by Manda Scott
“Here!”
The body lay beneath a hand’s length of melting snow, blanketed as if under night-time hides with only the point of one elevated elbow sticking up to throw slanting shadows across the white. Stone found it and ploughed into the drift, baying. The noise soaked into the landscape and was gone.
“Cunomar! Over here!”
Breaca dropped her game bag and turned off the track into the untested depths at the side. She sank up to her knees and the butt end of her hunting spear made a staff as she gouged a way forward. Encouraged, the big blue hound fell silent and began to bite the snow, hurling all of himself at it in a delirium of released frustration. His winter had been no less hard than hers, his joy at being outside no less expansive.
The drift was rotten at its core; the spring warmth was eating at its base even as Stone broke through the crust. He clawed out ragged clots of slush and hurled them backwards, making rain in the full sun.
Breaca leaned on her spear and let him play, watching the gradual uncovering of a man who might simply have been asleep, but that the rats and the crows had found him before the last blizzard so that his eyes were gone, and parts of his cheek laid open to the cold. He was well clothed; neither his cloak nor his tunic had been taken from him at a time when cold was the biggest killer and those who died were routinely stripped before their bodies were given to the gods. Nor had he been slain for his wealth; an armband in yellow Siluran gold lay frozen at an angle just above his elbow.
Stone whined and nudged the man’s face. Breaca laid a hand on the hound’s shoulder and eased him back. “Leave him. He’s past our help. This one was beyond help before he died.”
“Who’s beyond—Oh …”
Cunomar had forged his own way through the drift. He arrived at her shoulder, breathing hard. The steam he made wreathed the air about them, blurring the crispness of the day. He had grown over winter so that the crown of his head reached beyond her shoulder and it was harder than it used to be to see his eyes.
He made to push past his mother and thought better of it, asking instead, “May I look?”
“Of course.”
He knelt, touching the armband and the ravaged face and Breaca watched her son take in and consider the facts in ways he would not have done before. Of all her family, six months in Eceni lands had changed Cunomar most. He had grown in more than height since coming east; in his soul, he was calmer than the fretting youth who had followed his mother from coast to opposite coast, complaining all the way.
The ravages of winter had been part of it; no-one could watch the half-starved deaths of the cold and the sick and not be touched, but friendship had moulded him most and the pity was that no-one had seen the need sooner. On Mona, Cunomar had been the Boudica’s son who had been taken prisoner to Rome, who had stood in the shadow of his own crucifix, and had yet come back alive. He had found himself the subject of songs and of wide-eyed observation, but boys his own age went out to sit their long-nights and came back as men and none of them, before or after, called him friend.
The Eceni knew nothing of the Boudica’s son, save that he was an outsider, so it had come as no surprise when he had bonded with another the same. Eneit was a wiry, dark-haired youth, son to Lanis, the raven-dreamer who had so deftly steered the elders” gathering to bring the Boudica back to her people. Eneit was old for his years—Lanis did not tolerate childishness in those around her—but he was unfailingly cheerful and harboured no grudges and Cunomar’s bad temper had bounced off him again and again until, of itself, it had begun to blunt.
Through the grim tedium of winter, Cunomar’s mellowing had been a spark of hope for which Breaca daily gave thanks. He was not yet his father, nor even Ardacos, whom he worshipped, but he carried enough of both, and some things only of himself, so that Breaca could see who he might become if the gods granted him time to grow.
He showed the essence of it now, as he leaned forward to study the mess of crushed snow and the corpse within it. After a while, he laid a hand to the face. Flesh moved waxily under his fingers and the head lolled. He sat back on his heels and said, “Not winter-dead.”
It was a masterpiece of understatement. Ardacos could not have done better. Breaca smiled and felt the cold skin crease her face. “No,” she said, “not winter-dead. And not slain for his weapons or wealth.”
The stranger had not died unarmed. His knife lay beside him and his spear a little way beyond. He may have used them in his own defence but not successfully. At his death, the blades of both had been broken cleanly across and, lest it be thought unfortunate mischance, the two halves of each had been laid carefully apart, with the tips reversed so that they pointed in towards the hilt.
Breaca lifted the knife pieces, fitting each back to its mate to make them whole again. It was ten years since the Romans had visited their vengeance on Eceni villages, destroying the warriors’ blades to seal their mastery of the tribe, but the dreamers had been breaking the weapons of convicted traitors for generations before the legions landed. Iron was only the first thing broken. Death, in all cases, followed slowly and the spirit cracked open long before death gave release. Treachery was never taken lightly among the tribes.
This man had died quickly, which would not have happened in the days before Rome, but the reason for his death could not have been more clear.
“A traitor.” Cunomar fitted together the two parts of the spear blade as Breaca had the knife. “Who was he?”
“One we should have watched from the beginning, I think.”
Breaca cupped her hand under the ravaged head and lifted it. The left half of the face was gone, with the marks of small teeth chiselled on the cheekbones. The sockets of both eyes had been picked clean and tufts of reddish hair torn away from the back half of the scalp, at the place where hair ended and baldness began. What was left of his flesh hung loosely on bone, smearing the features to a caricature of the over-heated warrior who had jumped onto a log at the elders’ gathering and screamed over the chaos, casting the Boudica back whence she came.
She did not know his name, but it was impossible to forget his face, and a warrior so ardent in his convictions would not readily set them aside.
In the forest, at the elder council, she had asked, How long before a member of your household betrays us? and ’Tagos, relaxed, had answered, I would say never but if I am wrong, I will die with you. And Breaca had taken him at his word, which was foolish.
“I have spent winter worrying how to raise an army, while this”—she opened her hand and the head fell back, loosely—“has spent it planning how to betray us to Rome. They broke his neck, which was kind. I wonder why.”
“Who did?” Cunomar nudged the lax head with his toe. “’Tagos couldn’t have killed him. It takes two hands to break a man’s neck and he has only one.”
“No.” In a clutter of unanswered questions, some things had been obvious from the first. Breaca said, “He sent Gaius and Titus out hunting when the snow first began to melt. They came back with nothing. I thought then that they looked too pleased.”
“That was four days ago.”
“I know. So if our ardent traitor reached Camulodunum with his news and was on his way back, then we are as good as dead.”
Breaca rinsed her hands in the snow. Sharp fragments of ice bit at her fingers, savage as rats. Stone, seeing her distracted, came to push at her thigh and was welcomed. She stared south, to where white met unblemished blue, and felt the pulse rise in her throat. Battle was easy and a part of her yearned for it. The greater part urged caution, and waiting, and the gathering of warriors, and needed time that might not be given.
“Can the legions march over snow this thick, do you suppose?”
“If you listen to ’Tagos, they can do anything.” Cunomar had crouched and was cutting a lock of hair from the man’s head. Burned on the night fires, with the right words sung by Airmid, it would mark him for ever a traitor in the lands beyond life. “That can’t be true, but I think that to arrest the Boudi
ca, they would dig a path through the snow from the shores of the ocean to the far edges of the world. Even in this weather, it can’t be more than four days’ march from Camulodunum to here. We’d have seen them by now if they were coming.”
“Maybe.”
The silence settled whitely about them. Stone whined and dug without purpose at the drift, feeling the ache of danger and not knowing the cause. The wind blew from the west, sifting snow thinly across the dead traitor.
Breaca said, “If they’re coming, there’s nothing we can do, but meet them and hope to die cleanly. If they are not, then we have time to find out if this man had others sworn to his cause and if they may yet be halted.”
Fine snow had almost re-covered the corpse. With blunted fingers, she sprang the armband away from the elbow, then unhooked the broken knife from the belt. “I’ll remake the knife. It’s time I opened the smithy again. His family can have the armband. If they thought to follow his lead, it might give them cause to reconsider.”
“And ’Tagos?” Cunomar watched her, smiling faintly. Cold carved ten years into his features. “He ordered him killed and didn’t tell us.”
“I know.” That thought had been growing since Breaca had first understood what Stone had uncovered. Standing, she said, “’Tagos will certainly have cause to reconsider.”
“I don’t know if he got through. Gaius and Titus believe not, but it was dark and snowing and they did not take the time to question him fully.”
“And you chose not to tell me.” Breaca was coldly angry, each word an accusation. She stood in the doorway to ’Tagos’ inner chamber, making the most of the light. After the crisp dazzle of the snow, the lamplit gloom was more dank than she could bear.
’Tagos kept away from her, in the farthest corner. Through the entirety of winter, he had not seen the measure of her anger, nor learned to fear it.
“What would you have done? Gone back for your swords and launched an attack on Camulodunum with three warriors, a singer and a boy who has not yet learned that courage is not all about loud words and unchecked action? I thought you best protected from the knowledge. There was no need for both of us to live in fear.” He took refuge in righteous indignation, which was not new. Livid patches flared widely beneath his eyes, shadows of a deeper dread.
Breaca pressed her palm to the doorpost, crushing the flesh to white. The post was solid and would not give and the resistance afforded her some release so that she could think through to the things that mattered.
She said, “You gave your oath in front of Lanis’ council that there was not a single Eceni who so hated the people that they would betray us. This man stood less than a spear’s length to your left as you swore it. He spoke just before you did. He saw you, he heard you, he knew you. I fail to believe that you didn’t know him equally.”
“Then you believe me a liar.”
“I am waiting to hear that you are not.”
“Gods, Breaca …” ’Tagos’ voice cracked and he swung round, towards the coffers on the far wall. Breaca stepped forward, blocking his way. The wine, which had been his target, lay behind her, inaccessible. He hissed through his teeth and turned back again. His left hand gripped hard around the stump of his lost arm.
Facts fell out of him, trimmed short by fear and the need to prove his own honour.
“The dead man’s name was Setanos. He was a warrior of the northern Eceni, wounded at the battle of the Salmon Trap, that Dubornos led. He lost friends and family in the battle—we all did and did not turn traitor for it—but he lost the mother of his children afterwards when the legions visited their reprisals on the villages and he was away, still caught in the retreat from the battle. She was with child again and so could not fight and he was not there to die with her or to save her, as his honour required. He hates himself and so hates Rome, but he hates Dubornos more and you through him. He has waited ten years for the chance to visit vengeance on you both. I knew none of this when I spoke at the gathering, I swear it.”
“But you found out and chose not to tell me.”
’Tagos spun round, his eyes over-bright in the lamplight. “I made a mistake. I took action to rectify it and, no, I did not find it necessary to tell you. Would you have done differently?” His eyes glanced to her and away again, unable to sustain a meeting.
He did not want her pity; winter had taught her that, but even through the ebb tide of her rage, she pitied him and could not change it. He was a sapling hound and did not know how to be otherwise in her presence. Leaning back on a wall where her features were less visible, she sought calm and found it in the memory of the dead man’s face.
“Was Setanos alone in his hatred?” she asked.
“No. They were four in all: a cousin who was half-sister to the woman who died and two brothers who lost their village to the Romans at the time of the reprisals.”
“Where are the others now?”
’Tagos snorted. “Dead, of course. I may be stupid but I am not suicidal. You may believe that a slow death at Roman hands will seal your place in the winter songs—your son certainly does—but I would prefer to hear mine sung with living ears. Gaius and Titus killed the other three as they killed this one. He was the last. The bodies will be found when the snow thaws. If we’re lucky, the wolves and carrion birds will have stripped them to bone and none need know how they died.”
Breaca said, “Their families will know. Four warriors went out with a common purpose and none came home. Those who remain behind will have been waiting for something like this.”
“And that’s what will stop them from sending anyone else.” ’Tagos grinned, thinly. “It’s a lesson well learned from Rome: gold and gifts may buy promises, but the stench of death buys fear, which lasts longer. We have to pray that it weighs against the passion that calls for revenge.”
He believed it, or wanted her to think that he did. Breaca found that she needed to breathe fresher air. Outside, Graine had found Stone and was playing with him. Cunomar was nearby with Eneit, practising their mock battles with an energy that sent their voices high over the raucous reunion of child and hound. If she wanted to build an army, she had two at least with the heart for it; they only need be armed and taught how to fight without dying.
She said, “If you find it useful, you may pray that fear outweighs the need for vengeance in the hearts of our people. I am going to build a forge to make the spears to arm those warriors I can find, in the fervent hope that it does not.”
“And if the legions come?”
“If the legions come, those of us who can will fight them and die, as we always would.”
The legions did not come. Over the days of waiting, Breaca built her new forge as her father had done, of stone and with sods of turf as a roof that could be kept damp through the dry days of summer. She had planned it through winter; collecting the stones and the work of building took less than five days, each spent with one eye on the building and one to the south where Cygfa and Ardacos, Cunomar and Dubornos kept watch, with a signal fire to be lit with white smoke if they saw the legions marching up the trackway.
There was no white smoke. The snow melted from the trackway and still the only incomers were a pair of salt and iron traders from the south-west who asked gold in payment when once they had wanted corn and hounds and worked metal. Gold could not be eaten; the chests of the Eceni king were still full of it while his granaries were empty.
Breaca paid for iron with ’Tagos’ gold and promised him a profit on it. At the forge, Cunomar and Eneit gathered wood for the fires and she promised them spears in payment. Lanis took her to a place a day’s ride away where ash and yew had been set to grow straight, with poles on either side, so that their boughs would make spear hafts. Lanis asked no payment, only that the legions be driven from the land quickly.
Half a month after Stone dug from the snow the body of the traitor, Breaca slipped a leather apron over her head and tied it at the sides as part of the small, private ritual that her father
had taught her that culminated in lighting the furnace of her forge. A small fire blossomed, fed by chips of apple wood and pine cones, dry straw and the tail hairs of a brood mare heavy in foal.
Aired by new, stiff-jointed bellows, the fire grew to eat twigs and then whole logs. In time, it took charcoal and burned at its heart the colour of the noon sun. The iron that Breaca laid in the centre grew waxen and white and, with some work, took on the shape of a spear-head.
Over the rest of that month, the smells of scalding metal and burning leather, of charcoal and smoke, of sweat and blood and spit replaced the damp, earthen smells of stone and turf. The pile of raw iron at the back of the Boudica’s forge became, increasingly, a pile of spear-heads, awaiting their hafts and their warriors.
“Can you hear them sing?”
“What?”
“The spears. Can you hear them sing?” Breaca asked it of Graine one afternoon in the height of spring, as they sat alone together in the forge.
This once, the fires were cool; of Breaca’s two projects, neither needed heat and Graine’s carving had never done so. They had discovered early that the Boudica’s daughter, although she would never be a warrior, had a facility for carving onto the spear-hafts shapes and designs that were called from the wood and her own dreaming. She had gone with Lanis into the forest to cut the straight-formed boughs and, later, when she had been given a knife to shape one to fit the neck of a blade, she had instead carved the shape of a running hare along the length, with spirals and small circles that wove with the knots and contours of the wood so that, when the two were fitted together, the match with the dream-lines on the metal had been perfect.
Mother and daughter had worked together daily after that. From spears, they had begun work on the short, single-edged skinning knives that were the only other weapons permitted under Roman law. Breaca had made the blades and Graine had carved in wax and wood shapes of dream marks to be cast in copper or bronze for the pommel of each. In the last two days, they had begun work together on a larger project: the creation in gold of an armband for ’Tagos, that he might appear more clearly a king when the spring’s round of tribal delegations met the governor at Camulodunum.
