by C. R. May
Solemis raised his head and squinted into the setting sun, watching as the last of the Romans pulled themselves up the far bank of the Tiberis. With a last cheeky wave at their frustrated enemies, the final few set off at a jog towards the city that stood in the middle distance. There was no chance now that they could be overtaken. He tossed the spiked object aside and cursed softly. The Fabii had eluded them once again.
Fourteen
Catumanda pulled her shift closer and stared out across the rooftops. From her elevated position above the castro, she could see for miles into the Iberian countryside as the sun crept into the eastern sky and the town slowly came back to life. The night had been cold on the mesa and the russet tiles which capped the roofs everywhere glistened under a thin lick of frost.
They had reached the hilltop castro of the Arevaci two days before. Catumanda had marvelled at the defences as Caciro had turned off the road and taken the causeway that led to the fort. Perched atop a hill, sheer to three sides, the castro of Numantia glowered across the surrounding valley, dominating the area for miles around. Girded by water the only approach lay to the north-east – the steady slope that carried the road rising in a series of switchbacks to the outer defences. Several ditches and banks cut the rising land, each topped by a stout palisade and reinforced at regular intervals by rounded towers of stone. Once through these any assailant would find themselves in an area that Catumanda recognised as a ‘killing ground’.
A further wide ditch stood before the walls of what they knew as an oppidum at home. The walls of the castro rose beyond this, stone-faced to a height of twenty feet and capped by a timber palisade. In addition twin towers, again massively built in stone, guarded the entry itself and afforded the defenders a commanding view of any approaching attackers. The druid had shivered despite the warmth of the day as she had imagined the carnage that spears, arrows and slingshot could wreak in the confined space. A brace of ravens had soared above the town in the muggy air and she had chuckled to herself. No army, however mighty, would ever supply their chicks with carrion if faced by such defences; the chicks would have to fend for themselves.
Catumanda closed her eyes and turned her face to the sun, sighing with contentment as the warmth of the returning orb seeped into her chilled muscles. The gods had sent her a dream last night, but she no longer feared them; although she was beginning to suspect that she would never return to Albion she felt an acceptance of her fate. Unable to sleep after the new revelations she had thrown open the shutters and sat under the stars as she committed every aspect of the vision to her memory.
For the first time she had been shown the fire-mountain in greater detail. It lay behind a wide bay, the arms of which reached out to sea, gathering seafarers into their embrace. The far shore was dotted with settlements: white-painted houses, red roofs of clay for the wealthy, yellow straw for the poorer people. Suddenly she was in a town and standing before a fine home. An oak door stood before her and she had wondered whether this was another visit to the underworld. A tree, its trunk twisted and gnarled by great age, grew through the wall, and she was in no doubt that the roots had broken the soil long before the foundations of any house. Pushing on the door it opened easily to reveal a line of bronze shields hovering magically in the air before the building itself. One by one the shields came towards her, revealing a series of repeating designs as they came on and disappeared over her shoulder. She had awoken as the last of them faded away, stealing to the window seat to reflect on the latest revelation on her great journey to the southern lands.
A cock crowed somewhere in the town and was answered by another as Catumanda came back to the present and ran her eyes back across the buildings below. Women were beginning to appear at their rear doors, shaking out ash as fires were relit to prepare the morning meal and provide hot water for washing clothes and bodies. A cart rumbled past in the alleyway below and a man moved behind a wattle screen, lowering his trews as he sat to ease himself.
It was time for her to move – they had a long day ahead of them. The druid rose, twisting and stretching away the tensions of the night. As she cast a glance at Philippos she was a little surprised to see that the boy was still asleep. As faithful as any hound, the young Greek was usually the first to wake, bustling off to provide her with her first food or drink of the day. She smiled lovingly; their journey together was reaching its end. Soon they would part, never to see one another again. Her spirit guide had revealed to her something of the future that awaited the boy, and she was glad. The fates had smiled upon him.
* * *
Caciro halted at the head of the valley and threw his arms wide in a dramatic pose. ‘The valley of the Iber!’
Ahead of them the pass stretched into the distance to a sawtooth of distant peaks. The highest of them were capped with white; it was a reminder to the druid that the year was drawing rapidly on. Very soon the last ships would leave the Greek trading city that was her immediate goal for their settlements across the southern sea. She simply had to be on one of them – the dreams were insistent.
At her side the cheerful carter was still describing the terrain before them. ‘The mountains on the horizon are known as the Perines – they separate the lands of Iberia from those of Celtica.’ He rambled on as the wagon started its descent down the dusty road, Philippos bouncing around in the back as he listened in on the tale. ‘The mountains are named after the daughter of a Celtic chieftain who lived in the area long ago. The Greeks have a god called Heracles who had killed his wife and sons. He had to perform twelve tasks that they called ‘labours’ to win absolution for his deed from their chief god, Zeus, and win the gift of immortality.’ Caciro stole a glance at the druid and chuckled happily. Bringing the gods into his tale had brought her rapt attention as he knew it would, and he kept her waiting as he used his goad to ease the mule around a large depression in the road surface.
She gave him a playful dig, and he laughed aloud as the corners of her mouth lifted into a knowing smile. ‘Go on.’
He lay his goad back across his lap and pulled a face. ‘Where was I?’
A voice chirped from the back and Catumanda turned, tousling the boy’s dark, curly locks as Philippos craned forward to listen. Heracles was, after all, one of the gods of his people. ‘You were about to describe one of the labours of Heracles, the one where he steals the cattle of Geryon.’
Catumanda raised her brow in surprise. ‘You have never mentioned that you know the tales of the gods!’
Philippos threw a nonchalant shrug. ‘All Greeks of good family are educated. I am trained in music, literature, art and mathematics.’
The druid and carter exchanged a look of astonishment. ‘Anything else?’
‘I liked astronomy and debating. When I reached seven years my family arranged for me to be sent to a ‘good school’ in Syracuse, on Sikelia,’ he spat with obvious disgust.
Catumanda was beginning to understand why the gods had chosen the boy as her companion. She reached out and pulled him to her, giving the surprised boy a hug and planting a kiss on top of his head before she finished his sentence for him. ‘Where you ran away and joined the crew of the Alexa.’ She let him go, and he settled back against the rolled-up awnings that would provide their shelter that evening as she continued. ‘I was also sent away from my family when I was very young, to walk the path of the oak.’
Philippos cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. The boy possessed an enquiring mind, and she felt a sudden guiltiness that she had been so preoccupied with her journey that she had neglected the fact that others too had a journey to take – that the gods may have a use for them also.
‘The path of the oak is what we usually refer to as druidism. The word for our brotherhood comes from long ago and is made of two parts: Dru, which means oak; and wid, which is the old word for wisdom or knowledge, a knower or seer you might say. I was lucky – I returned to my home settlement and righted the wrongs that had occurred there. I think that the gods have thrown us
together for a reason, Philippos.’
Caciro cleared his throat and gave an indignant sniff. ‘Don’t you want to hear my story then?’
Philippos jumped up with a grin. ‘Yes! I have never heard the tale told by a barbari…’ His voice trailed away in embarrassment as the Celts shared a look of amusement. They had both had plenty of dealings with Greeks and were well aware of their innate sense of superiority.
Caciro chuckled as the cart rolled on and a gleam came into his eyes. ‘Very well. I will wait until the end before I spit you over the fire and eat you. Now where was I?’ He raised a finger in a dramatic pose. ‘Ah yes! The noble, civilised Heracles, driven mad by the goddess Hera, killed his wife and their six sons. To atone for the wicked deed he visited the oracle Pythoness, who told him that he must serve his enemy, King Eurystheus. This king set Heracles a number of tasks – the ‘labours’ – at the end of which he would be granted immortality by Zeus.’
Caciro called back across his shoulder, and Catumanda turned and laughed with delight at the young Greek’s astonished expression. A barbarian carter was reeling off a story of the gods as if they were his own, and Catumanda recognised that he was being taught a valuable lesson. Just because a man was born to humble parents and plied the roads to support his family, it did not necessarily follow that he was coarse, vulgar or uneducated. ‘Am I going too quickly for you, Philippos?’
Catumanda shared a smile with Caciro as the boy averted his eyes in embarrassment and the carter continued the tale. ‘One of these labours, as you rightly say, the stealing of the cattle of Geryon, took place in those mountains. The gallant Greek stayed with a chieftain called Bebryx, and as payment for his host’s generosity our scion of civilisation raped his daughter Pyrene before he left. This kind act resulted in the girl giving birth to a serpent.’ He grimaced. ‘Which was probably not the child she had always dreamt of, causing her to run away to the wooded slopes of those mountains opposite where wild animals discover her and tear her to pieces. Our hero,’ he continued with a wry smile as Philippos shifted uncomfortably, ‘on returning with his stolen cattle, finds the pieces of the poor girl, and overcome with grief lays her sad remains to rest and cries out her name: “Pyrene! Pyrene!” Impressed by the manliness of his voice and the depth of his remorse the animals, plants and the very hills, rivers and mountains echo the cry: “Pyrene! Pyrene!”’
Caciro paused to sink a long draught from his water skin and handed it across to the grateful druid as he prepared to end his tale. Catumanda took a swig and passed it to a chaste Philippos with a sympathetic smile as Caciro finished his tale.
‘Heracles, as he drove off the cattle,’ he paused again as he teased the boy mercilessly, ‘which did I mention were stolen? Heracles asked the mountains to preserve the name in the girl’s memory. So you see,’ he concluded with a sly wink to Catumanda, ‘despite what we mere mortals might think, the meeting with the civilised Greek had in fact been a blessing for the poor barbarian girl, who now had a whole mountain range named in her honour!’ He turned to the boy and smiled disarmingly. ‘Did I miss anything out?’
* * *
The winds had been favourable and the city hove into view as they rounded the last of what seemed like a hundred headlands. The owner of the ship turned and flashed her a gap-toothed smile, calling the name in case she had been in any doubt. ‘Emporion, druid!’
It was Catumanda’s first glimpse of a Greek town and she had to admit to herself that the impression it gave was favourable. The town nestled at the head of a series of small bays girded by low rocky headlands, the largest of which jutted out into the sea like the horns of an enormous bull. Sailing past the smaller bays that seemed to be the domain of small fishing vessels, the Iberian captain waited until the town came up on the beam before striking his sail and taking the way of the ship. The crew were a buzz of activity as the sail was stowed, and oars slid proud of the hull as the helmsman worked the big steering oar and guided her into the harbour. Catumanda ran her eyes over the town as they approached. Philippos at her side could barely conceal his excitement at the nearness of his people, and he had promised to introduce her to the delights of Greek food as soon as they were ashore.
It had taken only two more days after they had reached the mouth of the River Iber and hired a ship to carry them north. The first night they had slept on a beach under the stars, and the simple meal of roasted fish and fresh bread had sparked memories of the last meal on the shores of the Reaping with Attis and Dorros. The muted grey skies of her homeland had seemed further away than ever, and the druid had felt an unexpected sorrow despite the beauty of her surroundings and the good-natured jollity of the Iberian crew as she began to realise that she would never see the like again.
The coaster swept into the bay as the crewmen laboured at their oars, and Catumanda hung from the prow as she studied the waterfront. It was growing late in the year and she saw to her consternation that her worst fears appeared to have been realised. A sandy beach ran up to a low stone wall, beyond which clustered the white-fronted warehouses and official buildings common to all ports in the south. A dozen or so ships had been hauled onto the strand and all were in the process of being refurbished after a hard summer plying the trade routes of the southern sea. The majority had been rolled onto one side as workmen set about careening, removing the crustaceans and other sea life that attached themselves to the hull of the vessels, before beginning the perennial task of caulking seams and repairing damage, which had been delayed until the end of the trading season. The town was settling in for its winter slumber, the time when Poseidon thrashed the surface and Notus, the bringer of storms, made sea travel too dangerous and unpredictable. Catumanda resigned herself to the fact that she may be forced to overwinter in the town with a heavy sigh. She had left it too late.
‘Where bound?’
She whirled around as she realised the importance of the hail and her heart leapt at the sight that met her. A large trading vessel, its great stern post arched forward, scorpion-like, wallowed on the lee as the crew stowed their oars and shook out the great woollen sail. The kubernetes released the handle of the pedalia and cupped his hands as he replied. ‘Neapolis.’
As the Iberian turned to her and wrinkled his brow in question, Catumanda felt a frenzied tug at her sleeve. Glancing down she saw that Philippos’ eyes were wide with excitement. ‘Neapolis is my home city!’
As the Iberian impatiently waited for her decision she quickly answered the boy. ‘Philippos I will get you home, I promise you, but first I need to go to Syracuse.’
Philippos looked confused. ‘Why?’
‘Because I promised Hektor on the Alexa that I would do something for him.’
The Iberian captain called across as Catumanda’s mind raced. This was likely to be the last ship to leave Emporion this year. She had a moment to make the decision whether to take passage on her or attempt to travel on by road, but the druid still had no idea where Neapolis was – it could be at the other end of the southern sea. Philippos was tugging at her tunic again, and she snapped in irritation. ‘What?’
‘So, why do you want to go to Syracuse?’
She shook her head in frustration and grabbed her crane-skin bag and staff. There was no time for a calculated decision. Leaping a thwart, she scrambled across to the Greek trader and threw herself bodily over the rail just as the stern posts of the ships began to glide past one another. A cry went up as she landed with a thud upon the deck, and she turned to see a crewman snatch Philippos from the air as he bounced from the rail and tumbled back towards the water, heaving the lad aboard and bundling him onto the boards.
Catumanda squinted up at the startled helmsman and smiled what she hoped was her most innocent smile. ‘Neapolis will be fine.’
* * *
The pirates had saved them. The crew of the Greek ship had found it difficult to hide their dismay when they discovered that not only were they to test the benevolence of the sea gods by making such a late run
– they were to do so with a woman on board. Every Greek who had ever put to sea knew that they invited katastrophe upon themselves by doing such a thing, but she had managed to stop them throwing her overboard by promising to pay them handsomely when they arrived in this Neapolis. The fact that she had no idea where the port was, and did not know a soul there even if she had, she would have to deal with when they arrived safely.
The first few days at sea had gone well. Ksiphias, Swordfish, was a well-found ship, and although the winds were unseasonably light the sun pulsed from an azure sky and the men had sung happily as they bent their backs to the oars.
Philippos of course had been keen to show his compatriots all the skills he had picked up on the Alexa, and this had been their undoing. By chance one of the crew asked the boy why he had left his last ship if he had had such a happy time there, to which he had replied truthfully, as any boy of good family would, that Poseidon had taken her and her crew into the depths and that he and Catumanda had been the sole survivors of the sinking. In the uproar that followed the revelation Philippos had barely managed to give the crew the slip, and Catumanda had drawn her moon blade and retreated to the bows as the terrified crew armed themselves and prepared to toss them overboard.
As the situation began to look grim for the pair of travellers a cry of alarm from the kubernetes at the stern caused the men to back away. Catumanda looked away to the east, and the druid seized the chance when she recognised the threat for what it was. She cupped her hands to her mouth and cried the length of the ship. ‘I can help you to escape. I have power.’
