Dreaming the Eagle (55 page)

‘Gods-‘ She gaped at him. ‘And Amminios? What do you think he will do now?’

‘He will ride into the southlands believing them to be a safe haven and he will find it is not so. My warriors will take him and hold him alive until we reach them. If we ride now, we will not be far behind.’

We. The casual assumption that Mona was at his disposal.

Anger was too easy, too near the surface; it became important to leave. Caradoc stood in the way and caught her arm as she passed.

‘Breaca, don’t. It was necessary. The warriors of the southlands are Berikos’ Atrebates, only lately sworn to my father. Their loyalty is anything but certain. You know this, you said it yourself. If Amminios had reached them ahead of us, we would have ridden into a battlefield with the ground not of our choosing.’

‘And instead, if you are wrong, we may ride into a war. Did Togodubnos know you were going to do this?’

‘No.’

‘So he, too, does not play the Dance as well as the masters?’ The control of Mona was gone. Anger scorched the air between them -a just and righteous fury, given cause by his actions in war, not in love. She said, ‘What if Amminios plays the game better than you? What if he does not ride into the waiting arms of your Ordovices? What if he sees them, or is warned and takes fright and seeks refuge with Berikos behind the borders of the Atrebates, or sails for Gaul and his Roman friends, what will you do then?’

He had ridden too far, too hard and was too tired to match her. Wearily he said, ‘It’s nearly winter, the seas are too uncertain for him to sail for Gaul now. As to Berikos, I think my brother’s pride will not let him seek help so early. He still believes he can win on his own.’

‘Does he? Do you believe that? Or will your pride not let you consider defeat?’

It was not a question that allowed an answer. He let go of her wrist, suddenly, and stood in silence as she walked past him into the clamour of the evening.

Airmid, who knew her best and who held strong opinions on the matter of Caradoc, had saddled the grey battle mare and slung the serpent-spear shield from the cantle. The honour guard were already mounted awaiting word to leave, all except Ardacos, who rested on Mona, nursing a broken arm. She would have liked him there now, for the strength of his silence. The rest felt the heat of her anger and thought it was for Amminios. In good heart, they mounted and followed her towards the gate to join the queue of those waiting to retrieve their weapons. Hail ran at her side, eager to hunt. Of them all, he was the only one to look back at the grave mound.

Rain fell at a slanting angle, driven by the wind. The grey mare stood with her tail to the worst of the weather. Breaca sat tall in the saddle, held erect by anger. Without turning her head, she said, ‘So much for Amminios’ pride. It does not outweigh the sight of five hundred spears and the white cloaks that wield them.’

Caradoc was at her left. He too kept his eyes on the enemy. ‘It was a gamble. We lost. I still say it was a necessary risk.’

‘And is it part of that necessary risk that we now face the combined warriors of the Atrebates and their allies, the Dobunni, and that we are outnumbered eight or nine to one? You can fight them. I would not ask the spears of Mona to die for the sake of another man’s pride. We are going home. Send word if you win. I am sure I will hear if you die.’

Rage had sustained her for the two days’ hard ride and the crossing of the sea-river at the end; it did so still. She sat the grey mare on a long, low slope looking down into an empty valley. Behind her waited the honour guard of Mona and seventy additional warriors plus the two hundred of the Trinovantes, supported by Caradoc’s Ordovices. They were nearly a thousand in all, not an inconsiderable force, but they were as cockles in a corn field compared to the thousands upon thousands who filled the slope opposite. Even those spears who had sworn to Caradoc were ranged against them; it had taken less than half a day for them to forswear and change sides. The Atrebates wore pale brown cloaks, the colour of sand; the Dobunni, on the left flank, wore green checked with grey, like lichen on rocks. At their heart, between the two, Breaca could see a single splash of gorseflower yellow. Across the gulf that divided them, she could hear Amminios laugh.

The other two sons of the Sun Hound flanked her, one on either side. To her left she said, ‘You wanted a war. Are you glad now you have it?’

‘We won’t fight them now, it’s too close to winter. This is for show. They know we can do nothing before spring.’ Caradoc rode a dun horse like the one Ban had given him. The white cloak spread across its haunches, sodden with the mud and sweat of the ride as much as the rain. He was as angry as she was and making no effort to hide it. Tight-lipped, he said, ‘I apologize. The fault was mine. Does that make you happy?’

From her right, Togodubnos, who had lost most and handled it best, said, ‘Stop. There is no fault. We tried and we lost. From the moment Amminios refused my offer of the single port and rode south, the rest was inevitable. He lost some men in taking back the southlands from Caradoc’s Ordovices and now we have fewer to fight in spring. That is as good as it could be.’ Staring out at the spears ranged against them, he said, ‘Think; it could be worse. He could have journeyed straight to Rome and asked the new Caesar to give him the legions to take his land back.’

‘What makes you think he won’t?’ Breaca cleared her throat and spat. In the rain and the wind, facing an uncertain future, her rage began to wither. Without it, she was empty, hungry and cold, and none of these things mattered as much as the need to weave a solid alliance that would grow into a force that could fight and win. She sighed and, for the first time since the desperate race from the dun, the Warrior balanced the woman. To whichever of her companions chose to listen, she said, ‘It’s nearly winter. Not even Caligula is mad enough to send troops across the ocean now. We have a full winter to prepare. Our smiths can beat weapons and our warriors can train to use them as they have not done since the time of Caesar. Between us, we can raise an army that will cut down the Atrebates as a blade cuts corn. If the gods are with us, it will be enough to hold the weight of Rome.’

XXI.

IN GERMANY, ON THE BANKS OF THE RHINE, UNDER THE GAZE OF THE Emperor Gaius Julius Caesar Germanicus, also known -although never in his hearing - as Caligula, the probationaries from Gaul put on their best display.

March. Watch the dress of the weapons. The spear’s slipping. Keep your grip and don’t let the tip waver. March.

A circular horn wailed at the rear of the ranks. The cohort paused for a heartbeat and then, to a man, wheeled left. Relief rippled down the lines. Only since midwinter had the probationaries begun to learn the horn notes along with the spoken commands, and only, since the first day of February had they worked with the horn alone; to do it now, and perfectly, was little short of a miracle. Ban noted the relief as he noted everything else, dispassionately. A small part of him marched mechanically in time with the rest. The greater part, his soul, watched and judged and felt nothing.

It had taken some time in the early days after Iccius’ death for Ban to understand the change that had taken place within him. In the beginning, he had thought the void in his soul was a body’s natural response to shock and would pass with time. Slowly, on the journey east through Gaul, he had come to realize that he had lost also the foundations of his life that had held him together in the two years of slavery to Amminios; that Breaca no longer came to him, nor Macha, and that he missed them both. In their place, he grew accustomed to the sense of Iccius walking at his side, or rather, of himself walking with Iccius in the lands of the dead, both of them shades in a land of shadows, saying nothing, but sharing a quiet companionship.

It was not an unpleasant sensation and, having no fear of death, he had found himself insulated from the many fears that beset the Gauls who had joined up with him. He had acquitted himself well so far in the infantry training - he had, in fact, found parts of it challenging, even exhilarating, and had some hopes that he might attain the cavalry, although that was as much for Corvus’ honour as his own. The prefect had almost completed the recruitment for his newly formed cavalry wing, the Ala V Gallorum, and had made it clear that he expected Ban to join his unit as soon as the probationary period was over. It was a hurdle to aim for and no harm in it and it did nothing to hinder Ban’s resolve to find, in time, a means by which he could join his family and Iccius in the lands of the dead; his only constraint was that it must be done with honour.

The Crow was his greatest hope in this regard. The colt had not mellowed on the journey east towards the Rhine. Indeed, it still fought to kill anyone who tried to mount it and Ban spent every moment of his spare time in its company, playing out a complex dance where he provoked danger but must do his best to overcome it. So far he had succeeded and could now mount without fear of serious injury, but nothing was certain.

Keep pace. Maroboduus is stepping short on his left foot. Don’t let him put you off your stride.

The horn brayed again. The mass of men paused briefly and Ban with them. They were nowhere close to the polish of the battlehardened legions who moved reflexively at the first flutter of notes. Perulla, their centurion, raised a threatening arm and movement returned to the ranks of trainees. Ban wheeled right and found he had to skip a step to bring his rhythm in line with the rest.

Hell and damnation, he will have noticed that.

Don’t look back.

He had looked back once during practice and found himself running the first five miles of the training route in full kit for days on the strength of it. Reparation for a missed step in the emperor’s parade would be worse than that, without doubt. He marched on, his eyes fixed on the bobbing helmet of the man ahead and his attention on the silver and scarlet knot of Praetorian Guard standing to attention in the stands, and the man who sat in state amongst them.

He’s asleep. Or he’s dictating to the scribe. Why are we doing this if he’s not paying attention? Look at us, damn you. Or don’t. We don’t need to be noticed. Just let us march and get it over and go back to where you came from. Tell them the Rhine armies are invincible, it is what they want to hear. Better than the truth, that the forest will never yield to Rome, nor should it. What would your Senate say if you told them that, Gaius Germanicus?

Gaius Julius Caesar Germanicus. Caligula. Two names for one man. Before Corvus’ men had ever set foot in Upper Germany, his actions had touched them. They had been travelling through Belgian Gaul when news had reached them that the emperor had ordered the execution of Germany’s governor and that his replacement, Lucius Sulpicius Galba, was in place. Until then, Corvus had kept his men travelling slowly. Ban had found later that the prefect had known what was coming, that he had served under Galba in Aquitania and it was on the incoming governor’s orders that he had begun raising the new cavalry wing. Corvus had been sent west to keep him clear of the trouble and had been ordered to keep his recruits out of the way until the carnage had ended.

Corvus had quickened the pace with the news that the new governor was in place, but still the group did not travel over-fast. In the half-month it took for the new recruits to reach him, Galba had swept like grassfire through the legions of the Rhine, discharging the lame, the indolent and the old with a ferocity that had left the remainder bruised and cowed. Having broken them, the governor set to building them up again. Men who had thought service under the eagle a pleasant way to pass the time had learned their mistake. By the last days of autumn, when Corvus led his men and their long strings of new mounts into the cavalry stockade at Moguntiacum, the legions were buzzing. By late winter, they had built two new legionary forts and the ranks had been able to execute their manoeuvres with a precision not seen since the days of the republic.

In the first days of spring, a new legion had marched in and taken up residence in one half of the newly built quarters. The men of the Legio XXII Primigenia were Roman citizens and they believed themselves as far superior to the Gauls and Germans with whom they exercised as their emperor was to ordinary men. Within five days, they had revised that notion. Within ten, the evil of the river had touched them and the desertions had begun.

Every one of the incomers feared the river. It swept hissing past the camps, a sucker of souls, bearer of bloated carcasses and home to biting insects, and each dawn it spewed a clinging mist that spread out in flat planes that hid the defects in the ground so that the cavalry rode out daily in fear for their horses’ legs. Only those born and raised on the banks of the Rhine found it tolerable. The Batavian auxiliaries could swim it in full armour with their horses beside them and not break ranks. They did it for bets, for training and displays for the senior officers, or simply for the thrill of immersing themselves in its embrace. They loved it for itself and for the one name that was woven inextricably in its history: Arminius, son of Sigimur, destroyer of the legions, the man whose soul, it was said, had taken strength from the river and returned it a hundredfold.

Here, too, the men were divided. The Romans and Gauls would make the sign to avert evil at the sound of Arminius’ name and spit against the wind. The Germans were more discreet and saved their opinions for those whom they trusted most. Ban heard the details from Civilis, the big, broad Batavian with the freckled skin and the washed-gold hair who had clubbed him to unconsciousness at Corvus’ command and been apologizing for it ever since. The Batavians were an emotional people and Civilis, like all his kin, was prone to expansive friendships. Since Durocortorum, he had taken to Ban as a son, or a younger brother lately come to manhood, and the tale of Arminius was one more piece of his heritage that must be learned. He told it sitting on one of the three bridges over the river, dangling his feet over the edge and tossing in pebbles for luck, one for each of the three legions destroyed. ‘The Seventeenth, Eighteenth and Nineteenth are gone with their cohorts and auxiliaries and all their camp followers. They will not be heard of again.’