Dreaming the Eagle (24 page)

The council was set for the full moon. For five days before, elders, grandmothers and dreamers began to gather. In the high land above the steading, the greathouse was cleaned and cleared; the old rushes, laden with rodent droppings and white with fungus, were dug out and burned in noisome heaps at the far edge of the trees. Those at the river had not yet grown to replace them, but grandmothers with forethought had brought dry barley straw from those communities who could spare it and the smell of it filled the vaulted space beneath the roof.

Efnis arrived on the day before the council. The young man from the harsh lands of the north had grown in three years to be the foremost dreamer of his people. Ban found him in the evening, sitting alone on a horsehide in the greathouse surrounded by halfmade torches. Ban offered to help and they sat together in the half-light, sharing news as they worked; or rather, Ban shared the news and Efnis listened, since all that was worth hearing had happened south of the lands he had left.

Ban was the acknowledged expert on the Roman. It had happened by accident; the foreigner was clearly very taken with the red Thessalian mare and Ban had been in love with her from the moment she emerged from the sea, so it was natural that they should talk once they found a common language. The man had tried to learn Eceni but had found it difficult. Ban, out of courtesy, had tried Latin but the feel of it twisted his tongue and made the muscles of his jaw ache and he had stopped as soon as he had found that they both spoke Gaulish. Ban had been learning it from Gunovic in order that he might do business with the horse traders on the far side of the ocean and not be cheated, and the Roman had learned it from his unit’s posting there. Neither was fluent but time and the help of the sailors had improved them.

Ban’s other area of expertise was Caradoc, although for different reasons. The boy had discovered early that he did not like the young warrior. The memory of Amminios’ visit and the loss of the dun filly came between them, so that their eyes never met and any conversation was so formal as to be worthless. With time, they had stopped trying to speak and Ban had watched from the outside as the factions brooded and changed in the overcrowded men’s house. In the beginning, not knowing of the sword-pledge made on the seashore, he had pleaded with Breaca to challenge the newcomer and cut his legs from under him. Later, he had come to realize that, even without the warrior’s oath, each would have found a reason not to test the other, that neither she nor Caradoc was certain of winning and that the fight, if it came, could only ever be in private and would not be in play. After that, he drew back, and was careful when talking with Efnis to complain chiefly of Caradoc’s reaction to the Roman.

‘Caradoc hates him.’ Ban took a torch from Efnis’ hand and dipped it into the vat of bear grease, twisting it to work the fat into the straw. The earthen smell enveloped them both, richly. ‘It’s because of his father. The Sun Hound favours Rome and Caradoc hates his father so he hates the Romans, too.’

‘He has good reason. Were it not for the influence of Rome, the Sun Hound would not have driven the dreamers from his land.’ These days, Efnis was inclined to see everything through the mask of the dreamers.

‘But that wasn’t this man’s fault. All he’s done is get shipwrecked and run races and everyone hates him for that, too, because he holds back and lets Dubornos and ‘Tagos beat him when he could run them into the ground. Dubornos would see him gutted and be happy about it. It’s the only thing he and Caradoc agree on.’

‘I heard your young men hate Caradoc as much as he hates the Roman.’

‘Not all of them. Only those who think they should be able to beat him, which is Dubornos and his friends. The rest love him. It’s disgusting; like watching a bitch in season walk through a pack of dogs. If he walked through fire into the depths of the ocean, they would follow him just for his smile.’

Efnis grinned. ‘Men are like that. They see something good and they either want to be part of it or to be better themselves. Sometimes the only way to be better is to destroy what is good’ He looked up, sharply. ‘Who’s that?’

It was Breaca. She stood in the doorway with her hair wild around her head and she was panting, as if she had been running hard, or riding. ‘Ban? Have you seen Airmid? Or Macha? They’re not in the roundhouse.’

‘No. Macha was outside a while ago. I haven’t seen Airmid since this morning.’

Airmid had dreamed badly. It had shown in her smile and the dark hollows under her eyes. Ban had not asked her about it, nor had he spoken of it to Breaca. One did not, these days, speak of one to the other, except now, when something had happened to change things. He stood, the torches forgotten. ‘Why? What’s the matter?’

‘They’re racing again. Dubornos and his friends have set it up. The fools have made a route along the river track - up one side, across at the fallen oak and down again to cross on the greased logs at the bottom.’

Efnis said, ‘But it’s nearly dark. They can’t race now, surely.’

Ban shrugged. It was insanity. The greased poles were a nightmare and had been proved so. No-one with a head on their shoulders would choose to walk across them in broad daylight, still less run them at night. The river flowing beneath them was once more within its banks but it still ran white and wild and angry; anyone falling in would be lucky to come out alive. ‘So let them race. If they drown, we can ask Airmid to sing the water from them afterwards. If she fails, it will be no great loss.’

‘No, you don’t understand.’ He had rarely seen Breaca so upset. Her fingers were white where she gripped the doorpost. ‘They’re going to cross at the oak log above the sacred pool. If one of them falls in or tries to swim the river, he will be swept down to the pool. Airmid dreamed it. It must not happen.’

‘What?’ The blood drained from Ban’s head, leaving him giddy. What she said was unthinkable; everyone knew that the pool was Nemain’s, that to enter it was utterly forbidden, that a life was forfeit and the death appalling for anyone who broke the taboo. Worse than that was the devastation that would be visited by the gods upon the people. The last time a man fell in was in the grandmothers’ time and the war with the Coritani had started soon afterwards. Even the far southern Gauls, who had not understood the ways of the midden and had left piles of human ordure and the stench of male urine around the roundhouse, would have known not to enter the pool. ‘But, Breaca, they won’t go in the river. They wouldn’t dare’

‘The Roman would. They’re making him race. Dubornos held a knife at his throat and told him to race properly or he’d carve out his guts before the council had a chance to vote on it.’

‘But someone will have told him about the pool.’

‘Did you? You have talked to him more than anyone.’

He had not. The pool was a part of his life; it had not occurred to him that anyone might not know about it. Even had he thought of it, his few words of Gaulish were for trading horses, not for explaining the complex balance of honour and obligation that maintained the relationship between the gods and their people. Aghast, he said, ‘Dubornos is mad. He is doing this to kill the Roman and he hopes it will bring war so he can prove himself a warrior in battle. We have to stop them. Where are the horses?’

‘The grey is outside.’ He had heard it arrive earlier in a hammer of hoof beats and a wrenching stop, but had taken no notice. ‘Yours is in the paddock. It’s too far to go and get it. You can ride behind me.’

They were already running. Hail bounded ahead of them at the door. Ban called over his shoulder to Efnis, ‘Find Macha or Airmid. Tell them what’s happening. Get them to the pool.’

‘What if I can’t find them?’

‘Then blow the horn that calls the council. That will bring them.’

‘That’s sacrilege!’

‘Only if done without good cause. This is the best cause. Do it.’ The mare wheeled, standing straight on her hocks. Ban whistled Hail and they were gone.

The race had begun. The route followed a track up the side of the river, then turned inland and wove through the woods. To run it was difficult, but possible. To ride it, flat out, was insanity. Ban kept his head low and his arms locked around his sister’s waist as Breaca pushed the grey battle mare to her limits. Branches whipped at them raising welts and the path twisted viciously, but they did not die.

The path broke out of the trees close to the river. The smell of mud and surging water flooded Ban’s senses. The perfect disc of the moon lit up the water so that he could see twice over the shape of the hare that lived on the surface; Nemain’s beast. Usually, it was her signal to him of good hunting. Tonight, it felt as if she held her breath, waiting to see who profaned her pool.

‘There, at the crossing. Caradoc is ahead.’

The river ran wild and white. Ban made himself look up to the narrows, where the oak trunk spanned it. The figures of running men were small in the distance and their bodies merged with the land. Caradoc was most easily seen; even had he not been at the front, his hair marked him out from any distance. On the headland, soaked from the sea, it had been the colour of old straw. Now, dry, cut and combed, it caught the light of the moon and shone like burnished metal. ‘Tagos was a pace behind, then Dubornos. The Roman was harder to see. His hair and his body were so dark that, had he stood still, he would have been all but invisible. As the pack spread out, it could be seen that he ran an arm’s length behind the other three.

‘The Roman’s still holding back.’ It was clear from the way he ran. Ban shouted it out loud, not sure if Breaca could hear him.

‘He was. Not now.’

She was right. The man had taken Dubornos’ threat to heart, or perhaps, with his death less than a day away, he had chosen to show who he really was. Either way, having paced himself up the side of the river, he let loose with perfect timing and put in a startling sprint as Caradoc slowed to approach the log. ‘Tagos was taken by surprise; he neither saw nor heard the shadow closing in on him until it was past. Dubornos had been running closer and had, perhaps, been expecting the move. He lengthened his stride to match the foreigner and passed ‘Tagos on the other side.

The fault for what happened next was Dubornos’, everyone agreed on that later. He had walked across the oak log uncounted times in the summers since it first fell and he knew that it was rotten and unstable and could not take more than one man at a time. The Roman could not have been expected to know that and so, when they reached the trunk together, it should have been Dubornos who held back.

He did not. Caradoc was midway across, running neatly and with an economy of effort that could be seen from the river bank. The trunk shuddered beneath him but did not tip until the Roman and Dubornos - in that order - leaped onto it, running. Then it rolled.

Eight men, and a boy and a woman on horseback, shouted a warning. The runners had already acted. Caradoc flung himself bodily at the far bank. The Roman dropped to one knee and took hold of the rotting wood, digging his fingers deep for a handhold. No-one saw clearly why Dubornos fell. Some said later he had already lost his footing on the rolling timber, others that he simply ran headlong into the Roman and that was enough to trip anyone. Whatever the truth, there was a moment of silence as his body arced over the river and then a scream that ended as he hit the water. His red hair flashed once above the surface and was gone.

The race dissolved into chaos. Men flung themselves belly down on the bank, reaching out across the water. Dubornos’ friends shouted his name, achieving nothing. In the jumble of moving bodies, Ban saw a gilded head on the far bank rise and fall out of sight. Caradoc, true to his reputation, had chosen action instead of words. He was naked already and greased against the cold. Sleek as an otter, he dived. Breaca was a heartbeat behind him. Ban was pushed backwards as she dismounted. Her belt and tunic were thrust up into his hands. She said, ‘Don’t let the mare follow me,’ and then she, too, dived in.

‘Breaca, no!’ Ban grabbed for the reins. The grey fought him, plunging for the bank. She had been trained to follow her rider and did not understand, or did not care, that to do so would kill her. The boy pulled her head round to her flank, sawing viciously on the bit, cursing. Blood flecked the spit that foamed from a mouth that had never known pain. He kept his grip and forced her head away from the river. Men jostled around him, still shouting. A dark head forged through them and stopped at his knee.

‘Does it narrow anywhere else?’

It was said in Gaulish, too fast. The language swept past him. He gaped.

‘The river’s too strong.’ The Roman spoke again. ‘They’re under. We’re going to lose them. Does it narrow anywhere else?’

‘Just above the sacred pool. They must not go in. It is death.’ He could have wished his language better.

‘Then we ride.’ The man was a horseman before anything else. He could mount at the run, without help. Ban was pushed forward on the withers, as a child would be. Stronger hands than his took up the reins. The grey fought and met a grip that brooked no argument. She struck out once and settled. A foreign voice, full of humour, said, ‘Show me the way.’

The ride came from Ban’s worst nightmares; his ears were filled with the noise of the river, his mind with the echo of Breaca’s voice screaming his name, he saw her hair in every moon-cursed glint of the river. In his ear, the Roman said, ‘Is she doing this because her warrior’s oath would not let her race against Caradoc and she must find another way to test herself ?’

It was what Ban had feared most since she plunged into the water. He said, ‘No. She would do it anyway. They think the same, those two,’ and realized that it was true.

‘Still, it may let them decide who is best without having to die for it.’

‘We can pray so.’ And he did, because that, too, was true.

They came to the bend in the track, where it entered the woods. The Roman pulled the horse to a halt. ‘Must we go through the trees? It will be slow.’

‘No. There is another way. Very difficult.’

And very dangerous. He did not say that. They turned hard left and pushed the mare down a muddy slope and into the marsh on the far side. She slid and staggered and plunged through, hock deep, fighting the sucking bog as gamely as she had earlier fought the bit. They urged her on with voice and heels and, once, the flat of an open palm. On the far side, they pushed her harder. She had a great heart but she had run doubly laden for a long time now and she was tiring. Ban felt her falter and spoke to her in the voice Breaca had used, asking for more. At the back of his mind he remembered that she was pregnant and that the foal was promised to Airmid - if it lived, if it were not dropped early, if Airmid were still here to see it and had not already left for Mona by the time it was born.