The Dawn Stag: Book Two of the Dalriada Trilogy

by Jules Watson

  ‘Really? Will your people seek vengeance from us when they know who betrayed their own king? When they discover how you really sold them to the Romans? When they realize that their queen became a Roman whore?’

  Samana’s mouth twisted with bitterness, marring her beauty. ‘This was always about you and me, Rhiann, no matter what you say! You were always jealous of me, even on the Sacred Isle, and now you hate that Eremon wants me in his bed and by his side, and not you! You want to banish me, not because of your ideals but because you’re jealous, because I’m more queen and priestess and wife than you’ll ever be!’

  That last barb pierced Rhiann to her core, because the dark part of her believed it herself. And Samana’s priestess senses were not dulled beyond all recall; she saw the angry flinch, sprang after it like a hound on the hunt.

  ‘That’s right, isn’t it, Rhiann?’ She stumbled forward a step, and out of the corner of her eye Rhiann glimpsed Nectan moving closer. ‘You’re only half a woman, Rhiann, a broken half ! A man like Eremon needs a real woman, and this you’ll never be!’

  The shame that rose in Rhiann at these words turned instantly to rage – rage at herself, and at Samana, who taunted her with a twisted tangle of everything she did and did not want to be. Samana’s body exuded all that was lush, womanly, sexual, fertile. She had no memories of a dark king to douse her fire, or dull her passion. Yet the corruption that lay inside Samana made a mockery of all that her body promised, and even Rhiann’s growing fury did not cloud that sudden understanding.

  ‘And what are you, Samana?’ she cried at last. ‘A woman who uses sex as power? A woman who uses sex to abuse people and break them and make them betray themselves and others? Is this a real woman?’ She flicked her fingers at Samana’s torn and muddy dress, her wild hair.

  ‘A real woman,’ Samana spat, ‘loves her man with passion, but you have no passion! You are nothing but dry, barren and used up.’

  Each word was a lash, laying open Rhiann’s heart, and she forgot who looked on, flooded by all the fury and grief she had so carefully suppressed for moons. ‘Dry I may be, but I love Eremon in a way you never could, because you are consumed, Samana, with your own lust for power and selfish desires! Where is the space for love in that? How could you – a woman who does not know the meaning of respect, or honour, or truth – love anyone? You cannot give, Samana, you only take, take and take until there’s nothing left, and,’ Rhiann’s voice broke, ‘Eremon deserves more than you could begin to give. I may not be complete, but I am real. I have a heart, and I have given it to him!’

  Somewhere Rhiann was appalled at her loss of control, but the words sprang from a true place, and they found their target in Samana. The Votadini queen reared back as if she had been physically struck, and then screamed with frustration, her bound arms shaking as if to wrench themselves free. ‘A weakling like you is no match for such a man! Power is all there is, power is everything, and if you can’t see that, you little fool, then you’re stupid as well!’ Samana stamped her foot, her eyes feverish with madness. ‘I lead Agricola around by his balls – the leader of all Britannia, the commander of forty thousand men! – and he does anything I want him to! I control the men and so I am the power in this land! Who else could have thought of raiding the Isle? Who else had the power to make Agricola do it, besides me!’ She was screaming now. ‘I control him! He listens to me, and me only!’

  … raiding the Isle …

  ‘You?’ Rhiann stammered. ‘You?’

  A shadow fell over the walls, and Rhiann turned to see Fola walking slowly forwards, dazed, her eyes wide and fixed on Samana. The horror in her soft face was so raw it made Rhiann flinch. Yet it was Nectan who reacted, taking two strides to Samana’s side and striking her full across the face. Samana crumpled to the ground, pressing her jaw into her shoulder, as Nectan – calm, steady Nectan – stood there trembling violently, tears glittering on his cheeks.

  For a moment all of them were frozen. Rhiann’s mind reeled; she could not absorb what Samana had just confessed. Yet as the moment drew out, it was Samana who spoke first, panting as she smiled up at Rhiann. ‘Yes!’ she hissed. ‘I ordered the Romans to spill the blood of the Sisters, it was all me! So kill me for it, Rhiann, and be done with it! I no longer wish to look on your face.’

  Nectan raised his hand again, but Rhiann stepped forward and caught his wrist. ‘Peace,’ she stammered, her voice shaking. Tension quivered in Nectan’s arm, until he dropped it and turned away to the door, hiding his face.

  Samana was backed up against the hearth now, and she levered herself to her feet once more. ‘So what will it be, cousin? The sword? The dagger? I welcome both of them, if they will send me to the gods, to live among heroes who possess real courage, power and might.’

  Still Rhiann could only stare at Samana as if she had never seen her like before, as if she were some vile, unnatural animal that had been banished from the world in ages past.

  She killed the Sisters. She, a sworn priestess.

  Rhiann could not comprehend such a betrayal. Samana had broken sacred bread with the priestesses. She had sworn her undying oath to them as the Stones looked on. But more than that, they had given her love and understanding and refuge.

  Rhiann’s eyes closed, and behind her eyelids she saw the bright sun glittering on Roman spears, the descending sword, Nerida’s face. Samana killed them. She killed them. And those words, repeated over and over with the bloody pictures, at last penetrated Rhiann’s shock. Dark rage began to beat on her temples – all the rage of all the moons past. All the rage of years. The need to strike out reared in her; the need to hurt as she had been hurt. Her eyes jerked open.

  Samana saw her clenched fingers, and smiled. ‘Yes, Rhiann, give in to it and strike me down! Do it! I don’t care!’

  Rhiann stared at that wild cloud of dark hair, the honey skin, the sloe eyes that showed nothing but twisted triumph. If she had a blade in her hand, would she stab it into Samana’s breast, as Samana had pierced her own with grief ? She thought she would, as the red fog clouded her mind. She knew she would.

  Yet her training was strong, and instead she struggled to breathe first, to calm herself, because Nerida and Setana had taught her that. Breathe, she thought, as the room tilted around her. Goddess, breathe. The elder sisters were always calm, always gentle and wise. They would never strike or kill anyone. She had to be strong for them.

  It was then that the voice came, slipping softly into Rhiann’s heart.

  Sister … Daughter … The voice was no more than a stirring of the currents in Rhiann’s soul. Yet with its sudden, haunting cry, so the fog of her rage was arrested.

  Daughter. Goddess daughter.

  ‘No …’ Rhiann moaned. I hurt, I hurt and I must do something to release it…

  Abruptly, a wave of warmth swept Rhiann, smoothing the jagged edges of her anger. It surged and ebbed and surged again, growing greater each time, wrapping Rhiann’s body in a cocoon of vibration too low to be heard. Over her shoulder she heard Fola gasp, but it was not a gasp of pain or shock, and then Rhiann knew that Fola felt it, too.

  Suddenly dizzy, Rhiann closed her eyes, groping for the edge of the bench. And that was when the scene came back to her with true clarity, which her grief had veiled. Nerida stepping towards the soldier, her hands outstretched, smiling, as the blade rose above her. And Rhiann heard the words Nerida had spoken, even though she had not been close enough to hear that day. Come, I forgive you.

  ‘Come,’ Rhiann found herself whispering, as it caught in her throat. ‘I forgive you. I forgive you …’ And with the words came the feeling that Rhiann knew, right then, had flooded Nerida’s heart when she gazed upon that soldier’s sword, a sweet release, that was like nothing in Thisworld at all.

  Slowly, Rhiann groped for Fola’s arm and drew her forward to stand by her side. Fola’s face was transfigured, shining beneath the tears, and for an endless moment they stood wreathed together in that light.

  At lo
ng last, Rhiann blinked as if waking, the air warm and hazy around her, not knowing how much time had passed. Yet when she looked at Samana, and saw the glittering smile of triumph there, she knew it had been no real time at all.

  ‘Sister,’ she said – and Samana’s smile faltered for the first time.

  Yet Rhiann’s soul had cleared, as if a veil of heavy clouds were drawn back by a breeze, and in that grace she pitied her cousin rather than hated her, for Samana had abused power, and for that she would never have love.

  ‘We will not give you death,’ Rhiann told Samana softly, simply. ‘It is for you to make peace with the Mother when you meet her in the Otherworld. As for us …’ She drew a deep breath. ‘We forgive you, Sister.’

  Samana screeched in wordless fury as Rhiann held up her palm. ‘Yet there must be consequences from the choices you have made. First, you are hereby banished from the Sisterhood, and stripped of your status as one of the Goddess Daughters. Second, you are hereby named an outcast among the free tribes of Alba. The word will be sent out of your banishment from society.’

  ‘You cannot do this!’ Samana screamed, shaking her tangled hair. ‘You have no right to do this!’

  Fola put her hand in Rhiann’s other palm. ‘We are what is left of the Sisterhood. Rhiann is the last Ban Cré. We have spoken.’

  ‘But … but… ‘Samana spluttered,’ you cannot make me outcast, you have no right!’

  Rhiann raised one finger, reciting the lore. ‘A person can be declared outcast by the elders of a tribe, a council of chieftains, a conclave of the druid brethren, or a conclave of the priestess sisters.’ She pointed at Nectan, standing expressionless by the door. ‘We are the Sisters, and we have here also a chieftain of the Caereni, who stands witness, and a chieftain of the Decantae to endorse the same. You will find no refuge the length of Alba, Samana, not even among your own people, when our message reaches them. Every person will turn their face from you, from the smallest child to the oldest servant. You have remained powerful here only because your own people do not know the full extent of your betrayal, yet they will now. You will be nothing in your own people’s eyes from this moment on, and for as long as your life lasts. We have spoken.’

  No one moved, except Samana, whose whole body was trembling, her black eyes wide and stricken. To be made outcast was a fate far worse than death. It meant the loss not only of status and recognition and power, but of home, food and shelter. It meant that no one would even recognize her as a human. She would be a wraith, even when she stood before those who had formerly hailed her as queen. Ignored, uncounted, unsung.

  ‘You cannot …’ she whispered again, yet Rhiann merely nodded at Nectan, and he cut Samana’s bonds with his dagger, and then all three of them turned their backs and left the lodge without another glance.

  For some time there was the sound of things crashing to the floor, as Samana vented her rage on the benches and stools in the guest lodge. But eventually, as the long, sunseason twilight descended, Samana was forced to emerge.

  The news had travelled through the entire dun already, and the yard outside the lodge was crowded with men, women and children. The Sisters were there too, standing together. Yet when Samana appeared, walking tall as if to salvage some dignity, with a rustling of clothes and feet, every single person there turned their backs on her.

  Her heart pounding, Rhiann stared into the shadows gathering between the houses, and listened to Samana’s soft steps pausing behind her. ‘He will still die; this I promise you,’ came the hiss, and Samana spat on the ground at Rhiann’s feet.

  Then she walked out of the open gates into the northern wilderness, far from her home, far from the Roman lines. No one marked her passing or which way she went, for she was as invisible to Alba now as if she had never lived.

  For a long time Rhiann stood without moving, like a slim, fair statue, as the people gradually dispersed back to their homes. Fola was the only one who remained, beckoning to the few Sisters left to shepherd their younger charges into the other guest lodge.

  ‘Burn oil to sweeten the air,’ Fola said softly, ‘and make an offering to Ceridwen, goddess of birth and death. Then sing for the souls of our elder Sisters, for they have come close to us this night.’

  She turned back to Rhiann, who still had not moved, gazing out of the gate where the mists of dusk were rising from the line of hazels and oaks that ran down into the valley. Yet when the damp evening wind blew up the path, Fola saw one long shiver run the length of Rhiann’s spine, as if she was waking, and it was then that she took Rhiann’s arm and silently led her back into the empty guest lodge.

  The hearth was surrounded by the destruction of Samana’s wrath – overturned benches, scattered ashes, spilled mead cups. But it was there that Fola led Rhiann, and when she turned to face her, Fola saw that to let the forgiveness come, all Rhiann’s barriers had indeed melted.

  For Rhiann was alive in her eyes as she had not been for moons. ‘Hold me,’ her friend said simply, and the grace of tears was the last given that day.

  CHAPTER 50

  Lucius shook the rain from his cloak, unheeding of the close confines of his tent. As he handed it to his slave, he deliberately avoided the implacable eyes of his primus pilus, the highest-ranking centurion, who was standing with the tribunes and the camp prefect. They nearly filled the leather tent, pushing Lucius’s camp bed and tables and brazier to the edges of the woollen rug, ducking to avoid the hanging brass oil lamps.

  ‘Between you and me, Lucius,’ the primus pilus said grimly, ‘Agricola’s orders were given before we knew what we were facing. Over the last month these new raids have demoralized the men – we’ve lost five hundred already, and not one in a pitched battle. I hear soldiers talking: they speak of devils that change from trees to men, that fly at them in the night, spiriting men away in their sleep in order to feast on their flesh.’ He stepped before Lucius. ‘Something is eating their souls, not their flesh! We must get away from these hills, and now.’

  Lucius wiped rain from his cheeks with his palm, then ran his fingers through his dark, clipped hair. ‘Our goal is the fort of this Caledonii chief.’

  ‘Our goal was to engage the enemy, raid the duns, weaken the tribes,’ said the soldier wearily. ‘Yet we have done none of these things. They are not in sight to be engaged; the duns are deserted. I strongly advise that we turn back now, and return our men to base in one piece.’

  One of the tribunes, a young aristocrat with little battle experience, snorted and started forward. ‘We have already gone further north than any others of our kind! The commander charged us to seek for glory, to show these savages that we will not be cowed, that we will conquer!’

  ‘All we are showing them is that we seek death!’ the primus pilus burst out. His face was shadowed by the uncertain light of the swinging lamps, but Lucius read his frustration plainly.

  This was no unfamiliar situation on campaign. The camp prefect and primus pilus had worked their way up from the common ranks. Yet legates – like Lucius – and tribunes were from the old families. They knew the mind of Agricola better, and must think of many things beyond this one campaign: namely, how Agricola’s movements were perceived in Rome. Lucius’s career depended on it, no less than his commander’s.

  ‘Sir,’ the primus pilus urged, ‘we must turn back, I beg you. They will not give us battle; they melt away like spring snows. It is madness to continue—’

  ‘All right!’ Lucius put up his hand. ‘All right.’

  In his secret heart, Lucius himself wanted nothing more than to turn back. Honour and glory – all that he needed to win wealth and influence – were to be found in battle. They were not found by having his men picked off by mud-covered savages.

  The mules and oxen were gone, and they’d had to abandon many of their supply carts, so food was growing scarce. The foraging parties, forced further from camp, were easy prey for men who could move as part of the very land itself. And the unseasonable rain would not clear,
leaving them imprisoned in a world of grey skies, clammy mud and ceaseless winds.

  After much debate, and in the face of heated protests from his tribunes, Lucius at last gave the order to his exhausted men that they were to retreat. Spirits rose instantly that night and, despite the lack of horses and stores, the pace back along the coast the next day was faster than their advance had been.

  All of them had become sensitized to the disturbing emptiness of the land, which made the news that Lucius received from his scouts four days later even more difficult to believe. ‘Are you sure?’ Lucius asked the excited messenger, who knelt before him in his tent.

  The man nodded eagerly. ‘There are a thousand barbarian warriors drawn up for battle, in the open. Waiting for us.’

  Lucius took one of the few horses left and rode to see for himself, but two hours later he confirmed it with his own eyes, peering down from a heavily wooded rise through sheets of rain, which swept out of a wide valley breaching the mountains. The barbarians had picked the ground where the valley opened on to the coastal plain, and were arrayed there in silent, unmoving rows, many squatting in clumped groups. Yet Lucius could see immediately that their numbers were no match for his. Perhaps they thought this sudden turnaround meant that his army’s will had been broken, that they at last had a chance. Well, they would soon discover their error.

  Rising high in his saddle, knees braced, Lucius stretched his back with a grim excitement. For nigh on three months his men had been harassed and goaded until there wasn’t a single soldier not strung out on tension and lack of sleep, fear and frustration. Now all that turmoil could be assuaged as it should be – in blood.

  After a double-pace march from camp, the Roman army scrambled into battle formation a few hours later on the plain outside the valley mouth. The trumpeters blasted out the officers’ commands as the centurions barked orders, and the legionaries drew swords and clanked up against each other’s armour, rectangular shields overlapping. The auxiliary cohorts were moved to the front with their mailshirts and long spears, with the legionaries behind. In the empty space between the enemy and auxiliary lines, the tribunes and remaining mounted cavalry officers trotted the surviving horses up and down, exhorting their men to stand firm.