Dreaming the Eagle (46 page)
‘Who is he?’ she asked.
‘His dam won a race against Sinochos’ white-socked chestnut and his sire has bred at least a dozen good-‘
‘Not the horse, the youth. The one talking to Venutios. Who is he?’
‘The lad? His name’s Vellocatus. He’s from Venutios’ people, sent with a private message.’
It may have been private, but it was not welcome. She saw the warmth pass from the Warrior, leaving him still and unnaturally stiff for one who lived his life in the fluid forms of battle. The straw-headed messenger pressed his point, cutting the air with the edge of his hand for emphasis, and then stopped, leaving a silence that spoke as strongly. The warriors of the welcome party stood away and turned their backs, giving the pair privacy. The gesture passed unnoticed. Venutios gazed past them all, staring vacantly at the sun-stained horizon as if he stood on the jetty alone. He looked older than he had done, more burdened, like a man who has been given a shield heavier than is sensible and must carry it in a fight not of his choosing. Seeing him, Breaca made sense, suddenly, of a recent dream of Airmid’s in which a salmon had swum upriver to the spawning grounds, bearing a crow’s feather in its mouth. Her heart jolted within her. Horrified, she spoke aloud, forgetting Gunovic was not of Mona and might not be privy to its secrets. ‘Gods. They’re calling him home. What time is this for Mona to be choosing a new Warrior?’
It was the time set by the gods and could not be changed. On Mona, more than anywhere else, the gods walked the land and life moved to their rhythms. Every part of the island was sacred. Breaca had felt it when she first stepped off the ferry with Airmid and it struck her afresh each time someone she knew came to visit: a quickening of the pulse and a strengthening of the blood that lifted her higher and sharpened her vision so that she saw more clearly the threads that bound each of them to the land and to each other and understood once again the small place of her own cares in the greater pattern of the world.
In the normal course of things, the renewed clarity would have passed by nightfall on the day of Gunovic’s visit, lost in a flurry of greetings and gifts and gossip. Breaca had news of those things that mattered in her tight-woven world: of her progress in the warriors’ school; of the grey mare’s latest filly foal, which was not turning out as well as it might have done; of Airmid’s new lover, who was the greatest of the school’s warriors, and what Lanis had said of her in open hearing.
Gunovic, for his part, had news of the tribes beyond: of Macha and the progress of her healing, which was as complete as it might ever be; of ‘Tagos, who had found that he could wield a sword lefthanded, but not a spear; of the Coritani, who had declared a truce and sworn oaths at the autumn council not only of neutrality but of friendship and alliance in the face of possible war in the south. All of this would have taken the best part of the night and the sharpness of vision that was Mona’s would have blurred again by morning, but for two messages, brought together, which changed the face of the world for ever.
Breaca had felt the change before Venutios raised his hand to gather his group at the jetty. In the moments of meeting, she had exchanged with Gunovic the news of a year, condensed into halfsentences and shorn of all drama. There had been no time to reflect on it after. The horns had sounded as the travellers reached the settlement, summoning the warriors, dreamers and singers of Mona to council, and there had been barely time to gather up a cloak and brooch before she was queuing to enter the largest of the greathouses and then standing in rank order with the other warriors behind a fire pit that spanned half the width of the hall, beneath torches that filled the air with pine smoke and burnt tallow, watching, with startling clarity, the play of flame and shadow on the gathered faces.
She heard a murmur pass through the ranks of dreamers gathered on the far side of the fire and looked up. The front line parted and when it came together Talla stood in the space before the fire pit. The Elder could barely walk without aid and yet she was there now, standing erect as the youngest of dreamers, her hair moon-white in the torchlight and her eyes warm with the glow of the fire. Maroc stood at her side, the dreamer who all believed would be her successor. He was a slight, wiry man with thinning wheaten hair and pale eyes. At first glance, he had the look of one who should be casting pots or stitching harness and he had passed as such more than once out of necessity in the lands of Gaul and amongst the tribes south of the sea-river who had turned their backs on the dreamers and the gods. On Mona he made no effort to hide who he was, so that, waiting under the arc of his gaze, Breaca knew the same sense of awe as she did in the presence of the standing stones of the ancestors. A shiver passed down her spine and a high whine, like the hum of summer bees, began to play in her ears. She looked for Gunovic and found him, far out on the side amongst the singers. He was staring straight at her. She smiled but saw no response.
Maroc signalled behind him. Two of the apprentice singers dragged forward a hide-covered vessel and set it on a slate on the dreamers’ side of the fire pit. In its presence, the quality of the silence changed. Breaca felt the tension around her rise to battle pitch. None of the others had hand-scars that warned of battle, but each of them had been proved best in the testing grounds of the tribes and none had come to Mona without sufficient experience of war to sense the changes in the air. They held themselves ready, like dogs straining against a leash, and each felt it as the last moments of battle before the spears are thrown, when life is sweetest and Briga fills the air with death. Breaca swallowed on nothing and reached for Hail, who was not there.
‘Warriors of Mona.’ Talla’s voice was thin as a hollow reed. In the air above the warriors, it gathered strength, and echoed from the back walls. ‘Warriors of Mona, you know by now that Venutios, who has been your Warrior, the greatest of his generation, has been recalled by his people. He goes in honour and with the blessing of the elders. He has served for twelve years beyond the ten of his training and his honour guard served with him. All are free now to return to their tribes, but we would ask one last service of them.’
Talla gestured to her right. Venutios stood in the shadows and none of them had seen him. He had changed from the formal dress of the welcome party, replacing it with a short hunting tunic the colour of dried bracken. Round his neck, newly, hung a leaping salmon carved in blue stone, and a bull’s horn hung from a thong at his side. This last, above all else, was the symbol of the Warrior, the badge that set one above the rest. It was hard to imagine it borne by anyone else.
Talla acknowledged him with a nod and went on, ‘As with the Elder, Mona can never be without her Warrior. Before Venutios leaves, one must be chosen from amongst the two thousand of the school to take his place. The laws of the choosing come from the ancestors; they are clear and precise. You need not know them, save as they affect you directly. Maroc will guide you through the first steps.’
The Elder stood less straight than she had done. Maroc took her place at the edge of the fire pit. The logs burned red at his feet and cast his shadow upwards, giving him height. His voice was deeply resonant and reached them all without effort.
‘Warriors of Mona. Of the two thousand, thirty will be chosen to take the tests. Of those thirty, one will be Warrior. The first part is in the hands of the gods alone. The tests that come after are yours for you to prove yourselves before the gods. They last a night and a day and will be harder than any you have encountered. There is danger. At each time of the Warrior’s choosing, some have died. You are not bound to take part in the first selection, but if, having taken part, you are among the thirty, you are bound to continue. Those who wish to leave may do so now.’
He looked out into silence. Two thousand warriors looked back. Nobody moved.
‘Good.’ He reached down and stripped the hide from the vessel at his feet. The skull of a bull shone white in the firelight. Between its horns sat a wide copper vessel the mouth of which was sealed with a black horse-skin, bound drum-tight across the top. At Maroc’s signal, Venutios stepped forward and stabbed his knife in the centre to make a single incision, five fingers wide. The blade flashed once as he lifted it clear. Breaca flinched and felt the ripple of it pass on and multiply, two thousand times.
Maroc said, ‘The cauldron holds a pebble for every member of the warriors’ school. All are white but thirty, which are black. Venutios will call the names in rank order. When you hear your own, you will step up to the mark, reach across the fire pit and take a stone from the vessel. If your stone is black, you are one of the thirty and must remain here. If it is white, you are free to go’
The preparations took moments. The bull’s skull was moved to the very edge of the fire pit. A long, narrow slate already gave a mark on the warriors’ side of the fire. On the dreamers’ side, Maroc stood to one side of the vessel, Venutios to the other. The Warrior spoke the first name gently, as if they two were alone, sharing news across a camp fire.
‘Ardacos of the Caledonii.’
A small, wiry man with the dark colouring and high cheekbones of the ancestors stepped up to the fire. Ardacos had been on Mona a decade, longest of all those in the school. He would return to his people at the spring equinox unless he had reason to stay. Without question, he was unmatched by his peers for skill with the spear in battle or in the hunt. In the moments before the gathering, when rumours had flown fast as larks and the betting faster, over half of those present had bet that he would take Venutios’ place as Warrior. Breaca had not been one of them but Ardacos would have been her second choice. She had no doubt that the gods would want him to take part in their tests.
Ardacos stood at the slate and leaned over the fire. The flames washed red along his arm. He touched one finger to his forehead in homage to Briga and slid his other hand through the slit in the hide. When he opened his palm the pebble that lay on it was black. Two thousand sighed, less one.
Maroc’s voice echoed over their heads. ‘Ardacos of the Caledonii is first of the thirty.’
Venutios was already speaking the second name.
They passed through forty stones, the remainder of those warriors who had entered the school in the same year as Ardacos. Two of his comrades joined him, a man and a woman, both of northern tribes although none as far north as the Caledonii. Breaca, watching with the clarity of Mona, saw in those who drew white a diffidence, or an absence of confidence, that betrayed each in the moment of reaching across the fire. By the time Venutios called the next name, she could tell before a hand was opened what colour stone would lie on the palm.
‘Gwyddhien of the Silures.’
Black. It would be black. Breaca would have known it this time simply from the name. There were only two amongst the school who were in genuine contention to be Warrior and Gwyddhien was, in Breaca’s opinion, the better of the two. She had bet as much with Airmid, staking a silver brooch with coral inlay on the outcome. The only surprise was that Airmid had accepted.
A tall woman with blue-black hair and eyes that spoke to the soul stepped back from the fire pit and opened her hand. The stone on her palm was black.
‘Gwyddhien of the Silures is fourth of the thirty.’
That half of the warriors who had not bet on Ardacos let out a collective breath. Across the fire, in the front rank of dreamers, Breaca saw Airmid’s sudden smile and returned it. Airmid may not have bet on Gwyddhien to win the tests, but she had badly wanted her to be part of the thirty.
The night took on its own rhythm. Venutios spoke through the nine-year warriors to the eight to the seven and on. The names ran through hundreds to thousands. On Mona, where the dreamers learned songs and laws that could take days in the telling, two thousand names remembered in order was no great feat, but the man was neither a dreamer nor a singer and if he had put effort into learning the names of each year’s new intake as they arrived at the school, Breaca had seen no sign of it. The list came now from a knowing that went beyond rote learning and was part of what made him Warrior: the care for those whose lives he might one day hold in his hand. It was what set him apart from the others, what, for Breaca, set Gwyddhien apart from Ardacos. The latter excelled as a lone hunter or single warrior - if one had need of a man to set an ambush, or to steal from the enemy, Ardacos was that man -but it was Gwyddhien who could lead two thousand into war and wield them as a single force. It was not hard to imagine her, ten years from now, speaking two thousand names as if each were a valued friend, and meaning it.
‘Cumal of the Cornovii is twenty-second of the thirty.’
Cumal was of the fourth year, the only one of his intake to have drawn a black pebble and deservedly so; he had a fine eye for a spear throw and was best of all the island with a sling shot. Breaca had fought at his side in practice battles and had found him sharpwitted and dependable; a good choice for the thirty.
The next name was an uninspiring warrior of the Dumnonii, the first of those who had been on Mona three years. Surprisingly, he picked a black pebble, as did the woman who came after him, so that in the space of a dozen breaths there were six left black in a vessel of nearly six hundred white where before there had been nine.
A soundless sigh passed through the thinning ranks of those remaining. Somewhere, a voice calculated the new odds out loud. Breaca had no need to listen. She could feel the shape and size of the black stones in her core, as if each one nested in a long bone, cushioned on marrow and laced through with her blood. They sang to her in high voices, like curlews, and she had no way to answer in kind. She prayed to Briga and watched the changing textures in the air above the fire until her mind ached.
Venutios named the warriors of the third year and the pebbles came out in their dozens, each one white as an eye. The first of the second year’s intake reached through the horse-skin and when he, too, brought his hand out with white on ‘ the palm, six black pebbles remained amongst three hundred and eighty-seven white. Breaca was last of the second year. The summer of Amminios’ attack had been long and full of caring for the wounded and she and Airmid had set out late in the autumn, reaching Mona long after the equinox on a ferry that had been launched from its winter dock to carry them across. One month longer and Breaca would have been considered the first of the next year’s intake.