by Jules Watson
They emerged from the hall into the dank, stinking village, washed with a dull light that crept from behind heavy clouds. Maelchon was followed by two guards, although they were for show, not protection. Here, in his domain, he need fear no attack. His people were spineless. They bowed and scuttled away as he strode down between the scatter of rude houses to the beach.
There, rearing from the shore like a grim, grey crag was the skeleton of a broch, a round tower four times as high as an ordinary house, with immense walls as thick as a man is tall. Its shell was almost complete, except for one wide cleft, and as yet it was roofless. Within the cleft, the stairs and galleries that led from the ground to two upper levels could clearly be seen. Soon the timber for the floors would arrive from the mainland, the wood costing more than anything Maelchon had ever traded for. But it did not matter.
The broch’s stout walls, its grim heights, spoke of Maelchon’s power. They proclaimed that he was no provincial king to be ignored and scorned. And when his plan was complete, then he would have the gold and the goods to carve and clothe and furnish the broch with rich decorations, until it was a kingly dwelling to rival any in Alba. There he would sit in his majesty, and gather the princes of Alba, and dazzle them. And someday after he would cross over and take all the lands down to the Forth itself: Caledonii lands, Taexali lands, Vacomagi lands. And any bride he wished, of the highest blood.
His heart fed on these thoughts, gloating over them as if they were hoarded gold in a deep chamber of his house.
‘Master?’
The druid’s voice shook him out of this pleasant reverie, and Maelchon waved his hand. ‘I will go up alone. Wait here.’
He started up the stairs of the broch, moving heavily but easily, for age had not as yet dimmed his vigour, and the feeling of these walls, of owning these walls, gave extra strength to his step. He came out on to a stone ledge, one of the cross slabs that formed a gallery, and looked over the unfinished walls, to the sea.
He gripped the rough stones and felt their strength, and savoured the knowledge of his dominion over them. He ordered that they be set just so, and they were. All things could be ordered, men most easily, but many other things as well. Even his druid could be controlled – a man of magic, supposedly. Ha! A true king had no time for druid power. For him there was only one kind of power – that over life and death.
He crossed to the landward side of the broch, and gazed down at the people in his village, going about their rude and pointless existence. And as always, anger at them grew within him.
They were good for few things, these island people, providing food and tribute, but little else. Their sheer baseness seethed within him. One day he would take his proper place among the nobility, and he would be lord of all those who thought they were greater than him.
Then it will be different, he thought. Then I will do as I wish.
Chapter 23
Rhiann watched Eremon’s shoulders bunch again as he heaved over the side of the boat. The other men from Erin were similarly stricken, all except the big one, Conaire.
She stretched her feet out to the frame of the curragh. She, at least, was happy to be on the sea with no one to fuss over her, for she had left Brica behind, citing the woman’s own safety as an excuse. It was good to feel free on the waves after the long, stifling moons indoors, and good to be away from Gelert’s owl eyes, and the demands of the dun.
‘Tell me more about this cousin of yours.’ Pale, but endeavouring to look composed, Eremon moved up to sit by her in the bow.
They hadn’t spoken since Eremon made his offering of spear-points and finger-rings to the sea-loch as they embarked, watched over by Gelert’s impenetrable eyes and the dark gaze of the council.
‘I don’t have much to tell,’ she replied. ‘My father was of the Votadini, and Samana is a cousin on his side. Her father was of the Silures …’
‘In the west of Britannia? I may have some kinship there myself.’
She turned to look at him. ‘You have kinship on these shores?’
‘Besides my new kinship with you?’ As his mouth quirked in that crooked smile, she realized it was bitterness that lifted it, and never warmth. ‘My mother was of the Silures. It was she who gave me my dark hair and skin.’
Rhiann glanced back to the mountains rearing from the water as they ploughed down the loch. ‘Well,’ she went on, not interested in his colouring, ‘my cousin trained on the Sacred Isle. She is two years the elder, so I did not see much of her. She was rather … fiery … and did not enjoy the rituals as I did. As soon as she was initiated, she left. I have not seen her for nearly four years.’
Eremon frowned. ‘Then this is not a close connection! How can you be sure that we can trust her?’
Rhiann was dismissive of his concern. ‘She is a priestess. Her loyalty is to the sisterhood, and she is my kin. She wouldn’t sell her tribe: it is the men of the Votadini who were likely seduced by Roman silver.’
‘I hope you are right.’ Eremon began to shift uncomfortably in his seat. ‘Is there, by any chance, a treatment for this sea belly of mine?’
‘Only time, I am afraid. You will get used to it.’
With a tight smile he rose and disappeared towards the back of the boat, and soon she heard him retching again. What a pity she did not bring any tansy tonic with her. It was most effective against sea sickness.
The Epidii boatmen landed them at a small village of fisherman’s huts clustered around a rickety pier, both sheltered from sea-storms by a thrusting green headland.
The Damnonii tribesmen here were independent and fierce. Isolated on their windy coast, they looked to themselves, and not to any new Roman administration, and so were accepting enough of the strange arrivals. An exchange of bronze arm-rings bought Rhiann’s party some scraggly horses, and enough bread, cheese and dried meat for a week.
Rhiann took the opportunity to treat the chieftain’s son for his lingering cough, and this gained the welcome information that although movement had been restricted by the Roman commander’s decree, there were too few soldiers to patrol every fold of the wild hills. Agricola had taken the bulk of his forces further north, anticipating fiercer resistance there.
‘Our king just gave up, as soon as he saw their swords,’ the old chief grumbled, picking his teeth with a sliver of deer bone. ‘The inland clans are cowards.’
Rhiann accepted a cup of bilberry tea from the chieftain’s wife, and stretched her damp boots to the smoky fire. While the two days at sea had been fine, the wind had now whipped itself into a squall that sucked rain from an encroaching bank of clouds. She heard it pattering on the thatch roof above.
Despite the chieftain’s hefty belly and slow speech, Eremon’s probing questions soon uncovered a raw hatred for the Romans, and for the Damnonii king who surrendered.
‘In future, we ourselves may need allies to resist the Romans,’ Eremon murmured, swilling the tea around in his cup.
The man’s eyes gleamed. ‘They bleed us dry with their demands for grain and meat. But we are many, scattered in the sea-bays. If the time was right, and the leader strong, our men would leap at the chance to win back their spoils.’
Later, as they saddled and packed their new horses, the chief pressed upon them the services of his best huntsman as a guide. ‘He will help you to avoid the men of the Eagle,’ he assured them. ‘Until you enter Votadini lands, that is. Then … may Manannán guide you.’
‘We must give you something in return,’ Rhiann put in.
The chieftain waved away her offer gruffly. ‘My boy breathes easier than he has for moons. Use your gold in the fight against the invaders.’
She found herself catching Eremon’s smile over the chieftain’s shoulder.
Sleeping under the stars seemed a fine idea when Rhiann was cramped in the stale hall at Dunadd. But the reality was gnarled roots in the back, sore hips from hard ground, and a constant drizzle of rain leaking into the hide tent. Add to that the grating laughter of th
e men around the fire until late in the night, and Rhiann slept fitfully, if at all.
Luckily, the scraggly horses proved to be fleeter than they first appeared, and a few days munching the new grass of the valleys brought a lift to their step, so the party’s progress was swift.
For the first two days they saw no people, following the Damnonii chieftain’s guide up the hidden glens of oak and birch, hazed with the mist of new leaves. But one grey morning, the whistle of the huntsman floated down from a high ridge-top that he was scouting. Bidding his men halt, Eremon edged up through the yellow gorse to the rocks that guarded the pass, Rhiann creeping beside him.
Below, the hillside fell away in flint scree to a shining thread of river. To the south, the glen widened, and there she glimpsed the flash of crimson and steel and bronze.
Roman cloaks and shields.
Roman armour: bright and shining, sheathing every limb and torso and head.
Alban warriors fashioned their own shield designs and sword hilts, beaded quivers and spear-butts. They rejoiced in looking different, with hair braided this way, or a pelt tied that way, or a cloak woven with this border … yet all these Romans looked the same. From afar, they appeared as ants, separate but the same, acting with one will. Even their armour was in segments, moving as they moved.
And their will in this valley was apparent, for in the middle two timber buildings were taking form, side by side, long and straight. Around them, a high palisade was going up: Rhiann could hear the low of oxen hauling timber from the valley bottom, and the thunk of axes. The musty smell of fresh-cut wood floated up to her.
‘They call them forts,’ the Damnonii guide remarked, as he crouched in the lee of the rocks, an arrow nocked on his bowstring. ‘Soldiers live there.’
‘Is there another way we can go?’ Eremon asked him.
‘Yes. We must trek back a little, but there is another glen – much narrower, and the scrub is thicker, so there will be no building. The climb out is hard, though.’
‘No matter,’ Eremon said shortly. ‘It is plain that this way is blocked. Lady, come now.’ He and the huntsman slid back down the slope to the men, but Rhiann stayed a moment, absorbing the sharp, authoritative movements of the soldiers below. They were so alien to the land.
She knew the Romans bribed their careless, absent gods with oils and gold, but they did not bless tree or river or spring, or propitiate the spirits of the laden beasts. She could sense the wound they made even now, the scar on the earth.
Heart-sick, she turned her back and left the valley behind, knowing that she could not leave the Romans behind so easily.
Late on the third day the guide left them to return to his people. By then, they had seen no more of Romans or forts, and so, when they came across a wide track that ran at the base of a low granite ridge, they decided to follow it a little way. There were no footprints marking the mud, and Eremon judged it safe until they could round the cliff and find some easier ground to climb.
But as they stepped from the trees, all of them caught in a ray of late sun breaking through the near-bare branches, Rhiann heard someone cry, ‘Halt!’
Goddess, it was Latin! Rhiann knew some druid-taught scraps of the language, but had never heard it spoken by a Latin native.
A Roman.
They had been seen through the open woods; they were being pursued.
There came the sound of a horse’s hooves, and the thudding of many feet in the mud. Rhiann froze.
‘Fall back from her,’ Eremon hissed to his men. ‘Do not react. At any cost.’
Fall back from me? And then she realized that he was right. If the men leaped to defend her, the Romans would assume them hostile. She struggled to stay calm, feeling so vulnerable in the middle of the path by herself.
But the horse felt the tension in her legs and shied, tossing its head. And then she sensed Eremon beside her, taking the reins with a sure hand. She stared into his carefully mild face, gripped with a wave of panic that must have shown in her eyes. His own eyes burned, willing her to be strong, and then dropped as a mounted Roman soldier cantered up, his short sword drawn, his red cloak flying behind him.
‘Pretend it’s me,’ Eremon muttered, just before the rider drew rein ten paces away.
What?
The rest of the Roman patrol marched around the bend, and drew up in formation, their hands on their swords. The sinking sun glanced off their helmets, the steel plates covering breast, shoulder, shin and forearm, the tips of their javelins. They were all hard lines: their swords plain but sharp, their bodies held in taut lines, their gaze cold.
The panic clawed its way up Rhiann’s spine, threatening to break free.
The mounted soldier looked her up and down dismissively, and then weighed up her men behind. Hunting bows were strapped to the saddles, yet Eremon had ensured that not so much as a dagger tip was showing anywhere on their bodies, their swords buried deep in packs.
The alien eyes fixed on her again, glittering beneath a steel helmet. ‘What is your business here?’ the Roman snapped in the British tongue, which was near enough to her own for her to understand.
And the officer’s tone, his harsh glance, did remind her of someone. Her eyes flicked to Eremon and back to that arrogant Roman face. Together, the voice and look were just enough to prod her into anger, dousing the fear. She relaxed her legs on the horse, and sat as straight and still as she could. Pretend it’s me.
‘What is the meaning of this!’ Her voice echoed off the rock wall. ‘We are a peaceful party. Let us pass!’
She held the officer’s gaze for a long, silent moment, unable to breathe. Eremon had not moved, but she saw his fingers tighten on her mount’s reins.
‘Tribal movements are restricted by orders of the Governor. Who are you?’
‘I am a princess of the Votadini, returning home after a year with my mother’s people.’
‘The Votadini, you say?’
‘Yes. And we have been travelling hard, as you can see, and I’m tired, and wet. My father is the king’s own brother, and will not be pleased to hear that you kept me. Now, let me pass!’ She managed to get just the right mixture of imperiousness and rising hysteria into her voice.
The Roman’s own stance had relaxed. He leaned back in his saddle, rested his sword across his thighs, and regarded her with impatience. ‘Quiet, girl! Save your demands and your sharp tongue for your own people. You may find that things have changed in your absence – if I were you, I’d get home and stay there.’
The first blue shadow of dusk was now creeping over the track, and moving up the cliff. The officer glanced at it. He would not want to waste time – he would want to be safe within camp walls before long. She must help him to make up his mind.
Breaking Eremon’s hold, she nudged the horse forward. ‘And what is your name, soldier? I’ll speak to my father about you and he’ll speak to your commander! We are valued allies, as you well know, and I wonder what he’ll have to say about you keeping me here after dark, not to mention your rudeness, and I—’
‘Enough!’ the officer rapped out. ‘By Jupiter, be on your way, woman, and good luck to your father!’ He jerked his arm and shouted an order in Latin, and the troop turned as one and began marching back down the track. The rider wheeled his horse smartly and took off after them.
The sun was suddenly eclipsed by the rocks, and the men from Erin were plunged into purple shadow. They all let out a collective breath. Eremon turned to Rhiann, his face tense with excitement. She could feel it too, the rush of relief singing through her veins, the skipping of her heart. Her knees, gripping the horse’s back, started to tremble.
‘You did well.’ Eremon shook his head. ‘I thought I had heard your worst, but apparently not.’
Before she could answer, Conaire crowded his horse close. ‘What a performance, lady!’ His teeth flashed in the gloomy light. ‘You make a fine addition to this warband!’
She felt herself smiling back, stupidly, overcome wi
th a warm glow of released tension.
‘Did you see their armour?’ Rori breathed, staring back down the path. ‘It was like … like fish-scales!’
‘I was watching what their spears were trained on, boy,’ Colum retorted. ‘Us!’
Their individual voices were lost in a babble of discussion, and Rhiann sat there in their midst, feeling strangely elated, almost giddy. She had done it – she had saved them! She was as strong as any man! Let them see her as a liability now!
And just then her vision narrowed, there was a ringing in her ears, and as she felt herself slipping sideways, the last thing she heard was Eremon’s bark: ‘Look to the lady!’
Then she fainted.
Chapter 24
Rhiann came to in a woodland clearing, and the first thing she saw was Eremon’s face, the outline of his head blurred by the hazel catkins hanging down from the branches above. He was pressing a wet cloth to her forehead. ‘Good, you’re awake. I took the liberty of removing us to a safer place away from that path.’
She struggled to sit, and he put an arm behind and helped her to slide up the bole of the tree. ‘Here.’ He thrust a cup of water into her hands. ‘Drink this.’
She obeyed, then closed her eyes and rested her head on the tree-trunk until another wave of dizziness passed. Her skull was sore at the back. ‘Did I hit the ground?’
‘No, I caught you.’ Eremon sounded distinctly amused. ‘But then your weight wrenched me off my horse, and between us your head collided with my chin. I’m sorry.’
She forced away the unpleasant image of being in a tangle of limbs on the ground with him, her skirt rucked up to her knees. ‘I never faint.’
‘You’ve never had to face Romans, either.’
‘I’ve faced worse.’
He paused, and said drily, ‘And you’re welcome. It was my shoulder that broke the fall, you know.’
Hot shame surged up her cheeks. She had never been so womanly, so weak as to faint. ‘Then thank you. I’ll be ready to ride soon.’