The ground here was firmer and he found himself relaxing as he walked, feeling the stress of his recent confrontation with Coroticus ebbing away, and the prospect of somehow killing Loarn mac Eirc didn’t seem so pressing any more. This often happened when he took himself off alone, away from civilisation – the petty squabbles and transitory lives of his fellow humans seemed utterly inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. When Coroticus was nothing but dust – when Bellicus himself was not even a memory – these marshes would still be here, with the yew grove and the owls hunting mice and hares.
A stream burbled a little way to the east and he headed for it, pulling his hood up over his head as he went for a chill wind had begun to blow. The gently flowing water reflected the moon and Bellicus found a large, dry stone to sit on, stretching his feet out and moving his head from side to side, feeling freer than he had in many long weeks. The night, and his surroundings, brought to mind the time when he’d just set off from Dun Buic to rescue the abducted Princess Catia and he stopped in the settlement known as Litana. There, he’d sacrificed a fowl in a spot very similar to this, and the gift had worked, for the gods sent him news, via the medium of a local shepherd, of the girl’s position. He’d been lost and close to despair when that happened, and he wished he had something to sacrifice right now.
His mind turned to the problem of Loarn mac Eirc. Aye, it was true that petty human problems were ultimately insignificant, but Bellicus was a man, and he was driven to make the most of the time allotted to him here by the gods. If he could – somehow! – assassinate the Dalriadan king it would surely save Damnonii lives, for, without Loarn mac Eirc to lead their army, they would not travel in the spring to lay siege to Dun Breatann. Besides, Narina had told the druid what Loarn said about Catia and he understood her desire to see the foul-tongued warlord dead. Men had been killed for far less after all.
If only he’d thought to bring a chicken, or a dove, or even a rat, from one of the settlements they’d passed on the way here. He could have slaughtered it as an offering to the gods, in return for aid. For some sign or indication how he might go about bringing down the Dalriadan ruler.
He closed his eyes and allowed himself to fall into a trance, shutting out the sound of the stream and the cold breeze that was blowing on the back of his neck. For a long time he sat, clearing his mind of all thoughts, opening himself up like an empty chalice, hoping the gods might see fit to provide him with a sign despite his lack of a sacrificial offering. At one point he even thought he could hear the faint sound of Duro’s flute, carried across the marshes on the wind.
That made him think of the centurion, who had never once asked Bellicus if he was really Catia’s father. Duro was his friend, and it didn’t matter—
Bellicus realised his thoughts were wandering again and forced himself to relax.
To empty his mind completely…
When he opened his eyes, he thought he must have crossed through the barrier to the otherworld, for standing before him was a great white stag, utterly magnificent in the silver moonshine.
Too stunned to move, and groggy from his meditations, the druid stared at the glorious animal, wondering if he’d perhaps fallen asleep and was dreaming this whole thing. The beast was completely unaware of his presence, presumably because the wind was blowing any tell-tale scent in the opposite direction, and he’d been sitting as still as a rock for a very long time.
It bent its great antlered head to the ground and chewed something, twigs from the sound of it and undoubtedly poor fare, for with a last look around, its eyes even fixing directly on Bellicus before sweeping on, it wandered off, leaving the druid too amazed to move until it had been swallowed up by the darkness.
“Thank you, Cernunnos,” he finally whispered, smiling at his good fortune to have witnessed such an incredible sight up close. “I swear I’ll repay you with a suitable offering when I have the chance.”
A freezing rain began to fall and he got to his feet, rubbing life and warmth back into his limbs before lifting his staff and heading once more to camp. Duro had not let the fire die, for he could smell the woodsmoke on the wind, offering a beacon for him to head towards until he grew near enough to see its orange glow amongst the yew grove.
“Did the gods send you any messages?” The centurion – whose flute was still tucked safely inside his pack Bellicus noted – tossed his friend an ale-skin and skewered a piece of bread. This he held over the fire to toast, then smeared a little butter on it and gave that to the druid too. Bellicus took it gratefully and settled down next to Cai who had come to meet him as he returned through the marsh.
“They did,” he replied and looked out into the darkness, hoping to catch just one more glimpse of the great white stag. “I saw it, and it’s given me an idea.”
They sat together until midnight, as Bellicus recounted his tale and, together, they worked out his idea and how best to proceed.
“It’s a good plan,” Duro admitted, smiling at the audacity – madness even – of the whole thing. “And you certainly seem to have the ear of the gods so…Let’s do it. We can spend tomorrow spreading rumours of the white stag, but, for now…You want to take first watch?”
“Watch?” Bellicus shook his head with a grin. “Are you ready for sleep? We’ve got a job to do and what better time to do it than now?”
Duro put his head in one large hand and groaned. “Are you serious, druid? It’s the middle of the bloody night, it’s near pitch black and we don’t even know where we’re going.”
Bellicus jumped to his feet and Cai, always ready to follow wherever his master led, did the same. “It won’t be hard to find by Lug! A stag’s head attached to a wall is easy to see. And everyone will be asleep, so it’ll make our task much easier. Besides, it’s hardly pitch black – the moon will guide us, and we’ll be back here with our prize before you know it.”
The centurion knew when he was beaten and got up, buckling on his sword belt, muttering the whole time although, in truth, the thought of this night-time raid was exciting. Life as this giant druid’s companion was never dull.
* * *
Bellicus led the way through the marshes to the road and the trio began walking at a fair pace towards old Mochan’s village of Carngheal.
“What makes you think we’ll be able to find what we’re looking for?” Duro asked, pulling his cloak up around his neck for the night had grown very cold by now, and he was missing their cosy campfire.
“Well, Mochan asked if we’d seen it on the way to his house,” Bellicus replied. “That suggests it’s fairly visible, and mounted on one of the buildings between here and Mochan’s place.” He shrugged, a gesture that was lost in the darkness. “It’s only a small settlement so I’d say it won’t be too hard to find what we want. Getting the thing down might be a different matter, admittedly, but—”
“The gods will guide us, I know,” Duro said, shaking his head ruefully. “What if someone challenges us though? Raises the alarm?”
The druid didn’t answer for the space of a few footsteps then he said, “We are at war with these people. Well, you may not be, but I’m a man of Alt Clota regardless of what its king thinks of me, and the Damnonii are my people.” He looked at Duro and their eyes met in the gloom, Catia’s parentage to the front of both their minds. “I – we – have been sent on a mission to stop the Dalriadans invading Alt Clota and, if that means someone must die here, so be it. Better them than some innocent family living in the protective shadow of Dun Breatann.”
Duro didn’t reply. He was a soldier and he was used to following orders and, despite the fact he had been a centurion in the Roman legions and was the senior of Bellicus in years, he had gladly accepted the charismatic druid as his commanding officer. He would do what he had to, although he hoped they would be find themselves back at camp in a few hours without any shedding of blood.
The village loomed in the darkness ahead, a collection of angular shapes easily visible against the rounded out
lines of hills and sharper black edges of trees. The scent of meat roasting suggested not everyone in the village was asleep, despite the lateness of the hour.
“Keep your eyes peeled for our goal, and don’t talk unless you have to,” Bellicus murmured as they entered the main street of the settlement. “Whoever’s cooking that meat will doubtless have a large cleaver to chop it apart...”
Behind him, Duro rolled his eyes. “I was a soldier of Rome, lad, I know how to conduct myself.”
The druid slipped through the darkness like a shadow, a half-smile on his lips. They passed a handful of dwellings and workshops and, for the first time, Bellicus noticed they were all secured with sturdy locks. Of course, in a settlement like this, populated by skilled craftsmen and metalworkers, things like that were bound to be of good quality.
“There,” Duro mouthed, pointing at the small house belonging to Mochan, their host from earlier that day.
“Shit,” Bellicus spat. “We must have passed it.” He turned back and the pair started to make their way along again, this time even slower, eyes straining for some sign of the trophy Mochan had said was attached to the wall of a workshop.
He knew they couldn’t just start breaking into these houses and places of work for that would certainly bring unwanted attention and lead to a bloody fight. No, if they couldn’t locate the stag’s head they would just have to return in the morning, when folk were awake and about their work.
There was a loud sniffing noise and both warriors spun to see what had made it. Cai had his nose pressed to the bottom of a door and it was obvious why as the scent of cooking was much stronger here.
“Here!” Bellicus hissed angrily, drawing the sheepish-looking dog back to his side and dragging him into the shadows beneath an overhanging roof. Duro followed suit, and just in time, for the cook threw his door open and peered outside, brow furrowed, wicked-looking knife in his hand. The man glanced about, his gaze passing right over the hidden druid without noticing his massive bulk in the darkness.
“Damn wolves must be about again,” the cook growled before taking another long look up and down the street then, satisfied he had chased away the nocturnal visitor, he went back inside and the sound of a heavy bolt slotting into place was heard.
Bellicus let out his breath and silently wagged a finger of reproach at his dog’s face, then they came back out of the shadow and began walking once more, praying the gods would guide them. A cat, startled by their passing, peered at them, green eyes reflected in the moonlight before it disappeared.
“Cats, cooks and wolves,” the druid muttered softly in irritation. “But no stag’s head.”
As he spoke, he noticed something on a building set a little way back from the road and gestured for Duro to follow as he, with Cai close by his side, went to investigate. On the door of the workshop was a stylised image of a bearded old man with a hammer. Bellicus looked at Duro who simply shrugged, a confused look on his face.
“Blacksmith’s forge,” said the centurion softly. “So what?”
“This is no smithy,” Bellicus disagreed. “Too small.” He gestured at the walls which were surely not long enough to house the furnace, anvil, bellows and other accoutrements needed to fashion things like ploughs and firedogs.
Duro said again, “So what?” and it was clear he was becoming impatient.
“That image,” Bellicus replied, nodding towards the depiction of the hammer-wielding old man on the workshop door, “is of Goibniu. To the Dalriadans he is the god of, aye, blacksmiths, but also metalworking in general.” He looked pleased and bent to examine the lock on the door. “I’d wager this is the building we’re looking for, although I’m not sure how we get in without making a lot of noise.”
“I’m not sure we want to get in,” Duro hissed, eyeing the Dalriadan god with trepidation. “When we were chasing after the Saxons you said their gods held little power in these lands because they were interlopers or whatever. You said your gods would defeat them, and, on that occasion, so they did. But here? We’re in Dalriadan lands, Bel.”
The druid shook his head. “The Dalriadans are also newcomers. They’ve been allowed to settle here because there is room enough and they’re too damn troublesome to keep out. But make no mistake, this,” he spread his giant arms to encompass everything around them, “all belongs to my gods. Besides,” he bent again to the lock, pulling at it in hopes it might simply snap apart, “we share many gods with the Dalriadans so don’t fear the wrath of Goibniu.”
His efforts to open the lock were futile and he muttered a curse before making a circuit of the building, searching the walls for another way in. As he suspected though, the workshop was in excellent repair and sealed up as tight as the skin on a bard’s drum.
“Hide!” Duro suddenly lunged past, hauling on the druid’s robe and crouching in the deepest shadows beside the metalworker’s shop as the druid and Cai followed suit.
They peered around the side of the building as a light approached, each holding his breath, wondering who – or what – might be abroad at this time.
A man carrying an oil lamp appeared on the street, walking briskly, purposefully, as if he knew exactly where he was going and why. Bellicus and Duro watched until he had passed, and then the sound of a door opening and closing could be heard and, after that, muffled thuds and even soft singing could be heard.
“By Mithras, what’s going on down there?” Duro muttered, shaking his head at the strange ways of the northern folk. “Is he murdering someone?”
Bellicus stifled a laugh and got back to his feet. “This is a community of artisans,” he said. “Craftsmen and women – artists! Such folk are prone to find inspiration at strange hours. I suspect that’s someone who had a dream, woke up, and couldn’t wait until first light to get to work on whatever creation his dream inspired.” He walked back around to the front door of the metalworker’s shop. “Did you never wake up in the night when you were writing your song for Alatucca? Inspired to play some new part on your flute?”
The centurion looked back at him as if he was insane. “No.”
“Ha!” Bellicus laughed again at his bluff friend’s manner and gestured to the door. “How are we going to get in there?”
“We could just kick it in, grab the skull and run as fast as we can back to camp.”
“What if this is the wrong place?” Bellicus demanded. “Or it’s the right place but the stag’s head isn’t here?”
“Isn’t here?” Duro asked, face screwed up in confusion. “What do you mean? I doubt the man takes the damn thing home with him every night. Do you think he cuddles up to it in bed?”
Bellicus shook his head, then frowned. “Where’s Cai?”
Wordlessly, the two warriors walked to the rear of the workshop again, hands on sword-hilts, fearing the great hound had been lured away by some enemy.
They found him emptying his bowels outside the house directly behind the workshop, bringing a smile of relief from Bellicus which quickly turned into a massive grin.
“What are you so happy about?” Duro demanded. “I thought only children laughed at the sight of a shitting dog.”
In reply Bellicus pointed, and the centurion glanced up, squinting for, despite the moonlight, it was very dark.
There, above the door of the house, was a mounted stag’s head.
They’d found their trophy.
Bellicus crept forward and pressed his ear against the door, listening for signs of life. There was only silence and he gestured to Duro, cupping his hands, silently ordering the centurion to give him a boost up.
The stag’s head was attached to the wall of the metalworker’s house by a pair of rusty iron nails. Bellicus drew his dagger and used the point to lever them out which took longer, and required more effort, than he would have liked. His blade was not the right tool for such a job but, after much fumbling and silent cursing, he removed both nails and held the stag’s head in his hands.
Duro watched from below, looking surp
risingly comfortable given his heavy load, and, when he saw the prize was in the druid’s possession, he lowered himself down, allowing Bellicus to step softly back onto the ground.
They grinned at one another like naughty children, but then the sound of movement inside the house brought them back to reality and they started to run towards the main road.
Behind them, the door opened, and the metalworker stared out into the night, eyes searching for some sign of what had disturbed his slumber. The sounds of the artisan who couldn’t sleep filled the night air and the metalworker shook his head irritably.
“Third night in a row that crazy bastard’s woke me with his thumping about,” was all he said before slamming his door and heading back to bed.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“I saw it last night. It was the most magnificent animal I’ve ever seen in my life.” Bellicus placed a hand on Cai’s side and stroked him apologetically as Mochan grinned.
“I told you, didn’t I, druid?” The old man’s eyes gleamed at the memory of his own previous sighting of the white stag. “It’s a trophy worthy of champions isn’t it? Did you take a shot at it?”
“No,” Bellicus admitted.
“He was rooted to the spot in amazement,” Duro smirked, enjoying an opportunity to poke fun at his giant companion. “Some champion.”
“Aye, well, you’d have been struck dumb too, if you’d been there to see it,” the druid shot back. “I think anyone with any appreciation of the gods’ creations would be. It was incredible.”
Song of the Centurion Page 19