As they climbed, Rurid chattered away in his oddly familiar but, to Cathal, almost entirely incomprehensible tongue while Gwlym translated. ‘King Crinan once held extensive lands in the low country,’ the druid explained, ‘which is their name for the fertile coastal plain. An unfortunate disagreement with an elder brother led to his exile in the mountains. Yet such was Crinan’s popularity that many of his people followed him to this valley. He was also able to attract – I believe the proper term may be abduct – the tribe’s finest metal workers, who brought with them their extensive contacts amongst those who supply the ingots without which no sword can ever be forged. This is the foundation of King Crinan’s prosperity and gives him overlordship over all the tribes of mountain and plain.’
‘He controls the trade in weapons in the north?’
‘So it appears.’
Cathal looked around thoughtfully as they crossed the third terrace to a stone hut much larger than the others. ‘I am beginning to wonder why he provides such a warm welcome for a potential rival,’ he said, so quietly that only Gwlym could hear him.
‘That had also occurred to me,’ Gwlym admitted. ‘But I have a sense for these things and I do not feel that Rurid is deceiving us.’
In King Crinan’s compound there was no sign of industry and the huts that surrounded the main structure appeared to be occupied solely by warriors. Two of them stood guard at the doorway of the king’s house and they stepped aside at a word from Rurid. Cathal ordered his guards to remain where they were and walked inside with Gwlym. It was only natural that the interior of a hut should be part filled with smoke, but the drifting clouds in King Crinan’s house obscured almost everything from view and an odd, sweetish scent tickled Cathal’s nostrils.
He felt Gwlym’s hand on his arm. ‘Do not breathe too deeply, lord king,’ the druid warned, ‘and keep your wits about you.’
Rurid led them forward as if there was nothing unusual about the scene. Gradually, Cathal made out a number of shadowy figures in the smoke. It took a few moments before he realized they were almost entirely female. Flame-haired seemed to be King Crinan’s preference, and six of the most beautiful women Cathal had ever seen lay draped across low cots dressed in thin shifts that were as useful as the drifting smoke in covering their attributes. A seventh woman was coiled in the lap of a grey-bearded man of late middle age who sat on a raised throne in the centre of the room. Her shift had slipped from her shoulders and he fondled a round breast with one hand while drinking from a silver cup with the other. Cathal’s head spun and he felt an irrational urge to laugh.
For a moment he wondered if it was all a dream. Gwlym’s bony fingers sinking into his arm brought him back to reality and he realized Rurid and the king had been speaking. Crinan was staring at him with wide, unblinking eyes.
‘King Crinan welcomes you to his palace and offers you his hospitality,’ Gwlym announced. ‘He has been waiting for you these long years and your appearance surpasses even the description he was given. He honours you as a great warrior and a servant of the old gods. Together you will rid the land of the Red Scourge, of which he has heard so much, but never seen, and your names will be sung in the halls of the great until the end of time.’
Cathal shook his head in an attempt to clear it of a new wave of confusion that had nothing to do with the pungent, sweet-smelling smoke. ‘I don’t understand. How can—?’
‘You have come.’ An urgent, high-pitched cry from the far edge of the room. ‘I told them you would come, but only the king believed me.’ The speaker appeared like a wraith from the smoke. A withered ancient with a wispy fringe of white hair that clung to the back of his bald head like the last snow in the shade of a mountain. Tears flowed from rheumy pink eyes over the cracked, leathery skin of his cheeks. It took a moment for Cathal’s reeling mind to understand that, though the words spilled from him like a river in spate, the old man spoke a language perfectly comprehensible to him. ‘Twenty winters I have waited for this moment, tending the fires of hope kindled in the halls of Pencerrig by Aymer, high priest of my order.’
Cathal felt Gwlym stiffen at his side. ‘What is it?’ he whispered.
‘He is a druid,’ the priest whispered back. ‘An emissary sent from Mona in the years before Suetonius Paulinus bathed the sacred isle in blood.’ He raised his voice. ‘What is your name?’
‘I am Amergyn, son of Gluingel. “Carry the word with care, but carry it far,” Aymer told me. “When the time is right the gods will send a sign. You will carry the spark and the gods will provide a leader. The wrath of Andraste will rain from the sky …”’
‘The wrath of Andraste.’ Gwlym’s voice was filled with puzzled awe. ‘Yes, that was it.’
‘“… the people will rise, and the Red Scourge will be purged from this land for ever.” Others like me would rally the tribes of the south, he said, but mine was the most difficult task. The greatest trial. The wild folk of the north must be convinced the Romans were as much a threat to their freedom as to that of every other tribe on this island. Trial indeed,’ the old man sighed. ‘I was robbed and stripped bare, driven from forest and glen, starved, stoned and enslaved. Time and again I almost lost faith, and time and again I remembered Aymer’s words as I walked through the cleansing fire. “The wrath of Andraste lives through you. You must prevail. At the last call on the spirit of the hare, and the horse.” Finally I reached this valley and King Crinan listened to my plea. He ordered his priests to make a sacrifice and said his gods supported me. We would wait for the sign. And we have been waiting since.’
‘Lord king,’ Gwlym said formally, ‘remove your mask.’
Cathal still didn’t fully understand what was happening, but the druid’s voice contained a certainty that couldn’t be ignored. He reached up and lifted the silver faceplate on its hinges. Amergyn gasped and Crinan rose unsteadily from his throne. Cathal didn’t move as the Caledonian king stepped forward and raised a hand to run his fingers over the tattoo on his left cheek.
‘The spirit of the horse,’ Amergyn sobbed. ‘Truly it is you.’
Crinan began to speak and Amergyn translated his words. ‘He will have the war trumpet sounded throughout his realm and summon the war bands to gather here under his banner. Together you will bring the wrath of Andraste down upon the Romans.’
‘He will lead them himself?’
Amergyn shook his head. ‘The king would tell you that he is too old for war, but the truth is that he has no appetite for battle these days.’ His eyes drifted across the flame-haired women. ‘His interests lie in other directions. Rurid, a great warrior in his own right, will lead his war bands.’
‘Tell them they have my thanks. How many warriors can the Caledonian federation put in the field?’
Amergyn directed the question at Rurid and Cathal saw Gwlym’s face freeze at the reply.
‘Five thousand,’ the blind druid whispered.
‘Only five thousand? It is not enough.’
‘It must be enough.’
XLIV
The column of Asturian cavalrymen picked their way across the heather-clad hillside, wary eyes constantly searching the heights above and the valley below. Barbarus had set flank guards, and a pair of riders patrolled ahead, but it wouldn’t be the first time the Celts picked off an unwary auxiliary and that comforting silhouette on the horizon held an enemy spear rather than a friendly one.
The slope fell away gently on his left to where a narrow river wound through scattered groves of oak and ash. A tranquil, bucolic scene until you noticed the muddy scar and the deep ruts caused by fully laden two-wheeled carts. Those tracks marked the path of an army on the move. Not close, it was true. Barbarus had descended to the valley bottom to check those ruts and they’d been filled to overflowing with rainwater from the soft drizzle that coated his cloak with tiny droplets. That drizzle had been soaking them, on and off, for two full days and Barbarus reckoned it would have taken at least that long for the feeble fall to fill the ruts.
Sixty troopers made up his command, two squadrons, and like him they were veterans of the wars in Siluria, Ordovicea and Brigantea. If Barbarus had his way there would be a second pair of squadrons on the far hillside for greater security. Better still, the entire wing with a couple of infantry cohorts marching behind them.
He’d never known a more frustrating campaign. Of course, an old soldier like him should never let something like that affect him. Keep the men in good trim, take to the saddle when the orders arrived, fight who you were told, when you were told, and then bed down wrapped in a damp blanket under a few stitched patches of leather. That was his life and he gave thanks for it, aching bones, rusty armour, and all the rest. A few more years and he’d have his citizenship, his diploma and his pension and he’d return to Hispania, never to take another order. But a unit took a lead from its officers, and the legionary commanders in charge of the Twentieth Valeria, the Second Adiutrix and the Ninth Hispana weren’t happy.
Barbarus could understand why. By his reckoning this campaign should have been sewn up by this time last year. Yes, the Celts were dangerous, and, individually, brave warriors, but this force of shadows they’d been stalking was made up of half a dozen tribes and dozens more clans, many of them little more than extended families. They weren’t an army, they were a rabble.
Mars’ arse, the governor had three full legions. Just hit them one hard blow and the Celts would fall apart. He’d once seen a pack of lions sent out to hunt a herd of deer in the arena and it hadn’t turned out well for the deer. Give the legions just one scent of blood … Certainly that was what the rumour mill said the Ninth’s legate believed, and he had a lot of time for Gaius Valerius Verrens. No pampered patrician that one, but a proper soldier and with the scars to prove it. A commander who didn’t mind getting his hands dirty, and there were’t many of them.
The Ninth and the Second had crossed the great morass to discover the enemy vanished apart from a small blocking force that had, in turn, faded away like wisps of summer mist. Verrens had issued orders for an immediate advance and to harry the enemy at every turn, only to receive a command from Julius Agricola to hold his position and wait for the arrival of the Twentieth legion. They’d built a temporary camp on the first high ground at the end of the log roads, and used the time to construct a more permanent fort at the top of the largest rocky outcrop south of the river. Another month of perfect fighting weather passed and not a mile gained or a skirmish fought. He looked up at the sky, trying to gauge the position of the sun through the thick white cloud. How much further should they follow the trail before he turned back to make his report?
‘Decurion?’ One of the scouts rode up to rein in at Barbarus’s side.
‘What is it?’
‘Something curious. Down in the valley half a mile to the front.’
‘I don’t like curious.’ Barbarus frowned. ‘It smells of month-old fish. Tell me?’
‘Celts, but they’re acting strangely. Best you see for yourself, sir.’
Barbarus halted the patrol and accompanied the scout. They left their horses in the lee of a hill and the man led him to where his comrade lay in the heather watching the valley. Barbarus joined them at the crest and the scout pointed to a clearing in a river bend surrounded by clumps of trees. The Asturian parted the heather and looked down at five Celts, that he could see, and one two-wheeled cart. Unfortunately for the Celts one of the wheels was axle deep in mud and hanging from its mount. Two of the men were stripped naked to the waist and apparently having some kind of wrestling match. The others lay back against a nearby tree, drinking from a skin and urging them to greater effort.
‘They’ve been doing this since I found them,’ the first scout said. ‘They take turns and seem oblivious of anything around them.’
Barbarus studied the men. Harmless enough, or so it seemed. He was tempted to just bypass them, but the stack of spears leaning against the cart identified them as warriors, and that meant he had to do something. He sent the scouts to bring the patrol forward while he came up with a plan.
‘Take ten men,’ he told Septimus, his second in command. ‘I want at least one prisoner. And see if the cart’s repairable. At least we’ll have something to show for this waste of time.’
‘Why don’t we wait until the bastards repair it for us?’ the duplicarius grumbled.
‘Because we haven’t got all fornicating day,’ Barbarus snapped. ‘Get on with it. But be careful.’
He watched Septimus and his men use the contours of the valley to hide their approach. Only when they reached the valley floor and were within plain sight of the wrestling men did the duplicarius give the order to charge. With a whooping shout the ten men couched their spears and urged their mounts to a canter over the rough ground. The stream was shallow with low banks and no obstacle and they were across it before the first of the Celts reacted.
Barbarus saw them apparently freeze in horror at the sight of the advancing Asturian cavalry, but there was something that bothered him about the scene. Their first reaction should have been to look towards their spears. Instead they looked to each other. By now, inexperienced in battle or not, they should have been running. Still the little tableau hesitated as the auxiliary spears bore down on them. At last they were moving. So why did Barbarus’s breath catch in his throat and the icy iron of a blade slide into his heart? ‘No,’ he croaked. ‘Get out.’
Because instead of running directly away from the cavalry or towards their spears the Celts split like a sunburst, each taking a different direction. From here it was obvious, but all Septimus would see was his prey escaping. He must have called an order because the troopers split into twos, each pair hunting down a separate fugitive.
‘To horse.’ Barbarus ran to his mount and leapt into the saddle. He drew his sword and urged the horse directly down the slope, not waiting to see if his men heard his command.
To where Septimus’s men were being slaughtered. Their killers rose out of the landscape like so many wraiths. They timed their appearance perfectly as each pair of Asturians bore down on the fleeing Celt who was luring him into a trap. Suddenly the hunters faced five or six enemies, their long spears reaching out for the men in the saddles. A horse reared, throwing its rider. The man rolled clear, drawing his long cavalry spatha, but before he could gain his feet his enemies closed in and the spears rose and fell until he went still.
Septimus’s quarry had run for the far end of the clearing and he must have missed his course because Septimus was able to spear one of his ambushers and ram another aside to reach safety. He spun the horse and Barbarus willed his friend to climb the slope. But Septimus must have heard a call for help. Instead of riding towards safety he drew his sword and urged his horse back into the skirmish.
By now the thunder of hooves rumbled in Barbarus’s ears as his men closed in behind him and he concentrated on the slope ahead. He knew this headlong rescue attempt contained an element of risk, but the Asturians still outnumbered their enemy by two to one and he would not abandon men he had fought beside for ten and twenty years. With Fortuna’s favour the very sight of the new wave of attackers would drive the Celts away. If not, they would die.
Barbarus looked up to see two or three little groups still battling among the trees, proof that some at least were still alive. The man Septimus had tried to save must be dead, because the duplicarius was spurring his way across the clearing towards the slope, waving his sword. Barbarus could see his mouth opening and closing, but he could hear nothing. Suddenly the ground fell away and the air misted around him as he urged his horse across the stream. The Asturian battle cry was keening in his throat as he climbed the far bank, seeking out the
closest target. Septimus’s horse drove across his front and Barabus saw blood sheeting its flank from a gaping wound in the duplicarius’s thigh.
‘Get out,’ the other man screamed as he passed. ‘Get out while you still can.’
Too late now, old friend, Barabus thought, driving his mount at a pair of Celts stabbing at a man on the ground. But Septimus’s warning sent a knife point of alarm scoring across the inside of his skull. Why would he be urging flight when they outnumbered the enemy?
A great cry from all around gave him his answer as half-naked, tattooed Celts swarmed from the woods in their hundreds. The original trap had only been the bait for a greater prey.
And he was that prey.
Barbarus smashed his horse through a seething knot of the enemy, ignoring the spear points and the grasping hands, hacking down at exposed heads to expose bone and brain. He experienced a moment of fierce exhilaration before something hammered into his side and sent a great dagger of fire deep into his vitals. He shrieked with the agony of it and reeled in the saddle, vaguely aware of his command dying around him. A spear point tore his cheek and the vision of his left eye turned red. His half world spun, then shook, and he was looking up at the sky through a patchwork of branches and leaves.
Oddly, though his entire body had gone numb he could feel the soft drizzle on his skin and something that might have been a tear rolling down his cheek. A figure appeared in his line of vision and he was disappointed he could no longer see the sky. The man was massively built with fierce, hawkish features and a pair of rearing horses tattooed on his cheeks.
‘Do we have them all?’ Cathal asked Donacha, who had commanded the ambush.
Barbarus didn’t understand the words, but he was experienced enough to know their import. Suddenly it seemed more important than ever to be able to see the sky.
‘Yes, lord king.’
‘Then finish them.’ His attention turned to the body lying twitching at his feet. Barbarus’s single eye saw the hammer raised and the glitter of gold as it fell. ‘You know what must be done?’ Donacha nodded.
Hammer of Rome Page 31
