Dreaming the Hound (31 page)

‘No. In the original form of the test, the third spear is cast at the warrior who failed the throw, the one who did not make the kill. Thus, in starting, both know that they risk death and must throw their best, not knowing the accuracy of the other. The gods hold it in their hands to change the flight of a spear, or for the condemned warrior to stumble or fall so that a spear thrown truly may yet miss.’

‘He is not tied?’

‘No. He, or she, must stand upright and embrace the coming spears. Thus is a warrior’s courage tested, and a chance given to honour the gods.’

The governor was staring at her with an intensity he had given to nothing else that day. Breaca said, ‘It is a way of deciding the outcome of a battle with minimal loss of life. The tribe of the one warrior left alive is considered to have won.’

Softly, the governor said, ‘My lady, your people and mine are no longer at war.’

‘We are not. The battles have long since been fought and their outcome is in no doubt. There is no precedence for this in our rites, but I believe we could throw for honour and in celebration of the gods, yours and mine. The third spear could be thrown symbolically into the body of the prisoner as you proposed. It must take some part in a death, else Briga will be dishonoured.’

‘I see. Of course, we should not dishonour so formidable a god.’ He was nodding, his gaze fixed on hers. ‘It is fortunate, perhaps, , that we have three spears to hand. Would they be similar to those used in this trial?’

‘Identical. This is the second use for the heron-spears of the Caledonii.’

‘And is that a coincidence?’

They were no longer speaking for the crowd. Breaca said, ‘Your honour, under the eyes of the gods there are no coincidences, but I swear in the name of everything we both hold sacred that I had no idea that the spears I fashioned as a gift for you would be used against a member of my tribe today. Had my daughter not mentioned it, I would not have remembered that the spear challenge existed. It is a thing we speak of in our histories but do not practise. It was carried out in the times of the ancestors and then only rarely; no-one living has attempted it that I know of, nor back in time for over three generations. If the governor would honour us by accepting it, he would be recreating one of our most ancient ceremonies.’

She raised her voice only a little for this last sentence, but the theatre was well made; her words echoed out to the back walls and round again. Men and women of the tribes who had been born into freedom remembered the shadows of the grandmothers’ tales. Few, if any, would know the deeper details of a ceremony carried out by a distant northern tribe, although the more astute, knowing the ways of the she-bears, could imagine it.

The governor of Britannia was one of the most astute men of his generation. He said, ‘Was it ever the case that the rulers of the tribes took part in this trial? Or was it their chosen champions?’

‘It could be either. That decision was taken by the dreamers and the gods. All three of those taking part were chosen by lottery.’

‘So the one to die was not necessarily either a prisoner or a law breaker?’

‘Not always. It was a position of honour as much as the other two. The one who died first did so taking the messages of both tribes to the gods. By his integrity were the lives of the other two measured.’

Breaca was talking automatically, not choosing her words. Her attention had shifted almost entirely to Cunomar, who had ceased to struggle against Graine and was sitting upright in his seat, his fair skin bone-white in the afternoon shadow, his eyes large and black.

In a dry, taut voice she knew intimately but had never heard before from her son, he said, ‘If it must be so, let me be the one to throw for the Eceni.’

He had cast his spear not hearing its soul-song and did not understand the lack. Eneit did. The warning on his face worked past the bruising and the cuts. Cunomar chose not to see it and

Breaca could not explain in public. Her son’s eyes drained her, the shine of his soul and the desperate courage it had taken to make this request in this place amongst these people, and the conviction that he would succeed. Her heart broke open on his certainty, on his pride and ignorance and the cost to them all of his certain failure. Caught in a tidal wave of pain, he had not thought through to its end the fate of a warrior who failed this trial.

The governor was waiting, his face a model of restrained curiosity. Cunomar had spoken in Eceni, which he must understand, at least in part. Breaca could not change to another language without arousing undue suspicion.

Cunomar felt her decision before it came. With a desperate courage, he abandoned the last of his pride and begged. ‘Mother, please? It is his life and mine.’

No battle had ever been harder. Holding her son’s gaze, knowing what it cost him, Breaca said, ‘No.’

‘Mother! It’s Eneit. You can’t let these godless, bull-worshipping sons of—’

‘Tagos stopped him, physically. In the eyes of Rome if nowhere else, the king of the Eceni was the boy’s father and responsible for his conduct. He clamped his one hand over Cunomar’s mouth, harder and more fiercely than Graine had done, and with less love.

‘Your honour? If I may make a suggestion?’ The voice from the benches caught the attention of all but Cunomar’s immediate family. Valerius Corvus, prefect of the auxiliaries, squeezed past his fellows and stepped down onto the raked sand from where he saluted the governor, crisply. The bandage on his head showed cream in the sun, the one on his leg was in shade and grey.

He said, ‘Your honour, as I understand it, in the days of the ancestors, the dreamers of the she-bear would have named those who should take part in such a trial. No dreamers are permitted to practise their craft, but we must uphold the honour of Rome and the emperor and it behoves us to do our best in this. The heron spears of the Caledonii are not balanced as are the spears of the legions. Their flight and cast length is different and the feathers hung from the neck make them exquisitely sensitive to any gust of wind. As you know, I spent a winter and a spring in this land before the invasion and I have thus had some experience in the use of Eceni war spears, which are similar. Thus I would offer my services in this, as one fit to uphold Roman honour.’

All the way through his speech, Breaca had warned Corvus with

her eyes. He had acknowledged the warning and chosen to ignore it.

The governor placed his palms together and tapped the peak of his fingertips to his lips. If he had been a warrior, one would have imagined he asked advice of Briga and was given it.

Presently, he said, ‘Thank you for your offer and the arguments surrounding it. I accept the first part, which is that this trial is an honourable one and should certainly take place. I agree also that it is not without its dangers, both told and untold. I do not accept your second premise. You are injured and, as such, are not fit to represent Rome.’

If he had been slapped on the face, Corvus could not have looked more shocked. ‘Your honour—’

‘No. With respect, prefect, you are like the boy; ardent and willing but blind to your own defects. He is too young and too unskilled. He has not yet shed blood in battle and his affection for the prisoner is too apparent. You have age and skill enough for any task, I would never suggest otherwise, but you are less than a month from wounds that nearly killed you. You bear the evidence yet in your dressings, and for those who know you it shows more clearly in your walk and the way you hold your head when you believe yourself alone and unwatched.’ Unexpectedly, he turned to address someone on the bench behind. ‘Theophilus? In your opinion, is the prefect fit to take on a role equivalent to combat in battle?’

The physician jerked his head from a study of Eneit. ‘Absolutely not.’

‘Thank you.’ The governor stood and was a younger man, scenting battle and eager. To Breaca, he said, ‘Your gods are not my gods but they lived on this land long before we came and will do so long after we are all dust and ashes. We will honour them with our best endeavour. I believe myself to be capable of that. Do I take it that you will represent the Eceni, from whom the prisoner comes? You may be assured that in this place and this time you have my full permission to take up and cast a blade of a length forbidden to the tribes.’

‘Thank you. Yes, I will represent my people.’

Her words carried throughout the theatre. By the end of the day, they would have spread to those Trinovantes not present, and by the end of the month to the tribes beyond. If Breaca had ever wanted to stake her place as a warrior without saying aloud the name of the Boudica, she had just done so.

Only give them heart, and you may prevail. She offered a prayer to the god that this might be so, and safely.

A smaller ripple moved the ranks of benches beside the governor. Cygfa had wanted to throw for the Eceni but had not been able to say so. Cunomar struggled against his father and was held silent. His eyes screamed unending anguish at his mother. Of her children, only Graine, with her shy smile, approved.

From the back of the stage, Eneit, forgotten, said, hoarsely, ‘Thank you.’

There was room enough in the semicircle between benches and stage for the governor to pace back thirty paces away from one end and mark a line in the sand with the heel of his boot. Fresh guards, summoned at a nod, cleared the audience from the ranks of benches on the eastern side of the theatre lest one of the three spears, chancing to fly high or a little to one side, should taste the blood of an onlooker.

Eneit was unbound and escorted to his stance by the officers of the guard. Breaca followed, holding back until they had left him. She was not a dreamer and her memory of the rites was not perfect. She wanted to ask the details of Airmid who was half a day’s fast ride away, or Graine, who had to stay with Cunomar and was equally inaccessible.

Trust the gods and yourself. You will know what is right. She could and did pray, and felt the touch of the god’s breath on her neck. Holding the three names of Briga in her head, she watched the guards walk back out of earshot. Each of them made the Roman sign that was the ward against evil as he left. She was glad of that.

Eneit could stand unaided, which had been her first question. His one good eye was alight and lively. He attempted a smile and held it against obvious pain. Using his body as a shield so that none of the onlookers, from Rome or the tribes, could see, Breaca sketched her own sign of the serpent-spear on his forehead, on the centre of his breastbone and in the space below his navel. She made the signs slowly, with obvious ceremony, giving him time to empty of words.

On the first of the three, he said, ‘I went back to the ancestors’ mound. It was a mistake. I was seen by a tracker of the Coritani who reported it. The legionaries took Sinochos’ blade and broke it. I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. Blades can be mended. It is you who cannot, for

which we are all more than sorry. If there were a way to free you, we would take it, I swear.’ Breaca made the second sign.

‘I know. And my mother knows. She always told me that the day I held an edged weapon would be the day I died. I had always thought it would be in battle.’

‘It was. You killed two of theirs. You go to the gods with one more dead than the cost of your life. There are many who die in battle who could not say the same. The spear-challenge of the she bears is only for proven warriors, did you know that?’

His good eye sparked, joyfully. ‘I had hoped it was. Do I carry a message to the gods?’

‘Ask them to look over us when the final battles come. We will need their help more than ever.’

The third sign was complete. She had done all she could. On an impulse, and nothing to do with any rites she had witnessed, Breaca held the boy’s shoulders and, very gently, mindful of his bruises, kissed him on the brow. His body shuddered under her touch, but not with pain.

Thickly, Eneit said, ‘Tell my mother I’m sorry to have hurt her, but not sorry to have killed the enemy in battle. Tell Cunomar …’ He faltered, losing the words.

‘I will tell him you love him. He knows it already. You will know how he feels for you.’ She had not seen the depth of their care for each other and should have done. The failure scoured her.

Eneit smiled. ‘I do. Thank you. Tell him from me that he must find the courage to live on from today, that I will be watching from the lands beyond life and will wait to greet him from a place where a year passes in a heartbeat.’

‘In the place of no time, a heartbeat lasts also eternity.’

‘I know. Don’t tell him that. He has no patience. Remind him of the meaning of my name and say that he should give it to his son when he has one.’

Eneit’s name was the word for spirit and it filled him. He was neither weeping, nor plunged in self-pity. She had seen warriors ride into battle with less courage. Breaca said so, backing away, and the wide, lazy blaze of his smile lit the highest stands.

She walked back the thirty paces slowly, giving him time to savour the sun and the lingering moments of life beyond grief and

loss. He had not seemed in pain as she left and the shaking had stopped. He had, she thought, already begun to see Briga circling with her ravens. There was no better sight for one entering battle.

Breaca’s gift to the governor had been retrieved from the table by the stage and laid out so that the spear-blades rested on the edge of the box and the butt ends of the hafts lay wedged in sand. The undyed heron feathers dangled loose and twisted in the breeze. The different colours of the butt ends distinguished them.

The governor had already picked the palest, most gold of the three. He stood beside it, stripped of his cloak and the gilded cuirass. Another man might have looked plain; he did not. He said, ‘Have you ever thrown a spear of this design?’

‘No. It is not permitted to lift one except under the guidance of a dreamer. They have only a single throw and then are broken. I made them; I did not test them. I would not put you at so great a disadvantage.’

‘I apologize. I had not intended an insult.’

‘None is taken. The wind is from the southwest but it has been caught by the arc of the theatre and is turbulent in the middle of the space. As Corvus said, the large blades and trailing feathers make the spears sensitive to the air. They are the hardest to throw of any weapon. You need to hear the soul-song of the spear to make a true cast.’