Dreaming the Eagle (14 page)

‘It was worse than bad. It was against the gods and the people.’ It was then that Ban decided not to move. If he was going to be made to talk, he would do so, whether his audience liked the tale or not. He could not make the shadow pictures with his hands in the way that Gunovic had done but he could make the story real, with the colours and the smells and the feelings of the people. He began at the beginning and told it all. When the death of the hound came, he did not weep, because he knew it was coming, but he saw by the sudden stillness in the man’s features that he had told it well. ‘But the gods have exacted their price,’ he said. ‘The traitor was cursed by the dreamers. His people are ruled over by the Sun Hound, who is of the line of Cassivellaunos …’ and, because the stranger raised his brows but did not interrupt, he went on to tell him the tales of the three brothers: of Togodubnos, who was weak and let his father rule in his stead when the leadership should be his of right through his mother’s line; of Amminios, who was without honour and who plucked his nostrils to keep in with the Romans; and of the third son, Caradoc, who carried the fighting blood of the Ordovices and was going to be made warrior of three different tribes. He had intended to tell how this last one was a firebrand and despised his father but he remembered Gunovic’s warning that the Sun Hound did not deal lightly with treachery and did not. The enemy of my enemy is my friend. Already, he considered Caradoc a possible ally.

He finished and they lapsed into silence. The fire hissed and spat. The big man stroked his fingers thoughtfully down the length of his nose. ‘Is it possible, do you think, that Togodubnos is not weak but recognizes that his father and his grandfather and all his ancestors before that worked throughout their lives to bring two tribes together, and that to take his rulership of the Trinovantes now, when the endeavour has just succeeded, might serve only to split them apart again?’

‘Then when will he take the oath of his spears? Will he stay for ever in the shadow of his father? Is that the way of a warrior?’

‘No. But a man may be a warrior and also a diplomat. And fathers do not live for ever. Cunobelin is of middling age; he may live for ten or twenty years yet, but when he dies his land will be split between his three sons. If they do not see eye to eye about how to rule it, there will be war and other people will die. You have grown listening to and admiring the great deeds of your warrior ancestors, yet it is not the duty of a warrior to make war for the sake of it but only to protect his people, or to avenge the deaths of others.’

‘Then why will there be war when the sons take the land?’

‘There may not be. But suppose one brother - let us say, Amminios - has spent many years living amongst traders and statesmen in Gaul and believes strongly that his fortunes lie with Rome.’ Ban looked at him, shocked. Even Gunovic had not stated it so clearly. ‘And suppose that one of the others - Caradoc, perhaps - hates everything Roman with a passion that boils his blood and will do all he can to remove them and their allies from any place and any people over which he holds sway. Then the third brother - Togodubnos - unless he is a good diplomat may not be able to prevent these two from waging a prolonged and bloody war as each tries to enforce his wishes on the other. At best, there would be unnecessary slaughter. At worst, the legions of Rome might be called upon to intervene as they were by Mandubracios and we would find ourselves facing another invasion such as our ancestors faced. That would be unthinkable.’

‘And is the third brother a good diplomat?’

‘I don’t know. I am not the best person to say that. He tries to be. I am not sure that he succeeds.’

‘Was it diplomacy that brought him here to put his question to the council?’ Ban asked it directly, with his eyes on the stranger’s face. The man nodded, slowly. He did not look unfriendly.

‘Not entirely. In that, he acted as his father wished. His father believes …’ He trailed off and began again, differently. ‘Let me tell it as the council heard it. See’ - he lifted a stick from the pile by the fire - ‘here is a stick. We will call it the branch of friendship between two peoples, the Trinovantes and the Eceni.’

‘It is bare. There are no leaves on it.’

‘Exactly. The tree from which it came has been allowed to wither, which is not good. The Trinovantes - the Sun Hound -would be as a brother to the Eceni and he is grieving that he has allowed this tree of friendship to go unwatered so that it bears no fruit. He has heard of the loss suffered by the royal house of the Eceni …’ He looked sideways at Ban, who nodded to show he understood - the man could not name Breaca’s mother any more than an Eceni could. The man went on, ‘Cunobelin grieves most bitterly at this loss but grieving is not enough. A brother who is a true warrior does not simply grieve for the murder of his sister, he rides out and takes vengeance. And so the question put to the council was this: when the Eceni spears ride out to avenge the death of the woman of their royal line, the Sun Hound asks that he be allowed to bring the combined spears of the Trinovantes and the Catuvellauni to aid them in their battle against the warriors of the red kite. Only thus, he believes, may the tree of friendship be brought to bear fruit once more.’

Ban had been watching the fire and not the stick. When the man raised his hand again, in place of the bare twig he held a small branch of newly cut hazel, most sacred of trees. Leaves hung about it, and a single crow’s feather with the quill painted black, for war. He gave it to Ban, who laid it on the fire. He was not yet ready for gifts from this man.

He said, ‘Did Togodubnos make a stick turn into living hazel for the council?’

‘Yes. They knew it to be a piece of trickery - sleight of hand -but it served to make the point and to ask the question that needed to be asked.’

‘Togodubnos, speaking for his father, asked the council to make an alliance with the Trinovantes and the Catuvellauni against the Coritani?’

‘He did, yes.’

‘What did they say?’

‘Nothing. They asked him to leave that they might discuss it fully among themselves. The answer will be given tomorrow after the ceremony of the sunrise. After you have given the light of your heart to my brother.’

He understood her worth. That, in itself, was a gift, if not enough to dull the pain. In a while Togodubnos said gently, ‘Did you know that your sister offered Amminios her grey filly in place of yours?’

Ban had suspected it but not been sure. He shook his head, dumbly. It did not need to be said that Amminios had refused it.

The man said, ‘It is a great thing when two who share the same father care so deeply for each other. You should treasure it.’

‘I do.’

There was a long silence. They both looked into the flames.

‘The elders will refuse your request,’ said Ban, eventually. He felt regret, even knowing it was true, and was surprised by it.

‘I know. I knew it the moment you attacked Amminios. Until now, I did not know why.’

Togodubnos rose. Standing, he seemed bigger than he had when seated by the fire. One or other was a trick of the light. He smiled. ‘It is almost dawn. I will leave you with your filly. I think I will not tell my brother the council’s answer. It will be enough that he hears it in the morning. He will not be pleased.’

‘He has not been named a warrior. Would he have ridden against the Coritani?’

‘He would have led the right wing of the Trinovantian attack. It would have been his best chance to win honours in battle.’

The ceremony of the sunrise was brief and very beautiful. It did not involve the relighting of dead fires as at the beginning of summer, nor the opening of new year as at the start of winter. Now, at the height of the sun, the people lined the river that ran foaming past the greathouse and, as the first light struck the water, they gave back to the gods their gifts of grain and gold and asked the questions for which they needed answers. Ban was not at the riverside. His gift was different. Breaca had come as she had promised and helped him to prepare the filly and her dam, but the giving of them was his alone. The elders signalled the time of it. As the sun rose free of the horizon, the elder grandmother lifted a horn and blew it, strongly. The people moved back, making a semicircle round a small knot of grandmothers and elders that gathered in the centre. Togodubnos was called out to join them and, after a moment, Amminios. Both wore their sun-cloaks and their torcs. Both had been seen to give armbands of solid gold to the water.

Ban came at the second signal. He walked forward, leading the mare on his shield side and the dun filly on his sword side, as he had been taught. Both walked out well, aware of all the eyes turned their way. The people stepped back to make a corridor along which they walked. It was not done to cheer on the day of the gods, but each adult carried a belt knife and most of them, by chance, had picked up a stick or a small log from the fire piles as they left for the river. The noise they made, beating the blades on the wood, was that of returning warriors, beating their sword-blades on their shields to signal victory. It began softly and built in waves to a thunder over which the voice of one boy could not be heard. The elders let it roll until the point was made and then the grandmother raised her horn and blew a third time. The silence that came after hurt the ears more than the noise had done.

Ban felt himself empty, as if his soul still sat by the fire and only his body was moving. He walked the mare and the foal forward the last steps to the elders. The grandmother stood perfectly erect. In the sunlight, her eyes were white, as if poured of mare’s milk. The others behind her stood straight and stone-faced. Only Togodubnos smiled - warmly, with some sorrow, as he had by the fire. Amminios’ smile was poison, marred only by three scored nail marks down the side of his face. Ban had only Dubornos as his example of what it was to inflict pain and take joy in it. Standing alone before his enemy, he had some understanding of how shallow that experience was. For a frantic, fleeting moment, he wondered if it might not be kinder to take his knife from his belt and kill the filly cleanly, now, before the assembled people.

‘Ban, son of Mocha, harehunter and horsedreamer.’ The elder grandmother stepped forward. She had never used his full name before. She had never, as far as he could remember, spoken his name at all and now she was giving him titles he had not earned. ‘You come before us to make your apologies and to give your gift, the gods’ gift, to one who will receive it in the gods’ name. You will do so now.’

He felt his head grow light, as it had done in the greathouse. Amminios looked discomfited; he had not expected to be standing in the gods’ stead.

The exchange was made quickly. Breaca had told him the proper words of apology and the way to make the gift. At a nudge from his brother, Amminios stepped forward to take the lead ropes and give his thanks. His accent was thick and barely comprehensible and the phrases perfunctory. He stepped back, holding the lead ropes as if he was not sure what to do with them. The mare followed with reluctance. The filly twisted her head back and whickered to Ban.

Before he could respond to it, Togodubnos stepped forward. In a voice designed to carry he said, ‘My brother is not familiar with the language or customs of your people, but I pledge in his name that the gods’ gift, made on the gods’ day, will be treated with the respect due to Belin, the sun, who is most sacred to us and our father. I swear it on my honour as a warrior.’ In the crowd, knife blades beat on wood again, briefly. Amminios frowned.

Togodubnos bowed, with his arm across his chest in the mark of a warrior’s respect, and turned to the elder grandmother. More softly, he said, ‘I came last night before the council with a request from my father, Cunobelin. May I know the council’s answer?’

‘You may.’ The elder grandmother’s smile held the barest shadow of Amminios’ poison. ‘The council has considered the request and the events that surround it. It is our decision that there will be no war. This you may tell your father; that the tree of friendship does not feed on blood. It requires Briga’s earth and Nemain’s water to allow it fully to flower. To you, we would say that you are a man of honour who is bound by blood to men who are without honour. There will come a time when you have to choose. If you choose the waters of friendship over the blood of your kin, you will be welcome amongst the Eceni. If you do not, you will be slain, as will all our enemies.’

For Ban, the sight of Amminios’ face was a flicker of light in darkness.

VI.

‘HE’S GOING TO DIE, ISN’T HE?’

‘Everything dies, Ban. Some die sooner than others, that’s all.’

‘But is he going to die now - of the sickness?’

‘He might do. There’s no blood in the scours, which is a good sign, but he’s still very cold, which is bad. If we can make the mixture properly, then he might live. If we sit here and talk about it then yes, he will die. Keep him close to the fire and watch the water. Tell me when it comes to the boil.’

It was mid-morning and everyone was awake and busy although not too busy, it seemed, to walk past on their way from here to there to see what was happening, even if ‘here’ was in the far opposite corner of the settlement and ‘there’ only a step or two distant. It had been all right while Ban was out with Airmid gathering the plants, for no-one had known what was happening. Now that they were back and had built a fire outside the harness hut, word had passed faster than he could have imagined until everyone had heard that Hail was sick and Airmid was tending him, and felt the need to visit and see if it was true.

It had started badly, in the time before dawn when all the world was asleep apart from a boy and his sick hound whelp. Ban had been standing in the dark in the river, washing Hail clean of the foul-smelling scour, when the splash of another’s wading and an adult shape looming in the darkness had told him he was not alone. He had stood still in the freezing current with pebbles jabbing into his feet and clutched Hail tightly to his chest. A voice floated over the water, dryly amused. ‘Is he sick, your hound?’