by Manda Scott
He was not a man used to pleading, the rustiness of his language said so, adding to the evident pain of losing his brooch as Breaca reached to take the salmon from his unwilling fingers.
“Thank you.” It was Caledonian, well fashioned and with a power of its own. She tossed it high, leaping silver in the watery light, and caught it one-handed. The flicker and flash and the suddenness of her reach upset the remaining horses. She saluted the slaver, using the Roman form, loading it with irony. “I am overwhelmed. Anything held in such deep affection speaks greatly of the bearer. Come midwinter, the gods will take kindly to such a gift.”
The slaver knew enough of Eceni rites to see where she led; in his mind, he saw her cast his jewelled fish into the waters of the gods’ pool, where no mortal man might find it again. Of all possibilities, that one had not occurred to him. She watched the pits of his eyes grow large and small again. If they had been in battle, he would have struck for her then, aiming to kill.
They were not in battle and Philus, former fish-bearer, had his eye set on the greater game. He forced a smile and put his closed fist over his heart, where the brooch had been. “I am honoured, as will be those who made the fish when I tell them of your gift.”
He let his horse move at last, so that it spun on its hocks and kicked away from her. His parting words were shouted over his shoulder, muffled by the thunder of his retinue, “My lady, I await the day of our next meeting. May it be soon.”
Breaca was laughing, weakly, for relief and the look on Philus’ face when she took the fish badge, and the sudden release of terror. The world was lighter than it had been, with flashes of bright white at the margins of her vision and a reddening tunnel lined with night in the centre. She felt a small, cool hand press into her own and a thumb grind on her knuckle. Graine hissed at her, in the voice of the elder grandmother. “They’re watching. Stay awake. You can’t fall now.”
“I wasn’t going to fall.”
“I think you were. Your daughter is wiser than you know.” ’Tagos came to stand on her other side, completing the family. Between them, he and Graine held Breaca upright, while appearing to lean on her for support.
They stood like that, bonded in their need, until the last of the slavers’ horses was too small to be seen. Graine stepped away first. “The elder grandmother wishes you well,” she said.
Breaca pressed her palms to her eyes. The grit of the lime paint ground into her skin and did nothing to help her wake up. Slurring for lack of sleep, she said, “Thank her for me. I’ll do it myself later. For now, I need to wash and then to sleep.”
’Tagos caught at her arm. With an oddly brittle formality, he said, “My bed is ready. I would be honoured if you would use it.”
She was sleeping already, clearly, and falling into disordered dreams. ’Tagos had not shared her bed since the end of Breaca’s first winter in his steading. She slept in her own bed, in Airmid’s hut on the western side of the compound. The prospect of falling into that bed, in that room, in that company, had sustained her through the last half-day of the elder council’s deliberating.
She stared now at ’Tagos. He seemed sober, which surprised her. His eyes were open and dark and met hers without flinching. It occurred to her she might still be awake, and that the world, therefore, was not as she had left it. She said, “I don’t think I heard you correctly.”
“I think you did. I am inviting you to sleep in my room, which was once also yours. Only to sleep. Please. This time it matters.”
Graine said, “Airmid is with a woman of the Trinovantes who gave birth three days ago and has milk fever. She will not return before tonight. Her fire is banked low and the hut’s cold.”
“Is it?” Dawn had broken but the rising sun had not yet penetrated the cloud. If anything, the morning was colder than the night had been. Breaca was shivering and had not noticed. Frost bit at her feet. The air smelled of snow and storms.
’Tagos waited. He, too, needed to be moving. The tips of his ears were blue with cold and distress. For no better reason than that, Breaca made her decision. “Is your fire lit?” she asked.
“Of course. Built high and hot.”
“Then I accept your offer. Thank you.”
’Tagos’ room had changed since she was in it last. The coin chests were gone, all bar one, and the ornaments that had lain on them. A sword hung above the bed; not one of hers, but well made. The iron lay pale against the smoked wood of the wall and a vixen’s mask had been worked in bronze on the pommel. She had not known ’Tagos still owned any blade, nor that he would dare to display it. The Roman ban on weapons was absolute and the penalty the same for a king as it had been for Eneit, a thirteen-year-old boy caught at a grave mound with a sword he did not know how to use.
She ran a finger across the edge to test the honing and found it battle-sharp. “Did the governor give you dispensation to own this?”
“No. The governor is locked in the west planning his attack on Mona for the spring. Three cohorts of legionaries from the Rhine will overwinter at Camulodunum and when they march to join him, the attack will begin. I don’t think whoever he has left in charge will venture north to see us, but if anyone comes, we will hear of it and I will take it down as I did when Philus was in here.”
“And put it back up again straight after. I see.”
Breaca sat heavily on the bed. She needed to sleep and she needed to think clearly and she could not do both at once. A window faced her, imperfectly covered. Daylight leaked through the thinning deer hide and splashed on the single wooden chest pushed against the wall. For no better reason than it was there, she kicked it. Emptiness rang through the room. ’Tagos flinched. With the fire hurling heat all around, his face was pinched and white.
He said, “That’s the first reason why I needed you here. I am no longer a rich man. We have to talk.”
Sleep mattered less than it had done. Breaca stood up and leaned against the wall beneath the sword. “Tell me.”
’Tagos had the thoughts prepared, but not the words. His tongue was knotted and his throat too tight. He said, “Philus takes his orders from Decianus Catus, the procurator of taxes who unveiled the old governor’s memorial in the spring. Catus has a reputation for being harder and more brutal than any of his predecessors. And he has a wider remit: in addition to tax collection, this procurator has been ordered to recall the loans given by Claudius and Seneca to the eastern tribes at the time of the invasion.”
“What, all of them? The full amount? I thought it was to be repaid over decades.”
“So did I. So, I think, did Claudius when he lent it, but Nero is different. His exact orders to the procurator were to “drain the lifeblood from Britannia.” They will take our gold, our corn, our cattle, our horses, our hounds. When we have nothing more to give, they will take us: the Eceni, the Trinovantes, the Coritani, the Catuvellauni—any man, woman or child who can walk and eat and be broken into slavery will be sold at profit in the markets of Rome. The rest they will kill.” The words came more smoothly now, drawn by their own momentum. In case there were any doubt, he lifted the lid of his single remaining coffer and kicked it onto its side. It was entirely empty.
… drain the lifeblood … Breaca stared into the flames. A dead standard-bearer saluted her from their depths. The ancestor-dreamer nodded and said nothing.
“Why has it come to this now?” Breaca asked.
“Philus has no idea. He doesn’t care. His business is profit and we have become a source of it. Airmid has met with the physician from Athens, though, and he cares a great deal.”
“Theophilus? What did he say?”
“That Nero tires of the adventure that is Britannia. That the cost is greater than the benefit. That, of Rome’s eleven legions, four are bogged down here and there is not one man amongst them who does not wish himself elsewhere. They die in their thousands in the wars in the west for no benefit and the emperor’s advisers believe they should return to Rome. The governor was sent to sub
due the west, or die in the attempt. Many believe he will die and those who rushed to give loans after the invasion expecting interest and profit are regretting their haste.”
The fire was too hot and the room lacked air. Breaca pressed her shoulders into the wall, seeking support for more than her body alone. From the measured mess of ’Tagos’ words, one sentence emerged.
… the emperor’s advisers believe they should return to Rome.
“Nero is thinking of recalling the legions from Britannia? Are you serious?”
“So Philus says, and he has no reason to lie. If the governor fails to subdue the west, every legionary and auxiliary cavalryman will have been recalled by next winter. But we may all be dead by then. They say, ‘Dead men pay no taxes’—that’s why we have lived so far. When there are no more taxes to be collected, they have no reason to leave us alive.”
“Did Philus say that, too?”
“No. That was Theophilus. He is one who will leave willingly, and not because he fears us.”
“Theophilus wouldn’t be here at all if he could leave with any honour.” Breaca ran a hand through her hair. Flakes of white lime paint made grit between her fingers. “You said that was the first reason you needed me here. What else is there?”
’Tagos moved closer to the fire. Red light coloured his skin and hair equally. He was a man consumed as Breaca had never seen him. He stared into the flames. Presently, without turning back, he said, “Philus sought my permission to trade in Eceni territory. The asking was a fiction; he has the permission—the orders—of the emperor to make as much profit as he can, he needs no word from me. As a test, he made me an offer. If I were to sell him Graine and Cygfa, he would write off our debt—the entire taxes of the Eceni nation, plus the loans from Claudius. Two children, even one a warrior, for more gold than either of us has ever seen.”
She could have killed him then, quite easily. The oath so easily sworn to the elders in the great-house taunted her. His death will never be my doing. She had not thought to add, “Unless he sells my daughter into slavery, in which case his death will take the days of her life and he will regret every one of them.”
Holding fast to her anger, she said, “Did you tell him you would die on the blades of your people did you even consider it?”
“No.” He turned and his smile was crooked, bouncing back on itself. “I told him I would die by my own hand before I ever considered it. Do you really think I would have sold them? They may not be of my blood, but I care for them as if they were, and even if I hated the sight of them I am not so wedded to Rome that I believe anyone, child or adult, can be bought for gold. I don’t dream as Airmid does, even as you do, but the gods speak to me in their fashion and they would never speak again if I had allowed that.”
“Except that Philus knows you can’t stop him.”
“Exactly. He won’t take Graine and Cygfa now, but he will in the spring. Even now, he may decide to ‘collect merchandise’ from some of the smaller steadings as he returns to Camulodunum, knowing we can’t stop him.”
’Tagos’ skin was the colour of iron, grey and polished with sweat. Every part him craved wine. Breaca watched him meet the need and deny it. He pulled a dry log from the pile at the hearth and sat on it, wrapping his one arm around his knees. Speaking to the wall where his sword hung above her head, he said, “I’m sorry. We should have raised an army when you first came. We would have died, but we would not have to watch as they bleed us dry.”
’Tagos stands against us. She had said that to the elders, believing it.
Less certain now, she said, “Cunomar and Ardacos are leading forty-nine warriors of the Eceni in a bear dancing. By midnight, we will have forty-nine new she-bears, the first of the Eceni, after Cunomar, to be so. With them, we could take on Philus now and kill him. Would you support that?”
He stared down at his one hand, crossed over his chest, holding the stump of the other. “You forget that Philus has protection of the procurator. Rome knows he’s here. If he fails to return, the legions will fall on us as they did in Scapula’s time.” He raised his head. Horror and the memories of it showed on his face. “You weren’t here then. You didn’t see the slaughter of Roman reprisals; the men and women hanged in rings around their steadings, with their children dead at their feet, all for the loss of a single legionary, for a stone thrown at an auxiliary. And Cygfa and Graine will be enslaved. Philus knows we value them; he will see that we know it as we die. If we fight, we will lose. Would you have me support that?”
Breaca said, “If they are coming anyway, then yes, I would. Better to fight than to stand back and watch them bleed us white. And there is a chance we may win. It’s already snowing; the legions won’t leave their forts now. The gods have given us a winter to prepare and we will use it. The elders have gone home to find warriors with heart who may join us. If they find only ten each, we will have a thousand. If each of that thousand has the courage of Cunomar’s new she-bears then, at the very least, we will give the legions something by which to remember us.”
“Cunomar has grown to be worthy of his father, then?”
“It would seem so. Certainly he has … the makings of a good leader.” She had been going to say that he had Caradoc’s sway over those who followed him, and an added fire, but compassion stopped her.
’Tagos smiled, thinly. He looked as tired as she felt. “You must be proud of your son. He’s a credit to his parents.”
The pain in his voice cut through the clutter of half-hopes. Breaca wiped a hand across her eyes and looked at him properly for the first time in her life. For the first time in both their lives, ’Tagos met her gaze equally; a man driven to the edge of his being.
That edge was where she lived and he had never been. They faced each other across the room; the warrior and the never-warrior, mother and never-father, beloved and lover, but never loved.
’Tagos picked at the edge of his sleeve. “I don’t hate Caradoc,” he said presently. “I never have done. I just wanted to be like him. Or to be him. If the dreamers had a way to change one man into the body of another, I would have traded places with Caradoc any day of our lives. Even now, when he is crippled and exiled in Gaul, I would do it, to have sired the children he has. His daughters shine as the sun and the moon, a warrior and a dreamer to cheer the singers for generations. It seems his son also is everything a man could ask for.”
They were not so far apart. Breaca reached a hand for his one arm and gripped it, briefly. “Cunomar will be a credit to you, also. If he leads the warriors in the battles against Rome, it will be as your son that he is known to them.”
They were speaking with an honesty they had never found before. ’Tagos rubbed his hand across his eyes and they were red, not only from the smoke and the night with little sleep.
Breaca said, “You do not have to live as if only a child could be your life’s memorial. You are young; the loss of an arm is not the greatest loss. There is much you could do still and through winter we could plan that. It is not certain that we will die in spring. If the governor takes all the troops from Camulodunum, the veterans will not hold it alone, and if we take the city the Trinovantes will join us in rebellion. Mona’s havoc could be our gain.” She tried to smile and could not make her mouth move properly. The ancestor-dreamer hovered close by, and the ghost of a slain standard-bearer. Fighting to see past them, she said, “Even if we die in the first battle, death is not an ending. Ask the elder grandmother.”
“If I knew how, I might do that, but—Breaca!” He had hold of her shoulder, which was surprising given how far away he had been. “Don’t fall into the fire!” His face was very close indeed, and concerned. “How long is it since you slept?”
“Three days? Four, I think. There were rites before the warrior-trials that must be honoured.”
“And no food for them either. You, too, do not have to prove yourself through the trials of your children.”
He sounded amused and worried together. Breaca tr
ied to decide if she was being patronized and could not. She felt him lay her down on the bed and undress her and slide her under the sleeping-hides and did not flinch when he kissed her, chastely, on one cheek.
’Tagos had had the makings of a hero once. If Caradoc had not come to them, he would have shone amongst the warriors of the Eceni. The fire coloured him gold, meeting the daylight through the half-hidden window.
He bowed, drawing away, speaking softly. His words came thickly, through veils of sleep. “If I knew how to speak to the dead, I would ask of the ancestors much of the lands beyond life. I can’t, but am grateful that you can and that you bring back what you see. Sleep well. There are battles to be fought that need you to lead them. You have a winter to raise your war host. In the spring, you can march to war.”
“If Philus has not taken our children into slavery and slain us as we sleep.”
“He won’t. I give you my word on it.”
CHAPTER 26
“WHEN DID ’TAGOS LEAVE?”
“Not long after the snow started. It was still light then.”
Breaca stood in swirling semi-dark. Flaring pine resin brands lit the ragged end of a blizzard. The worst had passed over as she slept, leaving snow to the height of her ankles; not too deep to ride or run, but enough to hide the gaps and ruts in the tracks and to make the going treacherous for fast horses.
Airmid, Cygfa and the singer Dubornos stood in an arc around her, protection against the worst of the wind. Dark hair, corn gold and red tangled in a line, made bright by the torchlight. They were tired, all three of them, as if the time between ’Tagos’ leaving and their waking of the Boudica had been difficult and nothing had yet been resolved.
Breaca made herself step beyond their shelter. Cold, hard air embraced her, so that she could lean back against it and not fall. Her hair flew east, the way ’Tagos had gone.
