Esca laughed quietly, his eyes bright with the excitement of danger. “Sweff! Sweff!” he encouraged them softly. “Do we ride on, or rein in and wait for them?”
“Rein in and wait,” Marcus decided. “They will know that we have seen them.”
They wheeled the mares, and sat waiting while the skein of wild riders swept toward them, the ponies sure-footed as goats among the rocks of the steep glen. “Mithras! What cavalry they would make!” Marcus said, watching them. Vipsania was uneasy; she fidgeted and side-stepped, blowing down her nose, her ears pricked forward, and he patted her neck reassuringly. The tribesmen had reached the low ground now, and swung into the long curve of the lochside; and a few moments later they were up with the two who waited for them, and reining back their ponies in full gallop, dropped to the ground.
Marcus looked them over as they crowded in on him, seven warriors of the tribe, Dergdian and his brother among them. He took in their ugly looks, and the war-spears they carried, and his face was puzzled and enquiring. “Dergdian? Liathan? What is it that you want with me, in so much haste?”
“You know well enough what it is that we want with you,” Dergdian said. His face was set like a stone, and his hand tightened on the shaft of his spear.
“But I fear that I do not,” Marcus said in a tone of rising annoyance, pretending not to notice that two of the tribesmen, leaving their own mounts standing, had gone to Vipsania’s and Minna’s heads. “You will have to tell me.”
“Yes, we will tell you,” an older hunter cut in. “We come to take back the winged god; also for blood to wash out the insult that you have put upon us and upon the gods of our tribe.”
The others broke into a threatening outcry, pressing in on the two, who had by now dismounted also. Marcus faced them with a pucker of bewilderment between his black brows. “The winged god?” he repeated. “The Eagle-god that we saw carried at the Feast of New Spears? Why, you—” Light seemed to dawn on him. “You mean that you have lost it?”
“We mean that it is stolen, and we are come to take it back from those who robbed us,” Dergdian said very softly; and the softness was as though a cold finger gently stroked Marcus’s spine.
He looked into the other’s face with slowly widening eyes. “And it must needs be I who stole it?” he said, and then flared out at them. “Why in the name of the Thunderer should I want a wingless Roman Eagle?”
“You might have had your reasons,” said the Chieftain in the same soft voice.
“I cannot think of any.”
The tribesmen were growing impatient; there were shouts of “Kill! kill!” And they crowded closer; fierce, rage-darkened faces were thrust into Marcus’s and a spear was shaken before his eyes. “Kill the thieves! There has been enough of talking!”
Startled by the angry turmoil, Vipsania was flinging this way and that, showing the whites of her eyes, and Minna squealed, going up in a rearing turn as she tried to break from the man who held her, and was forced down again by a blow between the ears.
Marcus raised his voice above the tumult. “Is it the custom of the Seal People to hunt down and slay those who have been their guests? Well do the Romans call the men of the North barbarians.”
The shouting sank to a sullen, menacing mutter, and he went on more quietly.
“If you are so sure that we have stolen the Red Crests’ god you have but to search our gear, and you will surely find it. Search, then.”
The muttering grew fiercer, and Liathan had already turned to Esca’s mare, stretching out his hand to the fastening of the pack. Marcus moved distastefully aside, and stood watching. Esca’s hand tightened for an instant on the shaft of his spear, as though he longed to use it; then he shrugged, and swung away to join Marcus. Together they watched their few possessions tumbled on the grass; a couple of cloaks, a cooking-pot, some strips of smoked deer-meat flung out with rough haste. The lid of the bronze medicine box was wrenched back, and one of the hunters began to rummage inside like a little dog after a rat. Marcus said quietly to the Chieftain, who stood beside him with folded arms, also looking on, “Will you bid your hounds be less rough with the tools of my trade. It may be that there are still sore eyes in Albu, though your small son’s eyes are well.”
Dergdian flushed at the reminder, and glanced aside at him for an instant, with a kind of sullen half-shame; then he spoke sharply to the man who was delving among the salves. “Softly, you fool; there is no need that you should break the medicine sticks.”
The man growled, but handled the things more carefully thereafter. Meanwhile the others had unfolded and shaken out the sheepskin saddle-pads, and all but torn the bronze ring-brooch out of a violet-coloured cloak by their rough handling.
“Are you satisfied now?” Marcus asked, when everything had been turned inside out, and the tribesmen stood about, baffled and empty-handed, staring down at the chaos they had made. “Or is it that you would search us to the skin?” He held out his arms, and their eyes ran over him, over Esca. It was perfectly obvious that they could have nothing a tenth the size and weight of the Eagle hidden on them.
The Chieftain shook his head. “We must cast our net wider, it seems.”
The tribesmen were all known to Marcus, at least by sight; they looked bewildered, sullen, a little shamed, and they found it hard to meet his eyes. At a gesture from the Chieftain they began to gather up the scattered objects and bundle them, with the torn cloak with its dangling ring-brooch, into the pack-cloth. Liathan stooped to the disembowelled medicine box, glancing up at Marcus, and then away again.
They had off ended against their own laws of hospitality. They had hunted down two who had been their guests, and not found the winged god, after all. “Come back with us,” said the Chieftain. “Come back with us, lest our hearths are shamed.”
Marcus shook his head. “We are for the South, before the year closes in. Go and cast your net wider for this wingless winged god of yours. We shall remember that we have been your guests, Esca and I.” He smiled. “The rest we have already forgotten. Good hunting to you on the game trails this winter.”
When the tribesmen had whistled up their own ponies, who had stood quietly by all this while with their reins over their heads, and, remounting, set off back the way they had come, Marcus did not move at once. He stood gazing after the dwindling specks up the glen, with a queer regret, while his hand mechanically soothed and fondled his upset and angry mare.
“Do you wish the Eagle yet in the place we took it from?” Esca asked.
Marcus was still watching those dwindling specks, almost out of sight now. “No,” he said. “If it were yet in the place we took it from, it would be still a danger to the frontier—a danger to other Legions. Also it was my father’s Eagle and none of theirs. Let them keep it if they can. Only it is in my heart that I wish we need not have made Dergdian and his sword-brethren ashamed.”
They saw to their gear, tightened the ponies’ belly-straps, and rode on.
Presently the loch began to narrow, and the mountains to crowd in on it, rising almost sheer from the water’s edge; and at last they caught sight of the village; the distant huddle of turf bothies at the head of the loch, cattle grazing up the steep glen behind, and the straight blue smoke of cooking-fires rising pale against the sombre browns and purples of the mountains that towered above them.
“It is time that I sickened of the fever,” said Esca, and without more ado he began to sway from side to side, his eyes half closed. “My head!” he croaked. “My head is on fire.”
Marcus reached out and took the reins from him. “Slump a little more and roll a little less; it is fever, not metheglin, that lit the fire, remember,” he directed, beginning to lead the other horse with his own.
The usual crowd of men and women, children and boys gathered to meet them as they entered the village, and here and there, people called out a greeting to them, glad in their remote way to see them back again. With Esca slumped over Minna’s neck beside him, Marcus singled
out the ancient headman, greeted him with due courtesy, and explained that his servant was sick and must rest a few days; two days, three at the most. It was an old sickness that returned from time to time, and would last no longer, given proper treatment.
The headman replied that they were welcome to share his fireside, as they had done when they passed that way before. But to that, Marcus shook his head. “Give us some place to ourselves; it matters not how rough, so long as it will keep out the weather. But let it be as far from your living-huts as may be. The sickness of my servant is caused by devils in his belly, and to drive them out it is needful that I use strong magic.” He paused, and looked round at the questioning faces. “It will do no harm to this village, but it cannot be looked upon safely by any who have not the signs for protection. That is why we must have lodging apart from the living-huts.”
They looked at each other. “It is always dangerous to look upon forbidden things,” said a woman, accepting the story without surprise. There could be no question of refusing them shelter; Marcus knew the laws of the tribes. They talked the matter over quickly among themselves, and finally decided that Conn’s cow-byre, which was not now in use, would be the best place.
Conn’s cow-byre proved to be the useful turf bothy, exactly like the living-huts, save that it was not set so far below ground-level, and there was no hearth in the centre of the trampled earthen floor. It was well away from the main rath, with its doorway at an angle that would make it possible to slip out and in without showing up too clearly to any watchers among the living-huts. So far, so good.
The villagers, feeling perhaps that a man who could conjure out devils was best treated kindly, did their best for the two returned strangers; and by dusk the mares had been taken in charge, fresh fern stacked inside the hut for bedding, an old skin rug skewered up over the doorway; and the women had brought broiled boar’s flesh for Marcus, and warm ewe’s milk for Esca, who lay on the piled bracken, moaning and babbling most realistically.
Later, with the deerskin rug drawn close across the door, and the villagers crowded about their own hearths with faces and thoughts carefully turned from the outlying bothy and the magic that would be a-making there, Marcus and Esca looked at each other by the faint light of a floating reed-wick in a shell of rancid seal oil. Esca had eaten the lion’s share of the meat, for he would need it most; and now, with a few strips of smoked deer meat thrust into the middle of a rolled-up cloak, he stood ready to go.
At the last moment, Marcus said savagely, “Oh, curse this leg of mine! It should be me going back, not you.”
The other shook his head. “That leg of yours makes no difference. If it were as sound as mine, still it would be better, quicker, and safer that I should go. You could not leave this place and return to it in the dark, without rousing the dogs; but I can. You could not find your way through the passes that we have traversed only once before. It is work for a hunter—a hunter born and bred, not a soldier who has learned a little forest-craft.” And he reached up to the little stinking lamp hanging from the roof tree, and pinched it out.
Marcus drew back a fold of the rug and peered out into the soft darkness of the mountains. Away to the right, a solitary glint of gold shone from the chink in a deerskin apron over a distant doorway. The moon was behind the mountains, and the waters of the loch were only a lesser darkness, without spark or lustre.
“All is clear,” he said. “You are sure you can find the way?”
“Yes.”
“Good hunting, then, Esca.”
A dark shadow slipped past him, and was gone into the night. And he was alone.
He stood for a while in the bothy doorway, ears stretched for any sound to break the silence of the mountains, but heard only the wet whisper of falling water where the swift stream came tumbling into the loch, and a long while later, the belling of a stag. When he was sure that Esca had got clear away, he dropped the rug. He did not re-light the lamp, but sat for a long time on the piled bracken in the pitchy darkness, with his arms across his knees, thinking. His one comfort was the sure knowledge that if Esca ran into trouble, he himself would very soon share it.
For three nights and two days Marcus kept guard over an empty hut. Twice a day one of the women, with face averted, would bring broiled meat and fresh ewe milk, sometimes herrings, once a golden lump of wild honeycomb, and set them on a flat stone a little way off, and Marcus would collect them and later take back the empty bowls. After the first day there were only women and children in the village; evidently the men had gone to answer some call from the dun. He wondered whether he ought to provide noises for the benefit of the village, but decided that silence would probably be more effective; so save for a little muttering and moaning when he thought someone was near enough to hear, just enough to keep it in their mind that there were two people in the bothy, he remained silent. He slept when he could, but he did not dare to sleep much, for fear that trouble should blow up suddenly when he was not on the alert for it. Most of his time, day or night, was spent sitting just within the doorway watching, through a back-drawn chink in the rug, the grey waters of the loch and the sheer, boulder-strewn upward thrust of the mountains towering so high above him that he had to tip his head far back to see their jagged crests where the mist-rags trailed among the peaks and the high corries.
Autumn had come to the mountains almost overnight, he thought. A few days ago, summer had still lingered, though the heather was past its flowering and the flaming rowan berries long since gone. But now it was the Fall of the Leaf; one could smell it in the wind, and the trees of the glen grew bare and the brawling stream ran gold with yellow birch leaves.
Some while ago after moonset on the third night, without any warning, a hand brushed across the skin rug at the entrance, and as Marcus tensed in the close darkness, he heard the faintest ghost of a whistle: the broken, two-note whistle that he had always used to summon Cub. A sudden wave of relief broke over him, and he echoed the whistle. The rug was drawn aside and a black shape slipped through.
“Is it well?” Esca whispered.
“It is well,” Marcus returned, striking flint and steel to kindle the lamp. “And with you? How went the hunting?”
“The hunting was good,” Esca said, as the tiny flame sprang up and steadied, and he stood and set down something closely bundled in the cloak.
Marcus looked at it. “Was there any trouble?”
“None, save that I pulled the bank down a little in landing with the Eagle. It must have been rotten, I suppose—but there is nothing in a bank slip to set anyone thinking.” He sat down wearily. “Is there anything to eat?”
Marcus had made a habit of saving each meal that he was given, and eating it only when the next one came, so that he always had a meal in hand, packed into the old cooking-pot. He produced it now, and sat with his hand resting on the bundle that meant so much to him, while he watched the other eat, and listened to the story of the last three days, told in low snatches between mouthfuls.
Esca had cut back across the mountains without much difficulty, but by the time he reached the Loch of Many Islets it had been near to dawn, and he had had to lie up in the dense hazel-woods through the day. Twice during the day parties of warriors had passed close to his hiding place, carrying coracles, and evidently bound, like himself, for the dun by the short way across the loch. Also they had been carrying war-spears, he said. As soon as it was dark, he had set out once again to swim the loch. It was little more than a mile across at the place he chose, and that, too, had not been difficult. He had worked his way down the far shore until he came to the spit of land that marked the place where they had hidden the Eagle; found it, and landed again, pulling down the bank a little in doing so, and bundled it in the wet cloak that he had carried bound to his shoulder. Then he had returned the way he came as fast as might be, for the dun was thrumming like a disturbed bees’ nest. Of a certainty the tribe was hosting. It had all been very easy—almost too easy.
Esca’
s voice was growing blurred toward the close of the story. He was blind weary, and the instant he had finished eating, he stretched out on the piled bracken and sleep took him like a tired hound after a day’s hunting.
But before the sun was above the mountains next day they were on their way once more, for though they were now clear of suspicion, it was no time for lingering. The village had shown no signs of surprise at Esca’s sudden recovery; presumably when the devils were no longer in his belly the man was whole again. They had given the travellers more of the eternal smoked meat, and a boy—a wild, dark-faced lad too young for the hosting and sulking in consequence—to guide them on the next stage of their journey, and bidden them good hunting and let them go.
That day they had gruelling travelling; no level loch-side to follow, but a steep thrust northward into the heart of the mountains, and then east—so far as they could hold to any course—by narrow passes between sheer heather-washed crags of black rock, skirting wide mountain shoulders, traversing bare ridges, across what seemed to be the roof of the world; until at last the lie of the country turned them south again into the long downward sweep that ended afar off in the marshes of the Cluta. Here the boy parted from them, refusing to share their camp for the night, and set off back the way he had come, tireless as a mountain buck among his native glens.
They watched him go, easily, not hurrying, at the long, springing mountaineer’s stride. He would walk like that through the night and arrive home before dawn, not much tired. Marcus and Esca were both hillmen, but they could never have equalled that, not among these crags and passes. They turned their back on the last glimpse of Cruachan, and set off southward, making for more sheltered country, for once again there was storm in the air, not thunder this time, but wind—wind and rain. Well, that would not matter much; mist was the one thing that would matter, and at least an autumn gale would keep the autumn mists away. Only once before had weather meant as much to Marcus as it did now: on the morning of the attack at Isca Dumnoniorum when mizzle rain had kept the signal smoke from rising.
The Eagle Page 19
