by Manda Scott
“Gunovic, that’s a bear, not a war-horse. It would be good for drawing a cart but it’s not going to be useful in battle. In any case, I don’t ride horses that have feet wider than mine are long.”
“He has feet no bigger than your mare’s. It’s the hair about them makes them seem big. Get up on him and I’ll race you to the tree and back. Then see if you want him.”
They raced. Breaca won, or the horse did; she had put little effort into it. They tried out with shield and spear and sword. The bear-horse did not anticipate her movements as the grey mare had done but he was fast and turned well and knew what he was supposed to do. She dismounted and checked his teeth and found he was just four years old. She frowned, thinking.
“You’ve been south of the sea-river seeing to the defences or bargaining with the Atrebates for more than half the time since he first had a bit in his mouth. Who else has trained him?”
“Macha. She bred him from one of Eburovic’s mares.”
Breaca bit her lip. It could have been no-one else. “He’s good.”
“He’s the best. With him, you can defeat the Romans.”
He was the third one to say so. Breaca made an inward sign to Nemain that she not take the words as presumption and turned her new mount towards the river in search of Caradoc.
Caradoc was not hard to find once she knew what to look for. He had abandoned the white of the Ordovices in favour of the multicoloured cloak of the hero Cassivellaunos, newly made for him by the weavers of the Catuvellauni to include the colours of each tribe that had joined them. It drew eyes wherever he rode. Breaca had been offered the same and had declined it, keeping to the grey of Mona and the bloodred mark of the serpent-spear. Her hair was banner enough; in the sun it burned like living fire and the wind was rising. Come the battle, charging the enemy, it would fly like a flag.
She rode down towards the water’s edge on fresh green turf with blackberry bushes in full fruit to one side. They should have been removed but had been left with their fruit intact as an offering to the gods of harvest. By chance, they marked the first fording place along the sea-river, too far inland for the Roman ships to venture, but not so far that a bridge could not be thrown across with ease, or javelins reach the defending lines.
Togodubnos had worked on the south side for some time, cutting trees to deny cover and firewood to the enemy and digging pits which he covered in brush to confuse the cavalry. He had destroyed the bridges that existed and burned those boats that were not brought across. A handful of charred and broken skeletons smoked fitfully on the southern shore. On the day before they arrived, he had made a ceremony with the dreamers and had cast into the river a fine bronze shield, worked at both ends with the shape of a horse, in offering to Nemain that she remember they held the water sacred and did not fight across it to dishonour her, but rather to ask her aid in defending their land.
Breaca joined Caradoc by the ford.
“Breaca, welcome.” He turned, sharply alert, like a hound on the morning of a hunt. Everything about him had sharpened. The culmination of his life was upon him, and possibly his death. She had never considered the possibility that he might die, but now he grinned and, perversely, her mind made of him a grinning corpse, the skull flayed to whiteness, the teeth smashed back to the roots, the gold hair dulled to mud. The thought stalled her, twisting her gut as nothing else had done. Had Airmid been there, she could have said if it was a true vision. Lacking her, Breaca could only wait until it passed. She felt sick.
Caradoc’s grin faded. His eyes searched her face. “You should wear a helmet,” he said, having access to her mind. The wind lifted his own uncovered hair.
“As you do?” It came out more archly than it should have done. “If the gods wish us dead, a finger’s breadth of iron will not stop it. In the meantime, it is better for you and I to be seen by those who follow.”
“Oh, I think we will be seen.” Humour had always been a shield for him, an automatic defence. He rallied it now, studying her horse with open curiosity. “You think the Romans will fear you more if you ride a bear?”
She, too, could hide behind mockery. “We could race to the trees and back,” she offered. “I’ll wager my shield against yours that an Eceni bear-horse can outrun a Roman cavalry mount.”
“Really?” They had never raced. From the first winter amongst the Eceni through the competitions of Mona to the games at his father’s funeral they had avoided it. On Mona, on the night of the choosing, they had competed against the gods and the dreamers but not each other. He tilted his head, considering, and she saw the humour wane. “Maybe not. My father taught me never to bet against certainties. And the time for racing may be over—now and for all time.” He jutted his chin towards the river and said softly, “The enemy are here.”
She had heard them all morning, the second noise behind the haze. Now she looked out across the river to the reality that the business of her own camp had hidden. The sight was not as awe-inspiring as she had feared; on the far bank, the standards of two legions had been raised but barely a single century of men stood ready. Behind them, a rippling snake of polished armour wound back to the east. The sound of horns and marching feet carried faintly.
Breaca studied the standards more closely. “Still only the Fourteenth and Twentieth,” she said. “They have marched since dawn, if not before it. They will fight with less sleep than us.”
Caradoc nodded, his horse sleek beside hers. “They are alone. And this time we outnumber them.” It was what mattered most.
“Not for long.” Togodubnos rode up to Caradoc’s right side. “Sentius Saturninus is marching north at the head of the Second and Ninth. If we can defeat these two today, we will have as many again to contend with tomorrow, possibly sooner than that.”
Togodubnos had aged in the month since the meeting on the salt marsh. The weight of invasion dragged at his eyes as if he carried the fears for all their deaths. Behind him, an argument reached its climax and a single warrior of the Trinovantes broke from a knot of others, followed by a straight-backed child on a small bay pony. As they neared, Breaca saw that the warrior was a woman and in a condition that should have kept her from battle.
She would have spoken out but she saw Caradoc’s face and the curt shake of his head. Togodubnos turned and it was clear that his burden was not all caused by Rome. He made the formal introduction sketchily, as if time did not allow for anything more. “You know my son Cunomar, and Odras, his mother. She has come to fight the invaders who would defile her homeland.” He smiled, wearily. “I find that I can command ten thousand spears but not one woman.”
“You should visit the Ordovices,” said Caradoc, dryly. “You would not even try.”
The woman rode close to him and, as Caradoc leaned over to kiss her, it was evident that the spark that had lived between them in a calf fair so many years ago did so still. Breaca thought briefly of Cartimandua of the Brigantes who favoured Rome because Caradoc did not, and a woman of the Ordovices who had given him a daughter, and wondered if either of them had seen him in the presence of Odras.
Caradoc was speaking. “…wise choice for one carrying an unborn child?”
Odras’s head was up. He was not the first to ask that question. “The wisest of all. There are five months yet to go before I give birth. I do not risk the child. And I would have my daughter live free of the Roman yoke—or not at all.”
She was the first one to acknowledge aloud that they might not win. All three heard it and let it pass.
To his brother, Togodubnos said, “You always said she could ride better than any of the men. Five of her cousins ride as members of my honour guard. She has vowed to outfight them today and prove it.”
“Good.” Smiling, Caradoc spun his horse. To Odras, he said, “I will lead the Ordovices and the Catuvellauni on the left flank. If you find the battle too quiet in the centre with my brother, you are welcome to join me.” He reached down to lay a hand on Cunomar’s shoulder. “You would be b
etter with Macha and Maroc.” He was careful to avoid reference to children. “They will guide your part in the battle.” The child had his mother’s wide brown eyes. He looked up into the face of his uncle, the hero of three tribes, and nodded. He was not yet a warrior, but his heart was set on fame.
The morning came together with the certainty of a dream. Cunomar was taken back to the reserve lines to join the other children. Odras joined Togodubnos and sat her horse in the front line by the blackberry bushes with the greater mass of the Trinovantes and the small delegations from the Coritani and the Cornovii bunched behind them. Breaca rode upstream to the right flank, leading the Eceni and the warriors of Mona. Caradoc blew his horn to call the Catuvellauni, the Ordovices, the Durotriges and the Silures into a mass on the left, facing the stronger right flank of the enemy. Venutios brought his black-cloaked Brigantes to join the left wing with Breaca and she was glad. Waiting mounted at the head of them, she eased the serpent-blade in its sheath and began the inner search that would kindle the fires of certainty, seeking beyond herself for the thoughts of the dreamers to help her. For the first time in her adult life, her palm throbbed as it had done after the death of her mother.
On the far bank, horns howled in staccato rhythms. Men shouted and blocks of legionaries wheeled. The first cohorts of the XIVth and XXth legions ranged themselves in ordered lines as they had done at a narrower sea-river and, almost unobserved, the battle began.
CHAPTER 28
The ground vibrated to the rhythms of war. The Crow smelled blood and wanted to join. Bán spoke to him, quiet words of calm, and they were within sight of the wounded at the back of the battle lines before he realized he was speaking Gaulish; that in this place, at this time, his own tongue had deserted him. He searched inside, for the shade of Iccius or his father, for the memory of the elder grandmother, for any sign that what he did was wrong. He had searched in the same way in Germany when word had first come that Caligula had died under a hail of knives and that Claudius, made emperor by the Praetorian Guard, planned to continue with the invasion.
Later, as feuding and revolt threatened to topple the new incumbent, Bán had grown complacent, believing that the Senate was weak and, lacking the driving vision of a Caesar or an Alexander, would never set its heart on conquest. Then in early summer the orders had come to muster for war and the Ala V Gallorum had ridden east to join the Legio II Augusta north of Argentorate, and then up to the channel port of Juliobona and the ships that lay idle at the river mouth, awaiting final orders.
It was a long wait. In the early days Bán had ridden the Crow through the trees to the Gaulish shrine of Cernunnos, where the antlered god of the Gauls stood carved on a single massive slab of granite, holding court among the beasts of the forest. He had brought bread and a new horn-handled knife and left them beneath the stone together with his request for guidance. In the silence afterwards, he had feared that Nemain had deserted him for his duplicity and had spent a night alone under the full moon, praying for her return. When she did not come, he had taken an offering to the shrine of Jupiter Optimus Maximus, the soldiers’ god, and left it on a pile of others. He did not make a living sacrifice—his gods would not thank him for spilling another’s blood—but he left half of his saved pay and, later, took the bulk of the rest down to the water and gave it to Manannan, god of the sea.
For days his own voice echoed, hollowly forlorn, asking for help and none came. Corvus, who knew him best, had no answers but care and the logic of the legionary. He had spoken of it one night over wine and roast quail. The bronze Horus looked down on them, keeper of memories.
“You are one of us now. You have taken the soldier’s oath, which is binding beyond all others. If the gods wished you to break that, they would never have let you take it in the first place.”
Bán tilted his wine until the surface became a mirror, reflecting the lamps. Circular pools of light splashed away into the dark. His eyes were wide and fathomless. “Would you fight against your mother’s people?” he asked at last.
“I did—in Pannonia. Those were my grandmother’s people. They are our allies now.”
“Will the Eceni ever be allies of Rome?”
“If they have any sense. If you read Caesar, it was a leader of the Ceni Magni who paid him homage when he invaded and was granted trade rights in return. If you allow for poor translation, the Eceni and the Ceni Magni could be one.”
“They will not be left with trade rights now. Aulus Plautius has been promised the governorship of all Britannia.”
“As Galba was governor of Upper Germany. It did not make Civilis’s people into slaves and the Chatti still run free. These things have their limits. If the Eceni do not fight, they will not be enslaved, nor their lands occupied. Rome has no quarrel with your people.”
“The Eceni will fight.”
“How can you be sure?”
“They are steeped in the legend of Cassivellaunos and the many-coloured cloak. If Togodubnos and his brother call the tribes of the east to war, the Eceni will not hold back.”
“Even after the death of Breaca and your parents?”
“Even so.”
“If Caradoc and Togodubnos are both there, you will have your chance for vengeance against the sons of the Sun Hound.”
“I know. Perhaps that’s why I must go.”
They sat in silence. The hour was late. Beyond the walls of Corvus’s quarters, the world slept. The lamps ran out of oil one by one until the last guttered alone against the dark. Corvus reached his hand over Bán’s. “If the wine has given no answers, the night will have fewer still. We should sleep.”
The hand beneath his turned over and the smile was one he knew, stretching past the confusion. Bán said “Just sleep?” and the lamp guttered out before Corvus could answer, and they chose not to relight it but to fumble their way to bed and beyond in the sympathetic dark.
They slept in the end and woke with nothing resolved. Nothing could ever be resolved, Bán had realized that. He lived as two people: one was a shadow, living in the past, the other loved and lived and had taken oaths that bound him to the present. He would learn to live, in the end, with his duality, or he would die.
Bán had slept better in the nights after that, if not as well as he might, and when the order to embark had finally come he had taken ship with the rest, guiding the Crow up the gangway and into the hold, promising him a short crossing and good weather.
He had lied about both; the crossing had been hell and had lasted from before dawn until after midnight. For nearly a full day, Bán stood on deck, retching violently and wishing he were dead. They had been backing against the tide, the rowers exhausted and the sea fighting their every move, when the shooting star crossed their bows, showing the way to land. He had given thanks to Nemain, whose night it was, and to Jupiter, who ruled the heavens, for sending so clear a sign. Later, after they had landed, he had heard that Civilis and Rufus and the men of the XXth and XIVth who had sailed from the mouth of the Rhine had crossed in half a morning and landed in warm sunshine to no opposition. In the south, the Ala V Gallorum spent two days under the command of Vespasian, legate of the IInd Augusta, subduing Vectis, the island that lay off the coast and was supposed already to have spoken for Rome. After that, they had marched for eight days without break to reach the sea-river where the tribes were massing in defence. Rumour had it that Togodubnos and Caradoc had raised a confederacy greater than the one that had fought against Caesar. The gossip did not take the trouble to name the tribes involved but in his heart Bán knew the Eceni would be there. He spoke to the Crow in Gaulish and reminded himself he was Roman. It sat less easily in his soul than it had done.
A horn wailed at the head of the column. The cavalry drew neatly to a halt. To their left, the first cohort of the Legio II Augusta did likewise. Further commands dispersed them, the cavalry to the right, the legionaries of the first two cohorts to pitch their tents out of sight of the wounded and prepare for battle. Others, further ba
ck, were sent out in armed parties of eight to forage for wood. The centuries to the rear, under the command of an engineer, began to dig fresh latrines; the eye-pricking stench of those further forward was only partially smothered by the gore of battle. The cavalry were signalled to rest their horses and await further orders.
Bán threaded the Crow carefully between chopped tree stumps, wary of traps. Ahead of him, Civilis held his cohort of Batavians grouped and ready; each alternate man mounted, those between walking forward on foot, scouring the ground ahead for pits and spikes and sharpened stones. Bán skirted a knee-deep pit marked with fragments of white bone. Close to it, it became clear that the markers were parts of a skull, cracked like an eggshell; the Batavians had never let go of their tribal roots.
Civilis sat his horse ahead of the others, watching the river. He went bareheaded after the manner of his people and his weapons were barely Roman. The spear on his arm would have done credit to a smith of the Eceni. He saw Bán coming and waved him up. “Where’s Corvus?”
“With the standards. Aulus Plautius has called a command meeting.”
“Bastard.” The German made a gesture that would have got him flogged were it seen by a higher rank. “He lost Rufus, did you hear?”
“Lost him? How?”
“Sent him out on a foray, undermanned and under-armed.” His voice became effetely nasal. “‘The barbarians don’t have the stomach for battle. They scatter their crops and run at the sight of a real army.’” He spat with venom, his voice dropping back a register. “Ignorant Latin bastard.”
“I’m sorry.” Bán clasped the arm of his friend. A small, hidden part of him exulted at the defeat of Rome. The greater part shied at the memories of the bodies they had found of Atrebates along the route. All had been men known to be loyal to Berikos, working as spies amongst the Trinovantes and their allies; each one had been found with his throat cut and the mark of the sun hound carved on his chest.
