by Jules Watson
Racing across trampled fields of barley, Cahir’s keen senses picked up the shock that dawned over his opponents as Saxon horns droned over the battlefield, their raven banners darkening the sun. The Romans turned and saw them, and a wail went up that was swallowed by the barbarian war cries all around.
Cahir grinned triumphantly. In his heart, this made up for Eremon’s shock and despair that day at the Hill of a Thousand Spears when he turned to see another Roman charge from the east. He touched his sword-hilt to his chest as he ran, in honour of his ancestor.
The Roman shield wall and disciplined lines of men again disintegrated at the sheer force of the Alban charge, and Cahir found himself fighting hand to hand with men who struck out desperately, not skilfully, sobbing as they went down. And he carried the fire of a whole people in his heart, the fury of centuries, and so the embattled Romans around him fled from the light in his eyes.
His days of being a measured fighter were over, as all his pain flowed out, and with a wild yell he drove the point of his sword between the collar-bones of the shouting man before him. As the man died, Cahir saw himself reflected in his eyes, the culmination of every Roman nightmare – a towering barbarian with a blood-spattered face.
He whirled again. Another man fell as flesh met his blade. Then he was hock-deep in blood, mired in writhing men, with rents opened in flesh by swords, and bellies skewered by spears. In the recesses of Cahir’s mind it reminded him of maggots in a battle-wound, a wriggling mass of legs and arms.
A knot of men cleared around him, and he paused to wipe blood from his eyes, leaning on his sword. Gede had found a slight rise of ground and stuck his hawk banner in it. Seemingly oblivious to the danger of javelins or arrows, he was standing there challenging any comers on the exposed slope. Cahir was immediately arrested by his first sight of the Pictish king fighting, for in the other battle Gede had been on the far flank.
In contrast to his men, Gede surrendered to no wild plunges or screaming. He had taken a cut on his temple that washed his tattoos in gore, but his expression remained set. Though Gede was slight, Cahir had never seen any man move so swiftly, darting under the guard of his opponents again and again. He employed a unique tactic where he spun just before he reached the end of a sword lunge, suddenly reversing his momentum, taking the other fighter by surprise. Gede would twist at the waist halfway, driving the blade home in an unexpected flash of speed and force.
Over and over again Cahir watched Gede do this, as bodies piled up around his feet. And all without offering one sound or even a grimace, with an intense focus and lithe grace that made Cahir’s belly lurch. It was a dance of death.
Then the space around Cahir collapsed into chaos again, and he had to put all thoughts from his mind and deal with the increasingly desperate Romans – outnumbered, surrounded and hopeless.
It didn’t take long, two or three hours, for the Roman army to flee into retreat. The final blow was when Fergus of Erin and his men fought through to Nectaridus himself, and the Erin king drove a broken spear-shaft into the Count’s throat.
After that the panicked Roman soldiers turned and, like a tide on the ebb, began streaming away south, leaving their wounded and dead. The Picts and the Saxons raged after them, pursuing them into the forests where the marsh and fields rose to low hills. From the woods soared the sounds of screams and the clash of iron.
Rallying Ruarc and Mellan, Fergal and Gobán, Cahir went racing after his own men to pull them back from that sickening pursuit of the helpless wounded. Their path took them dashing through patches of trees and splashing over streams, shouting for their warriors.
At last Cahir paused by the remains of a farmstead as Ruarc and his other commanders forged on, bellowing out the orders for the Dalriadan bands to return to camp. Suddenly, he was alone in the ruins.
Catching his breath, he tugged off his helmet and stretched his jaw, which had taken a blow from a Roman fist. As the battle-fury drained away, his body complained from a dozen different injuries. The muscles in his flank cramped where they had torn, he had wrenched his neck, and his knee throbbed where he had twisted it on muddy ground. There were shallow wounds on his forearms, a deeper cut on the mound below his thumb, and a graze across his brow that trickled blood into his eye and stung more than all the others. And only now did all the little irritations rise up: the itch of sweat, the insect bites rubbed raw by his mail-shirt, the dryness in his throat.
In that moment after great danger, when the mind is still dazed, Cahir thought, I would have done better not to wait until I was an old man to fulfil this prophecy. And that made him laugh bleakly and rub his face. Minna’s cloth was tied around his wrist; now he touched it gently with his finger, the linen so dirty with blood and mud it was unrecognizable to anyone but him.
He looked over the ruins of the farm. The pale walls were smeared with soot, the red roof-tiles scattered and crushed on burned floors. He went looking for a well, and found one on the other side of a row of apple trees. Shouts and screams still drifted from the woods to the south, and moans and bellowed commands from the battleground to the north.
He tested the rope on the well, but the bucket in its depths didn’t move. Tormented by thirst, he leaned over the shallow drop, peering down. Against the circle of water he saw something tangled up in the bucket, and, as it turned slowly, he realized he was looking into the dead eyes of a naked child, staring up from a bloated face. She must have been about Finola’s age.
His hand fell from the knotted rope. Her skin was the texture of fish, spongy and pale, and her long, dark hair trailed like seaweed. Cahir saw she had not died by drowning, for a gaping slit marked her throat, which was white and drained of blood. The Picts had already raided these lands days ago, as the kings laid battle plans in Gede’s tent.
Cahir found himself striding blindly away, but at the edge of the yard he turned back. ‘May the Mother take you to her breast, little one,’ he muttered.
For that is what Minna would have wanted.
Night had fallen across the battlefield, and from the slopes of a dark hill Cahir watched the plain.
Below him, the encampment of the great army was a blanket of stars, with fires stretching out for leagues, and from their massed glow came snatches of drunken song and choruses of war chants.
Drawing a breath, he turned to his left. There, around the shoulder of the hill, burned the immense pyres of the Alban dead, larger and more brooding than these sparks of the living. Druids tended them, watching over the departing spirits. He swung to his right. Over a vast area to the south flared other fires. Gede’s men and the Saxons had been let loose over the land, and those fires were farms and woods set alight, and fields and crops put to the torch. These were more scattered, burning in wavering sheets or incendiary bursts of flame.
Cahir turned slowly to each direction one by one again, scenting the ash and cinders, the burnt flesh and roasting meat, and the gods knew what else that was being destroyed. And he thought of the glassy eyes of the Roman child, the way she swung on the well’s bucket.
At last, walking purposefully, he went down to his warriors. He wended his way between the thousands of raucous campfires of Dalriadans on the north side of the army, and the Attacotti warriors mixed in with them, small and dark, singing at the top of their voices. But as he neared his own campfire, he was surprised to see his close comrades quiet for once.
Some of his men had their heads down, resting against their packs. And then, between a great yell from one fire and a burst of singing at another, Cahir caught a snatch of Davin chanting a lay.
He paused in the shadows of a hawthorn brake, listening. The song was entirely new – he could tell by the way Davin stumbled over the strings, stopping and starting, changing his mind. At first Cahir thought it was a song about the warriors of legend. He took a step towards the fire and then stopped, his feet sinking into the damp ground. The lay was about him.
Mac Greine! Son of the sun.
And sun he
was in his mail of bronze
His eyes ablaze
His helm a torch against the dark of Rome.
Three wheels of five score years
Since the god walked the battlefield of blood.
And now Dalriada comes in swinging
Their swords singing
And among them he is a towering tree
Crowned with sun-gold
Cahir son of Conor.
So the red-crests fall back from his gaze
And he strides among them
His sword a tongue of light in his hands …
The song died away, leaving Cahir’s chest tight as a drum. They sang for Eremon, and now they sang for him.
He emerged from the shadows, and Davin saw him and fell silent with a last chord. Heads turned, and space was made for the king on the logs and rocks. He sat down among his commanders and looked at Davin. ‘Sing me the Hill of a Thousand Spears.’ Davin looked perplexed, for it was a long composition. ‘Just the end,’ Cahir added. ‘Tell me again what happened when they charged, what Eremon did.’
Give me Eremon, was what he longed to say, only no one would understand what he meant. Eremon and Conaire were gloried and sung because they fought like gods, despite defeat – and now Cahir could stand proudly by their side because he had won. So why, now the battle fury had faded, did he no longer feel as if a great bird lifted his heart in its wings? Instead he only tasted ash on his tongue from the death pyres.
He knew what his Erin ancestor would say. The burden of leadership falls more heavily than the exultation of triumph because, no matter what happened, men had died this day by his order. There were gaps at the campfires, and hard sorrow on many blood-stained faces.
Davin was straightening, readying himself, when Ruarc broke in. ‘I must get you an ale, my lord, to toast our great victory!’
‘Aye!’ Mellan crowed. ‘Twice we’ve smashed them now. Let the Emperor stick that up his purple arse!’
There was a smatter of jubilant assent, and Cahir mustered a smile. ‘Afterwards,’ he said softly. They had fought like princes, and deserved their pride.
Davin began to sing, and Cahir stared into the flames, picturing that ancient battle day. The last thing Eremon said to Calgacus was a blessing from Hawen, and Calgacus replied by saluting Eremon with his sword. ‘To Alba!’ he cried in the song. ‘She thanks you for her deliverance.’ And as Eremon galloped down the hill, the war chants surged like a storm sea, swords beating on shields, crying, Alba! Alba! Alba!
Cahir’s eyes glazed, his heart wandering far from his thoughts. Suddenly he saw in the rippling flames not Eremon but the face of the slaughtered child, her hair black tendrils on her white cheeks. So like Minna’s hair. Abruptly, he stood up.
After one look at his king’s face, Davin’s voice trailed away. ‘I thank you,’ Cahir said gruffly to his bard. ‘All of you. But the moon is rising, and a council has been called. Mellan, Ruarc and Ardal, come with me – and bring your swords.’
Chapter 55
In the centre of the army was the command tent, a dome of goatskins, roof raised with hazel saplings. When Cahir entered the other kings were already there drinking ale, a few camp-whores lounging with them. Gede sat on his Roman camp stool, setting himself above the others who sprawled on cushions. His facial cut had been crudely sewn, and there was blood on his tunic. Next to him squatted his second-in-command Garnat and the young druid Taran.
In the middle the bare earth was piled with stones and a fire set there, the spitted bones of a hare sticking out of the flames. The plundered Roman lamps swung in the draught as Cahir entered, Ruarc, Mellan and Ardal joining the other guards behind their lords.
‘You’re late, brother!’ Fergus’s nose was already as red as his wild hair. And why would he not be drunk? He had dealt the Count’s killing blow, and been crowing about it ever since. He waved a bannock at Cahir, the gold brooches and rings that festooned his checked clothes flashing in the lamplight. ‘Where’ve you been? Working that battle gorge out between some tasty, white thighs, eh?’ He leered at the fair girl beside him, her hands in his lap.
Cahir smiled politely. ‘No, brother. I had business with my own men, that is all.’
The stocky Saxon king, heavy cheeks trailing a blond moustache, was still clad in his jerkin of studded leather and bird-winged helmet. Now he barked something to a salt-stained little trader who acted as his interpreter. The man said to Cahir in awkward Dalriadan, ‘My lord Cerdic say he happy at battle victory. He honour all kings.’
Cerdic bared his teeth in a smile, and raised his drinking horn. Cahir took the proffered cup from Fergus and nodded back. ‘Tell your lord that the battle was won by his arrival. We salute his men’s bravery.’
Through all this Gede stared at Cahir, unblinking. Now Taran rose. ‘King Gede requests that I act as interpreter,’ he said. ‘I can speak on behalf of the Picts as well as the Dalriada, Erin and Attacotti kings.’ He bowed to Cahir, Fergus and Kinet, who sat cross-legged and contained, feathers wound in his black hair. ‘That only leaves my lord Cerdic, and his man speaks Pictish better than the western tongues of Dalriada. Is that acceptable?’
They all nodded. Taran began. ‘My king says that this second victory has, thanks to the gods, struck a final blow for the Roman army in Britannia.’
Cahir leaned his cup on his knee. ‘Our armies were courageous, and fought brilliantly, there is no denying. The results have exceeded our expectations. However, it has been six weeks since the northern battle. Even now, the Roman Emperor will be gathering greater forces to repel us from over the sea.’
There was a moment of muttered translation. ‘That is no doubt true,’ Taran said. ‘Which makes the next part of my lord’s plan that more urgent.’
‘Plan?’ Fergus dragged his attention back from his whore’s breasts. ‘What plan? We’ve driven the Romans to their knees, and I’ve taken enough plate and coin to sink my ships. I’ve got what I wanted and lost a good many men doing it. It’s time for me to return home.’
Gede rapped something out, and Taran turned to Fergus. ‘My lord says that is a … somewhat limited view. We have been given this opportunity by the gods, who have provided two stunning victories, with little loss of life. He says it would be foolish to turn our backs and let the gifts of the gods slip through our fingers when we have come so far.’
‘What opportunity is he talking about?’ Fergus said testily to Cahir, his hand dropping away from the girl’s rump.
Kinet broke in smoothly, his eyes jet beads. ‘We talked only of crippling the Romans to free Alba,’ he reminded Taran.
‘And make ourselves richer along the way,’ Fergus added.
Taran paused. Priests, Cahir mused with a swig of ale, might go weak-bellied at the stench of armies, but they understood a good pause.
‘My lord Gede feels that we must push on to the uttermost end of Britannia, take all the lands from sea to sea, and banish or slaughter every man, woman and child of Roman blood.’
Fergus gasped, and Cahir set down his ale.
‘The Roman army has crumbled,’ Taran went on, ‘and the roads are open now to the south coast. In our path lie villas and towns beyond counting.’
Fergus blinked and sat back. ‘And what if Cahir is right? What if we get trapped down there in the south when the Emperor’s army arrives from over sea?’
‘We won’t,’ Gede said through the druid, his gaze hooded. ‘There are too many of us. The Romans will flee when they see us coming. We take the plunder, plant our seed in the women, man the Roman forts on the shore and repel any army that comes from Gaul.’
‘I admire your courage,’ Cahir interrupted, ‘but that is a foolish idea.’ He ignored Gede’s piercing glare and spoke to Fergus, Cerdic and Kinet. ‘We have enjoyed our successes because of surprise and weight of numbers. The first battle knocked out control in the north; the second was won by the Saxons landing. But by the time we march south, the Romans will have had time to regroup and defend the
ir walled towns. They will also be more desperate. Do you honestly believe you can hold all those towns with the Emperor’s army coming on your rear? And to plunder such an area you’ll have to split your men, and that will weaken you.’
As Taran finished Cahir’s words, Garnat’s face suffused with blood. He leaped to his feet. ‘You call my king foolish? I call you coward!’ Taran winced at this, but duly translated. ‘This opportunity will never come again, never, gael! We will take Britannia back for its tribes – my king has already sworn this to us, in the blood he shed this day!’
Cahir gazed up at him, reining in his temper. ‘The tribes you speak of have been Roman for generations: their blood has mixed. Do you think they want us rampaging over their farms, killing and raping their women, their children? Do you think they will welcome us as saviours? I tell you – you cannot hold the entire island. The Romans have an empire-sized army and they will send it here to get their Province back. However, we have struck the blow that will keep them behind their Wall, and leave Alba alone for ever. That is all I ever wanted. That is all we agreed.’
All of them fell silent, except for the muttering of the translators, and the nervous coughs of the guards against the walls.
Suddenly, Cerdic the Saxon king buried the blade of his saex in the ground at his feet. ‘I not come all this way with ships and men to turn back now!’ he growled, the little trader scrambling to translate. ‘Romans weak, there is plunder, and for honour of gods I roll over them until I no longer lift this saex! I be no man, no king in eyes of warriors if I run.’
