it was Eremon’s blood dripping on to Lorn’s grazed cheekbone. Finally, Lorn dropped his eyes, and Eremon released him and got to his feet.
Trying not to wince, Eremon straightened and wiped some of the mud from his face, wriggling his jaw to check it was sound. He took a breath. ‘Now, I want you all to try that formation again.’
Behind him, he heard Lorn struggle to his feet. ‘No.’
Eremon turned. Blood was streaming from Lorn’s brow, and his eye was turning a mottled purple. But his bearing was straight, his shoulders back. ‘I won’t stay here to be turned into a Roman!’ He spat a glob of blood and saliva on to the ground. ‘I am a prince of the Epidii, and I fight like my fathers did. Champion to champion! With battle lust and fury! Not in careful lines, weighing every move like a pack of muttering druids!’
Eremon stood and let the words wash over him. This would not be the last time that he would face these accusations. He could not conquer long-held views overnight. ‘We need every strong arm that we have, son of Urben,’ he said quietly. ‘The Epidii needs us all united.’
Lorn wavered for a moment, before those pale eyes hardened. ‘I serve my tribe well,’ he bit out, ‘by refusing to follow a gael and fight like a coward!’ He whirled, striding across the field toward the palisade, his followers taking off after him without a backwards glance. The other men from Lorn’s clan were confused, looking between his retreating back and Eremon, but then one by one, they, too, threw down their practice swords and trailed after their chief’s son.
Soon after, Eremon heard the drumming of hooves on the southern causeway, and glimpsed the glitter of spears as Lorn and his men galloped out of Dunadd.
‘Well,’ Eremon said to Conaire. ‘We are short fifty men. We’ll have to call up more from the other clans.’
But as the last sun caught on that silver head, disappearing down the muddy road, Eremon sighed. His courage would make him a fine leader. But there can be only one.
Chapter 21
Late that night, as Eremon brooded over the fidchell board, a scout arrived from one of the outlying posts, mud-flecked and breathless from riding. He bore ill news along with the scowl on his face.
The Romans were on the move.
Though the large camp remained, parties of soldiers were now marching across the Forth. And even worse, they were building what looked like permanent quarters. ‘They are smaller than camps, my lord,’ the scout reported, ‘but made of wood, with palisades and ditches … the messenger was not exact.’
Once the scout had been fed and sent to rest, the hall fell eerily quiet: the men’s laughter stilled; Conaire and Eremon’s game forgotten; Rhiann and Brica silent over their sewing.
‘Gods!’ Eremon suddenly smacked his fist into his hand, and rose to pace the hearth. ‘I won’t sit here like some duck on the marsh, waiting for the Roman arrow! I must know what they intend – and when they will come for us.’
‘Maybe we can strengthen the scout network,’ Finan put in.
‘We still won’t see them coming until they are here.’ Eremon strode the length of the hearth-place and back. ‘We need more information. I must have more information!’
‘We could raid these Venicones lands ourselves,’ Conaire suggested. ‘Capture a soldier and make him talk.’
Eremon raked back his hair. ‘Romans don’t venture out alone, brother. And we cannot walk straight into their lines.’
Silence fell. Then Rhiann’s slim form stepped out from the dark shadows. ‘What about through their lines?’
A host of male eyes turned up to her, surprise etched on twenty faces. Eremon knew his expression must be the most shocked of all: she never spoke to any of them freely, and certainly not about such matters.
Standing there primly, in her robe of green wool, hair unbound, she seemed very young. Then she looked directly at Eremon, and what he saw in her eyes was not youth, but calculation. ‘You do not have the blue designs on your skin. You can pass as Britons from the south.’
Eremon saw the answering leap of interest in the faces of his men, and raised his hand to object.
‘Yes,’ Rhiann continued, thinking aloud. ‘Your men can pass through the southern lands, as can I. You can be my escort.’
‘And go where?’ Eremon cut in. ‘As wandering strangers, we will stand out as if the marks of the Albans grace our own faces. You are talking of a dangerous proposition, not an adventure!’
Her eyes sparked at him. ‘I have a cousin of the Votadini, at the Dun of the Tree, on the east coast. I have not seen her for many years, but she would welcome a visit from me, I am sure. The Romans have already taken the Votadini lands; her people will know more of them and their disposition, their numbers …’
‘It won’t work.’ Eremon knew he sounded curt. But she treated him with complete indifference for moons, and then here she was, poking her nose into war business. ‘We come through their forward lines, from enemy territory – it won’t work.’ He turned his back, dismissing her.
‘It will work,’ she argued, pushing in front of him again. His men glanced at each other, their eyes wide. Then Rhiann took a half-burnt twig that had fallen from the firepit, and began scratching with it on the bare dirt before Eremon’s feet. Amaze
d, he stared at her for a moment before dropping his gaze to the crude map taking shape in the firelight.
‘We take a boat down this loch to the sea, then land here on the west coast, below the Clutha. From what we know, we will be south of the Roman line at that point. Then we travel up the river valleys, which run down from the high ground – here – coming upon my cousin’s dun from the south. From the territories the Romans have already conquered.’ She dropped the stick and brushed the charcoal from her hands, a challenge in her eyes. ‘I will be a noblewoman from the lowlands, travelling north to visit my family. For Beltaine, perhaps; that would be a good excuse.’ She looked around at them all. ‘If we take a small escort, we can do it.’
Eremon was silent, determined not to get into a haggling match with his wife in front of his men. And yet, as he listened, he had to admit that it could work. It was daring … but just the sort of thing that would impress the Epidii. If he was successful, he would gain more power, and more status among the new levies. And sitting here doing nothing was just as risky – no, riskier. If only he had thought of it. He glanced at Conaire. An unspoken message passed between them.
‘I think it is a good idea,’ Conaire declared, as if trying to convince him. ‘We know that the Romans passed through those lands quickly, so they must be at peace now. A small escort with – as you say, lady – no Alban markings, would attract little notice.’
‘You are forgetting something.’ Eremon folded his arms. ‘Yes, the Romans passed through these lands quickly – but this means that these tribes are sympathetic to their rule. How else did the Eagles not meet with greater resistance?’
‘That may be true,’ Rhiann returned swiftly, ‘but we won’t know exactly what happened unless we go. Perhaps the Votadini did give in to save themselves. But my cousin is of the sisterhood, and she will support us, no matter what betrayals the men of her tribe have committed.’
Eremon was silent. What she said intrigued him, despite his misgivings.
‘Don’t you see?’ Rhiann broke in again. ‘This is the only way to get the information that you need. It is a perfect plan. I say you should be thanking me, not arguing with me!’
Eremon noticed Finan and Colum biting down smiles, and Conaire sported a distinctly amused turn to his mouth. Rori was looking from Eremon to Rhiann with shocked eyes.
‘The chance of success is high, despite the danger, brother.’ Conaire spoke seriously now. ‘The Romans will take little notice of a few lightly armed men and one noblewoman.’
‘Well,’ Eremon said at last, allowing Conaire to convince him. ‘We cannot sit here, waiting for the snare to tighten. We must take action, for the sake of the Epidii. I say we go.’ He smiled magnanimously at Rhiann, but she just frowned, irritation written into every line of her body.
Good, he thought. That will teach you exactly who leads this warband. My lady.
‘Rori, Colum, Fergus and Angus, you will come with us,’ he added briskly. ‘And Finan, you will stay here and continue the training in my stead. Whatever we discover on this journey, I want the men in some sort of fighting order before sunseason arrives. That is, if we even have that long.’
Rhiann may have won over her husband, but the council of elders reacted with horror at news of her plan. Tharan, the eldest, declared it madness, and even Talorc was unusually implacable in his refusal to let her go.
‘Lady,’ Belen said, ‘our Ban Cré should not be riding around the mountains on some dangerous escapade! She should be here …’ he trailed off, but Rhiann did not miss the glance at her belly.
Yes, the murmuring had already begun, for she had been wed for six moons now, and still no sign of a babe. Which gave her another reason to press for this journey, for news of the Romans would keep the council’s attention away from her. For a time.
She dragged her gaze to Eremon, who now broke in smoothly to say that he and his men could accomplish the same goal without taking her, and in fact would prefer to not do so. At that, she had to bite down the urge to slap the smug smile from his face.
In the end, support came from the most unexpected quarter.
The meeting was in the shrine, for the day was fine, the air carrying a hint of the warmth to come. And lurking in the shadows of the pillars, it was Gelert who said they should go. ‘It is as the Ban Cré said: the Romans will not touch her. They do not have enough men to keep peace themselves, but rely on winning local chieftains to their side, bribing them with wine and oil. When they feel secure, they move forward. For this reason, the prince and his lady wife will meet few Roman soldiers in the conquered lands. And her status will protect all of them among the tribes. She must go.’
‘You – you support this escapade, Lord Druid?’ Belen sounded amazed.
‘Most certainly.’ Gelert stepped forward, drawing himself up to his fullest height. The morning sun was dazzling on his white robe and hair. ‘The Romans will roll forward until they slaughter our babes in their beds. We must do anything to prevent it.’ His voice rose to the commanding pitch of druid pronouncements. ‘The gods cry out for Roman blood! We must give it to them, or feel their wrath ourselves!’
This proclamation had no effect on Rhiann, but she saw the fear ripple over the faces of the elders.
‘The gods wish us to let them go?’ Talorc spoke gruffly, to hide his discomfort.
Gelert whirled, and opened his arms before the altar. The robe spread out into wings to either side, and the sun poured through the thin wool. ‘They speak to me,’ he hissed. ‘They speak to me in the fire. They say that the journey will safeguard our tribe!’ He spun back, and the robe fluttered out and then was still. ‘The Ban Cré must do her duty, and the prince fulfil his oath. I have spoken.’
Gelert’s words overrode the council’s reluctance, and when the sun was high, the vote was cast to let the party go south.
As she left the shrine, Rhiann threw a look over her shoulder. Gelert was turning back to his altar. He paused and caught her eye; the curve of triumph in his crooked smile was unmistakable.
He had said nothing of their own safety.
Chapter 22
LEAF-BUD AD 80
Far away, on the Orcades islands off Alba’s northern tip, a king sat brooding in darkness, alone. The wind blew around his hall with a steady roar, as it had all through the long dark, sweeping in from the north across the flat plains around his dun.
He had a shaggy thatch of dark hair and black eyes, like all men of the Orcades. But when his subjects were brought to stand before him, they saw another kind of darkness in his face, and the fire in his eyes burned with no warmth. He had the girth of a bull, and around his shoulders he wore the pelt of the great white bear that ranged the ice lands of the far north.
This king was powerful, and held all of the islands and many leagues of the mainland coast in his iron fist. However, it was not enough.
It seemed to him as he sat there in his dark hall, lit only by a single, sputtering torch and a smoky peat fire, that he was not powerful at all. What he wanted was the warm vales of the mainland, the tall forests and lush pastures, the rich pickings of the trade routes.
He clenched the fist that rested in his lap, and stared into the dirty glow of the fire. He – Maelchon, son of queens – had to dangle here on the edge of the world, scrabbling for the scraps to fall from the tables of the high and mighty tribes of Alba, like a lowly, slavering hound. Take that Caledonii King, Calgacus, arrogant upstart, lording it over them all, flashing his jewels and his horses and his cattle …
Maelchon hitched up his belt as he shifted on his throne, and then, suddenly, he smiled to himself. They were all in for a surprise. Soon, no king or anyone else would look at him with anything but fear and awe.
This thought brought the now-familiar surge of heat to his loins. Every time he gnawed on his plans, he could hardly keep still. But he had to wait, to put them in place with patience, so that nothing would go wrong. It was hard, so hard to hold himself back. It was not his nature.
Maelchon’s excitement was pressing on his trousers now, and he knew he had to get up and move, before this need for slowness drove him mad. He could call for his wife, pitiful creature that she was, but useful for some things … or he could call for his druid, and go and see his broch tower.
He glanced at the dim light creeping under the musty door hanging, and beckoned to the guard waiting in the darkness behind his throne. Judging by the light, it appeared he had time for both. There was not much else to do in this accursed, blasted land.
Kelturan the druid came quickly, as always. He was a tall, thin man with a sallow face and sparse hair, and deep-set eyes that missed very little. He wielded his oak staff of rank, but it was an old stick from the days of his youth. No tree of that lineage grew on these islands – only stunted, hardy rowans that could cope with the endless wind. ‘You will be wanting to start the work teams again, lord.’
Maelchon smiled, for the druid had read his mind, which was why he kept him by, and no other. ‘I do. I have heard that the Caledonii King is considering his defence against the Roman invader. A change is on the wind, Kelturan. Unstable days may be coming.’ He took a gulp of ale, regarding the chipped whalebone cup with distaste. Where were the gold goblets, the bronze-rimmed horns, the jewels? He knew well the answer to that: hoarded by men such as Calgacus, in their lowland duns.
‘It would be better to be within stout stone walls,’ Kelturan was saying, although he knew, as did Maelchon, that the islands had always been protection enough. ‘I shall call the teams back tomorrow.’
‘I want to go there now,’ Maelchon said. He could see the druid thinking about the winds outside, but when he looked into the King’s eyes, all protest died on his lips. As it should.
‘Yes, my lord, but pray, let me get my cloak.’
‘You will come with me now, Kelturan.’
‘Yes, my lord.’