The Eagle and the Raven

by Pauline Gedge

  Now at last the gap lay below them, bottomed by the river that flowed turgid and deep, already full of the shadows of the evening, though the sun still filtered golden through the dark holly leaves, and between the watchers and the innocent, tree-lined banks the soldiers waited.

  Caradoc looked down. Scapula had beaten them.

  “We must go back,” Caelte whispered. “We can cross farther south,” but Caradoc did not reply.

  Farther south there was a fort, and the valley leading out of the west was broad and full of villages. Besides, there was no going back. The forests were full of patrols. He lay very still, eyes closed, thinking. The men below were not regular soldiers. They were auxiliaries, men from Thrace or Gaul, skilled in tracking, able to flit through the woods like silent deer. They were his blood cousins, Caradoc knew, but he knew also that they could not be bribed. Although they looked out at the world through eyes as blue as Eurgain’s, they were Roman to the heart, taken from their tuaths as children, and they hunted him relentlessly, as an enemy. He tore his thoughts from his wife, opened his eyes, and looked at Caelte.

  “It must be this way,” he said, “and it must be tonight. If we wait another day we will be caught. The patrols are already too close behind us. The moon is waning and there are clouds in the east so perhaps the night will be dark enough for us to get across the river without being seen.”

  “We do not know the fords,” Caelte objected, “and of course we would not be seen. But we might be heard. We need Bran here, to put a holding spell on the soldiers.”

  Caradoc pointed. “We can work our way along the gorge and cross there, where the trees are thickest. There will be a sentry or two, but we will be just two more shadows. Now we must sleep. You first, Caelte.”

  His bard did not argue. He curled himself into a ball like a fox and was almost instantly asleep, but even in his unconsciousness there was a quality of watchfulness. Caradoc lay beside him, eyes on the kindly face and grieving at the empty grasses on his right hand, where Cinnamus’s warm body should have been pressed. Resolutely, he warded off any thought of his family. Each one of us is alone now, he told himself. Living or dead, we can do no more for each other. The golden light faded to pale rose and in the dimness Caradoc lay with his shieldbearer’s sword against him, and mourned.

  Just after the moon was up they rose, bundled their cloaks under their belts, and set off. The valley floor was quiet as they slipped like wraiths back under the night-hung trees and slunk west to where the descent was more precipitous and the rocks would give them shelter. In an hour they found the edge again and cautiously lowered themselves over, feeling immediately exposed to the sentries who paced slowly beneath them, their boots crunching audibly on the loose stones. They inched from rock to shadowed rock, holding their breath, testing each foothold for fear they might send gravel rattling to the floor, not glancing down for fear the moon might glitter in their eyes.

  At last they crouched together at the foot, peering along to where the little tents squatted. All was quiet. Only the sentries stalked, three moving up and down before the camp, six covering the river. The clump of trees directly ahead of the two men stood still and calm, a haven of shadows, but both knew that concealed in the depths more sentries waited, hands to their gladiae, eyes nervously straining.

  Caradoc patted his chest and Caelte nodded. They lay on their bellies and began to slither over the rock-pitted ground, slumping into an inert stillness every now and then to press their ears to the earth. The trees drew nearer, became willows and vines, and Caradoc’s sharp eyes picked a short, upright trunk that he was sure was not a tree. Caradoc rolled silently away, and Caelte followed.

  The clouds had not floated in to cover the moon but clung stubbornly to the east, and moonlight brimmed the valley, spilling out aloof and peaceful to bathe the river. At last the fugitives felt moss and stiff ferns under their hands and the warm tree shadows danced on their backs.

  There must be another sentry, Caradoc thought anxiously. Where is he? They were within hearing of the soldier who stood stolidly off to their left, and before they moved they carefully cleared the way of twigs and last year’s still-crisp leaves, and while they worked, patiently and slowly, the moon reached its zenith and began to swing west. Caradoc saw a glint of light on water ahead of him. It was the river at last, but between himself and the water there was another shadow, tall, helmeted, and he knew that there was no longer time to find a way around. He cursed violently to himself, motioned for Caelte to lie still, and rose into a crouch, not knowing in the snug darkness whether the man was facing them or the river. He stepped forward, softly drew his knife, then sprang, one hand cupping hard against the sentry’s chin to force it up into his shoulder, the other going for the exposed throat. The man had been looking across the water and it was a simple matter to drive the blade home behind his ear. He sagged in Caradoc’s arms with scarcely a gurgle but the quick scuffle had been heard, and as Caelte glided past Caradoc and on into the river the other sentry called, “Did you hear something?”

  Caradoc lowered the body to the ground, wiped his knife on the grass, and tucked it back in his belt.

  “It was nothing,” he answered, the Latin coming hard to his tongue after so many years. “A squirrel, that was all.” The other man grunted, and Caradoc went after Caelte, dropping quietly into the cool, dark water. He was immediately out of his depth and before he had adjusted to his stroke, the current had carried him several yards downstream, but he took a full breath, sank beneath the murky surface, and battled grimly to the other side. As he dragged himself free of the weeds’ slimy grip Caelte was waiting for him, and without pausing to wring out their clothes they fell to the earth once more, wriggling quickly into the covering darkness of the wooded slope beyond.

  All night they pushed on through dense trees choked in old, half-rotten underbrush, and when dawn came and they could go no farther they fed on the tight-curled tendrils of young ferns and the rabbit meat they had saved. Then they slept together, pressed uncomfortably into the heart of a giant bramble. Their sense of urgency had diminished with the crossing of the river. They were out of Scapula’s net now, and though the whole of Brigantia crawled with Romans, they were not actively seeking Caradoc, and he and Caelte had a good chance to pass themselves off as peasants when they came to the treeless, rolling country where Aricia’s people herded their flocks. Caradoc thought briefly of her while sleep lapped at him, but he was too tired for the memories to do anything but fill him with a warmth of poignancy. He wondered where Venutius was. If he was with her, then they were running from danger into danger, but if, as his spies had told him, Venutius was once again in the far north with his chiefs, a new campaign could begin, perhaps next spring. The prospect was appalling. It filled him with despair. But he knew with a dull, tired stubbornness that it must come, that either he must die or Claudius must give in, for he was still arviragus, and could not lay aside his responsibility. He slept fitfully, uneasily, while the hot summer sun strode proudly across the sky, and far away Scapula waited for word from his auxiliaries camped by the river, looking for the wild boar that had already gored through the net and was gone.

  In two days they came to a village and Caradoc decided reluctantly that here they must seek proper food and try to glean such information as they could. He took off his gold torc and the magic egg from around his neck, thrusting them deep inside his tunic, and he and Caelte walked slowly down into the circle of wattle huts. The village was quiet. Smoke rose from the roofs, dogs yawned and panted in the thin shade of the palisade, and one or two near-naked children played desultorily in the shallows of the stream that meandered tiredly out of the trees. In the center was the Council hut, a stone wall around it, and the travelers reached it before they were challenged. Then a tall, gold-bearded chief rose from the shadow of the gate and barred their way.

  “Greetings,” he said curiously. “Welcome to this village. There is meat and bread if you are hungry, but first you must te
ll me who you are.”

  “We are Cornovii,” Caelte replied. “We are seeking a chief who will take us as his freemen, for the men of the west have burned our land and our lord is dead.” The man’s sharp eyes strayed to the swords hanging from their belts, and seeing his furtive glance Caradoc cursed himself. The swords should have been left in some safe, secret place, for most of the Cornovii and the Brigantians now went weaponless at Scapula’s command, but all he had thought of was hot meat and perhaps a jug of frothing mead. He had not been so careless in a long time.

  “Explain your swords,” the chief said, an edge of suspicion to his tone, and Caelte hastened to assure him that they were booty, captured in the raid from which they had fled. But Caradoc could see that the man was not convinced and he wished now that they could turn and walk away, for he smelt fine mists of conjecture in the air that at any moment could condense to certainty.

  “Remove them and leave them against the wall,” the chief said curtly. “They will not be disturbed.” He watched while they unbuckled their belts. Already several more chiefs were sauntering over, and as Caradoc followed the first man into the cool gloom of the hut he heard one of them say, “Look at this scabbard! Not western craftsmanship, I swear, and not Roman either. What do you think it is worth?” He hesitated, almost goaded into speech, but swung on his heel and turned to the chief who was waiting for him.

  “Now I know where you are from,” the chief said quietly. “I did not think that any man of the west could be so foolish. Sit and eat quickly now and then be on your way, for many of these people are in the pay of Rome and you are fortunate that I am not. Do not tell me your names. I do not want to know them.” Caradoc and Caelte stretched out on the dirt floor, backs to the curving wall, and the man brought them hot, roasted mutton, apples, stale bread, and jugs of beer. He squatted before them, his level eyes searching their faces as they wolfed down the food. He seemed to be struggling with himself. Several times he opened his mouth as if to speak then closed it again, but finally he sat, crossed his green-clad legs, and said softly, “If you seek Venutius then you must hurry. He is on his way from the north, back to the lady, and if you do not intercept him you might as well go back into the west. I cannot shelter you here, it is too dangerous for me and the freemen who are loyal to Venutius. Eat and go. Perhaps Brigantia the High One will give you luck.”

  Caradoc could not resist a question. “Is there any news of the legions?” he asked. The man looked at him for a long time before replying. Then he nodded. “The arviragus has disappeared,” he said, his eyes lighting for a moment then dying, “and Scapula is taking his revenge on the Silures. He has ordered them wiped out, and already his soldiers range to and fro, killing the children and the old because they cannot find the warriors. Villages and crops are in flames.”

  I have done this, Caradoc thought, the meat turning to dust in his mouth. Perhaps the time has come to surrender myself even as Vercingetorix did, throwing myself on the mercy of Claudius in exchange for the safety of the people. But Madoc’s face rose up before his eyes, and Bran’s, and Emrys and Sine stood side by side to watch him with cold resolution. Freedom or death, arviragus. There is no compromise, and the mercy of Rome is like the adder’s sting. He swallowed his mouthful with difficulty and picked up the beer. Where are you, Eurgain? Llyn?

  “There was a report of prisoners taken,” the chief went on. “But the news is very fresh and may not be truth. I pity the captives Scapula takes.” Suddenly he leaned forward and spoke in an undertone. “Do me a courtesy, men of the west.”

  “We will,” Caradoc replied, “if it is in our power.”

  “If you do not find Venutius, if you turn once more to fight in the west, if you should chance to meet the arviragus, will you tell him…” The lips shook, and the man looked down to hide his face. “Tell him that there are those in Brigantia who may be silent but who are not dishonored, and he is not alone.”

  “I think he knows that already,” Caradoc said gently, “but if it should chance that he does not, then it will gladden his heart to be brought such words.” He rose, Caelte beside him, thanked the chief, and left the hut. They picked up the swords and shouldered their way roughly through the gathering, walking swiftly to the edge of the village, taking care not to betray their urge to break and run from the hostile eyes fastened like leeches onto their backs.

  They paced steadily for an hour, and once they were free of the village they relaxed. While the sun blazed overhead and the afternoon seemed to stretch interminably they traversed the last great forest before the long, gray-grassed horizons of Aricia’s tuath, stopping often to drink from the cool, leaf-hung streams that splashed under the oaks. When the sun began to wester they rested, waiting for darkness to give them the cover the woods could not. They had just settled themselves beside a freshet and had taken off their soft leather sandals in order to soak their tired feet when Caradoc held up a warning hand and Caelte froze. Behind them, under the trees, came a soft rustling. They rose and drew their swords quietly, incredulous that here, at the last, they had been discovered, but it was not a Roman who pushed through the undergrowth with hands raised, it was a Brigantian chief.

  “Peace, peace,” he said hastily. “Put up your swords. I am unarmed.”

  Caradoc nodded at Caelte and the bard went to the man, removed his cloak, and quickly ran his hands over the short, chunky body. “His hair,” Caradoc snapped, and Caelte felt among the tangled black tresses. Finally he was satisfied and stepped back, and Caradoc sheathed his sword. “So you have been tracking us,” he said briskly. “Why?” He did not like the look of the man. There was something shifty in the face that reminded him of Sholto, and the black eyes would not meet his own.

  “My lord set me to follow you,” he explained. “He repented that he had not given you directions, and he asked me to guide you to Venutius.”

  Caradoc motioned him nearer. “We do not wish a guide,” he said. “We prefer to travel alone. Go back and thank your lord for us.”

  “But without a guide you will not find Venutius before he returns to his lady in the town, and then you will not be able to see him, for the town is full of soldiers and traders.”

  “It is truth, Lord,” Caelte said promptly. “We could wander over the trackless hills for days, and miss Venutius.”

  Caradoc beckoned him close and whispered, “I do not like the look of him, Caelte. I do not think he is a truth-sayer.”

  “Lord,” Caelte hissed back, “we need a Druid to discover whether or not that is right and, besides, many of the people under the thumb of Rome have acquired the same look, for they are often forced into lies. The spies have it, yet they are loyal freemen.”

  “Yes, yes, I know, but there is a foul smell here. If I am wrong and yet refuse his aid, we are making a fruitless journey. If I am right and yet we go with him, he may lead us to a dark fate.” He cast himself upon the ground, drew his cloak about him, and sat thinking.

  The Brigantian watched him, impatience betrayed in the spasmodic clenching and unclenching of his hands, and Caelte watched the Brigantian with open mistrust.

  Finally Caradoc stood. “I am loathe to put myself in your hands,” he said heavily, “yet I must. It seems that time is running out for me, therefore I will go with you. May you guide us well!”

  Caelte, his eyes on the man’s round face, thought he saw a flash of satisfaction that was almost greed, then the chief nodded.

  “I will guide you well, in exchange for your protection as long as I am with you. Will you share food and favor with me?”

  “I will.”

  “And I.”

  “Then we will wait together for the night.” He sat down in the grass and laced his naked fingers together, and Caradoc and Caelte put on their sandals. Their feet no longer ached as heavily as their hearts.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  FOR another three nights they journeyed, leaving the safe, dense woodland far behind. The two Catuvellauni hated the open coun
try they now trudged across like wingless moths, exposed to the sweeping hot winds that flowed over the long grass and made it undulate like sea waves, and when they camped under the knots of stunted trees that sheltered in the valleys they were always reluctant to leave. Night after night the waxing moon hung fat and bloated above a vast, clean horizon, watching them complacently as they inched over the hills. The Brigantian urged them on. Hurry, he said, we will be too late, but they did not need his anxious whines to whip them on. With every step they were conscious that their fate lay waiting ahead of them. If they delayed it would contemptuously leave the meeting place and they would find only the impotent shreds of its capricious passing. They were oppressed by the landscape, by the long days of tension, by the silence that lay unfilled by any sound save the high calling of hawks. Sataida, Brigantia’s Goddess of Grief, seemed to permeate the very earth beneath them, and Caradoc began to see the miles behind him as huge stones, jagged and cruel, over which his wife tried to clamber after him, calling him with parched tongue. Once or twice they lay prone in the grass while a cavalry patrol cantered past, but they were not spotted and finally, toward midnight on their fourth day from the forest, they crested a long, slow-rising spur of land and saw lights below them.

  The chief pointed. “Venutius should be there.”

  “But that is a town!” Caradoc objected. “Venutius will be in an encampment.”

  The man clucked impatiently. “Why? When Brigantia is strewn with villages, why should he make a camp? I tell you he is there. We will go down.”

  Some sixth sense whispered a warning to Caradoc. Some old, long-forgotten memory stirred as he gazed down on the peaceful town. Was that the bulk of an earthwork in the center? The Brigantians did not erect earthwalls. But the man had already started down, Caelte after him, and Caradoc followed, his mind in confusion and his feet lagging. It was wrong, all wrong, it had been wrong ever since the accursed man had stepped out of the bush. He should have trusted his head, but it was too late. And really, he thought, I am almost too tired to care anymore.