Dreaming the Eagle

by Manda Scott

  “We lost,” he said. “They’ve taken a different beast.”

  “I know.” She had heard the death-squeal as the sow attacked. Now she heard Venutios sound the Warrior’s horn in the signal for the rest to gather. “Caradoc and Gwyddhien have made the kill.” She felt it as a change in colour of the weave, a brightening of two threads and a dulling of the rest. She tied off the frayed end of her tunic and picked up her spear. Ardacos was slower, taking time to stretch his shoulder and test the feel of the wound. He caught her arm as she passed.

  “No hurry. They’ll gut the boar and clean it before we move on. It’ll take no more than three of them to manage the beast and the same again to cut a tree to carry it. The rest of us will only sit and watch. We may as well take it easy.”

  He was right. The beast was a young male of last season’s brood. They were known sometimes to return to their birth-den for wintering and if the sow was farrowing she did not always take the time to drive them away. It was a good size, big enough to justify two for the kill, not so big as to need three; more than enough to grace the leaving feast of Venutios. The Warrior, who was soon to be merely a warrior, stood back and let Gwyddhien organize the gutting and preparation of the kill while Caradoc led a party to select a tree for the carrying pole.

  In the distribution of work, Breaca saw the beginnings of the new Warrior’s retinue. Always there was an inner core of those to whom the most needful tasks were entrusted. With no reason to join them, she sat on the margins and watched others take on new roles. Ardacos, unconcerned, went about his own business. He roamed the outcrop seeking a stave to make a spear-haft and, having found one, lit a tiny stick-and-heather fire to harden the point. By the time the two cousins of the Brigantes had lashed the boar to the carrying pole and hefted it onto their shoulders, he was armed again. He smiled again at Breaca as they set out, and said, “Don’t let your guard down now, lass. This is more than a boar hunt. It’s not over yet.”

  CHAPTER 19

  They were too far from the great-house to return before nightfall. The option remained to walk through the night or to find an encampment and wait until dawn. Venutios, who had led them this far, gave over command to Gwyddhien who, in turn, consulted with Caradoc. At his suggestion, they chose to walk until dusk and then stop for the night at a place they both knew.

  The light faded winter-fast, leaching the colour from the day. Clouds of midges rose from the scrub to feast. The hunters ran in a column, as fast as the boar-carriers could go, taking turns with the pole to keep up the pace. Breaca ran near the end, twenty-fifth in line, and took her turn to carry the pole. Hail dallied at her heels, licking the fallen blood.

  Gwyddhien led them round a bog and through another tract of woodland, up a gentle slope and over more outcrops to halt on the summit of a low, crater-topped hill in the centre of which a small lochan lay still and clear. Under her direction, they split into groups to gather wood for fires and bracken to lie on. Ardacos waded waist-deep into the loch and speared fish. Others gathered roots. Venutios sliced the liver of the boar, which would not keep well in the warmth of the night, and shared it equally amongst them so that it became like a true victory feast. Later, they swam in the loch by firelight, cleaning off the blood of the hunt and confounding the last of the insects. The boar, still on the carry-pole, was hung high between two rocks, out of reach of the hounds.

  It was not a night for sleeping. They lay in small groups, talking by firelight. Those with hounds shared them for warmth. Venutios lit his own fire high up on the crag top. His peace spread over them, but thinly, as if the mantle of it were already passing to another. At the lochside, Gwyddhien moved from group to group, praising each for its actions in the day, taking the threads of the thirty and weaving them tighter. Ardacos walked alone round the water’s edge, his spear on his shoulder, constantly vigilant.

  Breaca lay alone with Hail at her side and stared up at the black night. The moon had not risen and the stars were brighter for it. She found the dreamer’s star sitting low on the southern horizon and thought of Macha and then of Airmid, who was lover to Gwyddhien and yet had still bet against her becoming Warrior. In doing so, she had refused to state her alternative choice, except to say that it was not Ardacos. What had seemed surprising seemed less so now. The bet had been made in the evening, just before the choosing of the thirty; Airmid would have known all day that one extra had trained at the warriors’ school in the morning. By evening, she would have had time to discuss its implications with Maroc.

  Nudging Hail to follow, Breaca rose from her fire. The thirty were spread in a half-moon around the shores of the loch. She had not taken note of where each had chosen to spend the night, but she could find the important ones, by instinct, or a half-heard word, or the shape of an outline against the embers’ glow: Cumal and Ardacos, Venutios and Gwyddhien—and Caradoc, who was far out on the western side, alone. She picked her way carefully round the rocks at the water’s edge. Hail recognized their destination from a distance and bounded forward joyfully, spoiling any chance of surprise. She could have called him back but not without drawing attention from the wider group, which she preferred not to do. In any case, she had no wish to lay constraints on Hail that would dampen his spirits. It had taken a long time for the great hound to acknowledge Bán’s loss. Even now, he cleaved to certain boys at the time when their voices were breaking. For the rest, he was selective in his affections—generous to those whom she liked and aloof with the rest. Only with Caradoc did he find friendship where she did not.

  She stopped just beyond the circle of light. Caradoc sat on the far side of the fire, jumbling Hail’s ears with careless affection. The poor light darkened his hair to black and changed the shape of his face. He looked up and his eyes were the ones she had known since childhood, full of care and Bán’s unconscious grace. The nausea rose in her throat, predictably. She sat on a rock, quickly, before her nerve failed her. Caradoc shifted his head in the firelight and his eyes became grey again, searching hers, seeking a reason for her presence and failing to find it. Presently, he said, “I’m sorry you were not with us at the kill.”

  “So am I.” She pulled her knees in to her chest and hugged them tightly. “How did you know Ardacos and I were going for the wrong beast?”

  “I didn’t. I saw Gwyddhien jump down from the crag and she was not near Hail. I had the choice to go with the hound’s nose or the hunter’s eyes. Nine times out of ten, I would go with Hail. But this was Gwyddhien.” The hound heard the sound of his name in the words and leaned into his hand, crooning pleasure.

  “You think she should be Warrior?”

  “With what is to come? Yes.” He picked a stalk of old grass and chewed the end of it. “If we were at peace, Ardacos would be unbeatable. He carries the lore of the ancestors and we can never learn too much of that. But he is too silent, and takes too long to trust those around him. If there is to be war, we will need a Warrior who can gain trust and give it on first meeting, or know that it will never be given. Gwyddhien will do that.”

  Breaca looked across the loch to the last murmuring group with Gwyddhien at its heart. She said, “She is doing it already.”

  “I know.”

  He had laid a pile of dry bracken and heather roots neatly to one side. Breaca leaned forward and set a handful of each in the fire’s heart. Flame washed her face and his, as it had done once in a forge. They sat in silence, testing the edges of tension between them. There was a third option and neither had said it: Caradoc had been one of two who killed the boar, and he could mould two thousand warriors to his will as readily as Gwyddhien ever could. Airmid had known that when she laid her bet. On the far horizon, the dreamer’s star flared, holding its secrets.

  “Why are you here?” His voice came out of the dark.

  “To ask a question. Or, perhaps, to test a theory.” She looked at him across the fire. He sat calmly, but with an edge of caution, as if she were part of the Warrior’s tests. She said, “It seems to
me that the hunt is not the choosing, that the choice has been made long since by Talla and the elder council and the hunt is to bring the thirty together, to begin the weaving of the new Warrior’s honour guard. If that were so, and if you were asked, would you pledge your life for Gwyddhien’s?”

  She had thought it might be a question he had asked himself. Looking at him, she knew she had been right but that, having asked, he had not found the answer; the conflict was clear on his face. With honesty, he said, “I don’t know.”

  “You have too many responsibilities amongst your mother’s people?” She knew nothing of his life among the Ordovices, save that he had not been held responsible for the death of the messenger slain by his father.

  “Yes, but it’s more than that. If there is war, I would wish to be part of it, and Mona has only once in recent history sent the Warrior and all two thousand into battle.”

  “Against Caesar and the legions.”

  “Yes. They rode in support of Cassivellaunos at a time when the sanctity of the land itself was threatened. The songs of Mona say that, of them all, only three came back alive. They were the greatest warriors our land has ever seen and they were the ones who held the banks of the sea-river against the onslaught of the legions, whatever the singers of other tribes—my people and yours—may say. If it comes to war with Rome and if Mona sends her warriors into the field, then it may be that I would join the honour guard if I were asked—but if not, I would wish to be free to fight alongside whoever will join me.”

  In the still night, a cold wind stroked across Breaca’s back. Maroc had spoken of this, but not so directly, nor with such a sense of urgency. “Will it come to that—to war with Rome?”

  He shrugged. “It could do. Amminios has all the ambition of my father and none of his diplomacy. Cunobelin trod a fine line; his wealth was based on trade with Rome and her subject peoples but he did not take on everything Roman. In these last two years, he returned to the dreamers and the ways of the gods. Amminios will never do that. He wants control of the trading ports on both sides of the sea-river and will stop at nothing to get it. In this, he has the support of Berikos of the Atrebates. That man has waited thirty years to get the better of my father. If Amminios gives him a reason, he will take it.”

  “And Amminios has reason in the ports south of the sea-river that your father gave to Togodubnos’s son as blood-guilt for my family.” Memories of battle crowded the night. Amminios laughed from horseback and the roll of hooves rocked her head. She stared into the fire and made herself hear only the wind ruffling the loch and the murmur of other voices at other fires, none of them enemies. When she could think clearly, she said, “The loss of the southern ports would give neither Amminios nor Berikos due cause to call on Rome for aid.”

  “Not unless they fight for them and lose. Amminios, as you have found, does not like to be seen to lose.”

  She raised her head, sharply. He met the heat of her gaze without comment. He could have been taunting her, but was not. Both knew it to be true. She said, “He may not like to lose, but if he wins, then the whole of the southeast is in danger. He will not stop at the river, and if he takes the dun, he will move next on the Eceni. We have wealth greater than he has ever seen, in land and corn and horses. Just because we choose not to trade it with Rome does not make it worth less.”

  “So he must not be allowed to win, or to escape to Rome. The only chance is for Togodubnos to reach the southlands before Amminios. The spears there are sworn to my father. While his body lies whole and for three days after they burn him, they cannot forswear, it is the law. After that…” He spread his hands.

  “Would they swear faith to Amminios?”

  “The Atrebates are nothing if not a practical people. They changed allegiance from Berikos to my father because a debt was owed. They will change back again as easily. I think they will swear to whoever gets to them first with enough spears to make a convincing argument.”

  “Does Togodubnos know that?”

  “We have to hope so. If he fails, then the southeast will take fire like pine boughs dried over summer.”

  He sat up and moved his hands above the fire, making shadows as the singers did. Bold shapes stalked others across the blur of his face. Like this, because she had to fight to see the face behind the shadows, she saw only him. He smiled and it was not Bán’s smile. His hands made a blade and shield, moving round in thrust and parry. Softly, he said, “The elders of the Ordovices met in full council at the equinox. I brought a petition before them and it was accepted. If war starts in the east, I have permission to lead the warriors of the war hammer in defence of my brother’s lands.”

  It was what his father had wanted. She refrained from saying so. Instead, “And so we come full circle to my first question and you have given its answer. You could not lead the Ordovices if you were sworn to protect the Warrior.”

  “No.”

  “Nor if you were the Warrior.”

  “Not unless Mona and the Ordovices were one, which is unlikely.”

  “So then why are you here?”

  “I don’t know. You would have to ask Maroc.”

  “Maroc would answer as he always does: to learn the will of the gods, which may not be the will of man.”

  “Nor even the will of Maroc, whatever that may be.”

  Behind the shadowplay, she could see the dry smile, so like Airmid’s. Maroc’s plans were known only to a few, though any could discern them by looking and as many could appreciate the breadth of vision that sought to bring the warriors of west and east together in defence of the land. Breaca had heard it in outline from Macha before she left the Eceni homelands. Since coming to Mona, she had begun to understand the detail and the extent to which the dreamer had found in Caradoc a willing vessel, the one man who might achieve his dream; who might, if the gods were good, one day go beyond it. Caradoc would not unite the tribes to bring power to his father, but he would strive to the last breath in his body to do so if it would keep back Rome and its supporters.

  There was only one flaw Breaca could see. Standing to leave, with Hail at her side, she said, “You are Ordovician only on your mother’s side. Will the sworn spears of the war hammer follow you in a battle that is not of their choosing?”

  He was lying back, with his hands laced behind his head. She heard his voice in the darkness, dryly amused. “I would stake my life on it,” and then, more reflectively, “If they don’t, it is not only the east that will fall.”

  Breaca was in the Eceni great-house, petitioning aid in war from the elders, when Ardacos’s fingers gripped her ankle. By her own fire, she woke to blackness, and a canopy of stars. The creased bat-face blocked them out. Fingers danced in front of her eyes, making the sign for danger and then good luck. She rose silently and was handed her spear. Hail stretched and followed.

  They ran along the edge of the loch. The smell of still water mingled with sphagnum moss. Her bare feet splashed in shallow water where she missed the rocks. At the northern edge, they turned uphill and ran to the lip of the crater where they lay flat behind the rocks. He pointed over the rim and she saw what he had seen: a shape that was not a rock, moving amongst the crags below.

  “A bear?” Her heart flipped over in her chest. “I thought there were no bears on Mona.”

  “We were told not. In eight years, I have seen none.” He glanced at her sideways. The edge of his eye showed white in the starlight. “Maroc’s dream is the bear.”

  “And my father’s.” She laid her spear on the rocks. “We must not kill it.”

  “I would not suggest it. But the beast has smelled the boar and will take it if it can.” He sat back on his heels and flashed her a smile. His face was more animated than she had ever seen it. He said, “This is the choosing, not the other. The danger is great. At every Warrior’s choosing there have been deaths, and they do not come from hunting boar. We may not kill it, but we must still drive it away. And it may kill us.”

  He did not loo
k like a man preparing to die. The whine of bees began again in her ears, the gods’ warning, and Maroc’s voice faintly, Only know that you must stay together. Warily, she said, “You were not thinking that it was sent for us alone—giving no chance to the others?”

  The bear was the colour of the night. Even with the clear sight of Mona, it was hard to hold it in focus. In the time she waited for Ardacos to speak, it stood up and made of itself a silhouette against the stars. She heard the man sigh beside her, a nasal whistling of breath. “No,” he said, “I do not think it is just for us. Where would be the honour in that? To become Warrior because none else had the chance.” He squirmed back from the edge and tapped her wrist. “Go, then; we must act quickly. I will fetch Gwyddhien. You rouse the others.”

  He regretted the decision. Even as he ran ahead along the edge of the water, she saw it in him. She sent Hail ahead for Caradoc and worked along the edge of the water, waking each group as she came to it. The hounds were full of boar offal and somnolent and unwilling to stir themselves. Their warriors were little better. One in every four she left to feed the fires and wrap dried bracken onto sticks to make fire-clubs. The rest she told to leave their spears and arm with rocks of a good size to throw, impressing on them the need not to kill; they knew the laws, but only she and Ardacos had been given a living reminder of the penalties. Midway through, Caradoc joined her and they divided the rest between them, meeting back at the place where the boar was kept. Gwyddhien was there already, standing on the crag above the carcass. Ardacos was nowhere to be seen.

  Breaca climbed onto the rock and looked about. The bear was downwind and had caught their scent. It rose on its hind legs, the blunt snout raised to the sky. Breaca said, “Where’s Ardacos?” and the words were barely out before she saw him and realized that the bear did not stand as she did just for the scent of a handful of warriors hidden among the crags, but for a small, wiry man, naked now and weaponless, who stood before it, swaying.