Dreaming the Bull (51 page)

“Do you think to escape the pain of battle, or to find the courage to fight your own kind?”

His voice betrayed him. It broke in mid-sentence so that while the beginning was deep and resonant, the end piped high and shrill and far too loud. On the ship they could have heard him, or inland, where the Roman guards were seeking their path. Cunomar felt his father turn sharply and saw Dubornos lay a calming hand on his arm and was grateful.

Valerius slewed sideways in his saddle to face him. His gaze came eventually to rest on Cunomar’s face.

“If I did, there will be no escaping now, so you had better hope I have found the courage as you say. Or perhaps the god will stay Marullus’ hand long enough for words to do battle instead of blades. You could pray for that.”

Valerius spoke quietly, his words barely carrying over the waves. He did not sound drunk, but then Cunomar had seen him finish an entire flagon before this and not yet heard him slur a single word.

The path widened between one outcrop and the next.
Cygfa rode forward to Cunomar’s side, as restraint, perhaps, or protection. Perversely, Valerius rode up at his other side, coming so close that the legs of the slave-boy riding behind him brushed Cunomar’s thigh. The tremor of fear passed from one to the other, destroying the calm of the sea.

From the left, Cygfa said, “Do your ghosts warn you now of your death, Roman?”

Valerius rolled his eyes in mock horror. “Why don’t you ask them?”

“They don’t speak to me.”

“No, of course not.” The decurion focused elsewhere on the night around them. “They warn of nothing yet. And my god promises success.”

“Is continued life all you need to judge success?”

Valerius laughed aloud. The wine in him made the sound less than controlled. Gathering himself with some difficulty, he said, “You have spent too long on Mona, warrior, listening to the rhetoric of your elders. Yes, at any other time than this, life would be success enough. Only tonight, your life and that of your family must also be preserved for one to judge it victory.”

“And you think to do that through wine?”

“I will do it by whatever means are to hand.” The man raised the flask, smiling. Behind it, his eyes burned black with anger and unfathomable pain. Cunomar, seeing it, understood then that Valerius could have drunk any amount of wine in this company and never been less than sober.

Dusk progressed towards night. The sun carved indigo cracks in the cloud and lined them with fire. Slowly, the refugees came closer to the ship. At a certain point on the headland, Luain mac Calma cupped his hands to his mouth
and made the sound of the hunting owl. It was well done, but he might as easily have shouted; only a man born and bred in the city would believe that an owl might hunt over the sea and Cunomar did not believe that Marullus, the centurion who tracked them, was a soft city man.

On the ship, the signal was heard and answered and all semblance of secrecy was gone. Lamps flared to light in the half-dusk, casting a chain of wavering fires onto the sea. One, burning more brightly than the rest, began a slow, disjointed progress up the rigging, carried by someone who climbed one-handed and took good care in doing so. When it was halfway up, it began to swing rhythmically from side to side. At this signal, a skiff set out from the ship’s side. It did not look big enough to carry five adults, two youths and a babe, but Cunomar had no doubt it would seem bigger as he approached it. At any rate, it answered the question of how any or all of them might reach a ship standing eight spear-casts off shore.

The skiff speared the water. The oars left foaming trails of pale green light, showing its progress like tracks in sand. It aimed straight for a projecting spur of the headland that one could see was well within reach. Cunomar, watching it, felt a surge of hope such as he had not felt in two years of captivity. He turned to Cygfa, saying, “The traitor’s god may have given him—”

He stopped. The Romans hunting them, having no need for secrecy, had not dragged their blades in the mud. Far back inland, the dying sun drew fire from the length of a
gladius
and showed up the mass of moving shadows around it. Cunomar choked.

Seeing his face, Cygfa spun her horse. Valerius was faster.
The wine flask dropped from his hand and rolled on the turf. He spoke in Belgic, very briefly, then in Eceni. “Mac Calma, take the slave- boy. Ride for the skiff. I’ll hold them.”

Caradoc answered. “One man against nine? I think not. The rocks here curve well and will guard our backs and flanks. We will stand and fight them as warriors. If we are to die, they will remember us for it.”

He had led thousands in war. His voice could contain them all, and protect them. Cunomar felt the certainty of it, the courage and honour that was his birthright, and knew hope for a second time, and a heady pride. The boy drew the blade mac Calma had given him and felt the weight of it drag at his arm. His hope faltered. Now it came to it, he was not certain he could manage even a single swing. He held the blade one-handed and felt for his knife and knew that if the horse jigged beneath him he would lose both and be taken alive and if that happened his father, at least, would stop fighting. It had happened before in the imperial audience room and had cost his father the use of his shoulder. Cunomar would not see it happen again. He shifted both hands to the hilt of the sword and rested the blade on the neck of his horse as the decurion had done. Something inside him melted, messily, and he feared for control of his guts. The bound leather sword-grip slipped in the sweat of his hands and it was all he could do to keep it from falling.

Cygfa tapped his thigh. “Get behind me. If I am killed, or the horse dies beneath me, stay close to mac Calma instead. If there is a chance, ride for the skiff.”

Cygfa was fully alive now, so that Cunomar remembered truly who she had been on the morning before the last battle when he had watched her braid the barred feather into her
hair with Braint. He remembered, too, how he had felt and the curses he had spoken. He felt something similar now, but then envy had been a simple, unsullied thing and now it was tainted by her clear care for him and whatever he felt for her that he could not name. The crow feathers in her hair flew and spun as she turned her head, catching his eye, the marks of a warrior, which she had earned and he had not. She did not mean to flaunt them, at least not at him, but still a kernel of resentment glowed in his chest, firing his resolve.

“No. I will fight at your left, as your shield.” He smiled as he had seen his father smile before battle. “Trust me.”

For a long moment she stared at him, her eyes strange, then said, “Good. It’s time you made your kill, and if we are to cross to the other world in Briga’s care, it would be good if you came to her a warrior.” She grinned as she had once done for Braint and, for the first time, Cunomar understood the comradeship of battle; he loved her and she loved him and they would fight the enemy as equals, each protecting the other. A blossoming joy merged with the fear so that he could not tell which it was that choked him.

Cygfa said, “If we’re going to be shield-mates, you must do as I say without question. Will you swear to me now you will do so?”

He remembered an oath from long ago, sworn on the head of his infant sister. He repeated it word perfect and was pleased to see her eyes widen. “Very good.” He thought she looked impressed. “Then keep your horse’s back to the rock and don’t dismount unless you have to. And stay on my right, not my left. That place is yours today.” She glanced past him and raised her arm. “Philonikos! Bring your horse in here behind us.”

The youth came. He looked ill with fear. Belatedly, at Cygfa’s prompting, he drew his knife. It shook in his hand. Cunomar smiled for him, as he had for Cygfa. “Their armour is weakest under the arms,” he said, having heard it from his mother. “Stab for them there if you can. Or go for the eyes.”

The boy nodded sickly. Cunomar marked again in his mind the spot on the youth’s chest where he would have to stab to end his life cleanly when they were overwhelmed.

The remaining warriors had brought their horses in at his right hand with the rock to their backs, each protecting the exposed flank of the other except at the ends, to Cygfa’s left and Caradoc’s right, where the rock curved round to keep them safe. At the end of the line, Caradoc swung his blade, testing the limit of his right shoulder. When it was clear he would not be able to fight that way, he moved his shield to the right and swung his sword with the left. They learned such things in the warriors’ school on Mona, but Cunomar did not think his father had learned it well, and even if he had, the scars on his left wrist made it weaker. Caradoc said something inaudible to Cwmfen and she changed sides, coming to his right. Like her daughter, she was whole and supple, but the babe Math was strapped to her back and hampered her movements.

Along the rest of the line, mac Calma and Dubornos, dreamer and singer, stood together on Caradoc’s left. Dubornos asked, “Will they have archers?”

Valerius shook his head. “Not unless they have brought them from the town guard.”

Mac Calma said, “There are no archers in Gesoriacum.”

“But I can count more than nine in their line. Your centurion has called on reinforcements from somewhere.”
Cygfa said this last and was right. The enemy had slowed now, knowing themselves seen. More than a dozen men strung out in a line in the darkness, marked by starlit glimmers of bronze and unsheathed iron.

Cunomar tried to count the exact number of enemy blades and could not. The hilt of his own sword still slipped in the running sweat of his palms. He gripped it with both hands and repeated to himself the oath he had sworn to Cygfa. All warriors felt fear, his father had told him so; the test of true courage was to fight in spite of it, not in its absence. The thrill of absolute terror vibrated in his chest and he swore to himself in Briga’s name that he would die a warrior, true to his heritage.

The advancing line was close enough to see the detail of the enemy armour, if not their insignia. Dubornos, squinting, said, “I can count eight more besides the nine that have followed us. The new ones are Gaulish cavalrymen.” He glanced sideways at Valerius. “You were with the Gauls when you forced the salmon-trap, were you not? Maybe they’ve sent your old troop against you.”

Valerius was stiffly white. The thought, apparently, was not new to him. “Maybe they have,” he said.

He was not part of their group but had placed himself in front and to the left. In the tribes, only one resolved to stand and fight in single combat—or to die—would do so. As if remembering late these two alternatives, he spoke sharply in Belgic to the slave-boy riding behind him, who shook his head, clutching the back of the man’s tunic more tightly. Valerius lifted his arm as if to hit him and stopped suddenly, staring out into the night. He let the arm fall.

“Stay if you will,” he said, and then, “That’s the Cockerel
on the standard, not the Pegasus. These are not the Quinta Gallorum. He’s brought a detail of the town guard.” The relief was audible to them all, and the spare, unvaunted courage as Valerius pushed his horse forward. “Now would be a good time to pray that Marullus truly has brought no archers.”

He stopped in full view of the enemy, raised his hand in a cavalry salute and shouted.

“Marullus!”

The strength of his voice was astonishing. It was clear that he had fought on battlefields where an officer might need to be heard at a distance, shouting to his own men or, as here, calling the name of the man who led his enemies.

“Marullus!” He shouted a second time and the name hung clear as beaten bronze in the silence.

The enemy halted, granting him the honour of a hearing. No arrows fell from the night to punish his impudence.

As if speaking from a memorized text, Valerius said, “Father! Greetings in the name of the Slain Bull and the Raven. A son should not oppose his Father, nor be opposed. I wish you no ill but I am under oath to god and emperor. Let their will be done.”

Marullus’ voice was deeper and it, too, had known war. It shook the chests of all those who heard it, as Neptune’s might. It was not unkind. “The god’s will is unknowable but the emperor has named you traitor. His will is law. You will die now or later. Better for you that it be now.”

Traitor.
Mac Calma had said it already but it had more certainty now. The word drifted like snow in the night, coming down again and again on those who stood waiting with their backs to the sea and the last taste of freedom. One could imagine the death Rome offered a traitor, and fear it.

Valerius’ voice was steady. “Who is emperor?”

“Nero, sworn successor to Claudius. You know that. You saw the black smoke of the lighthouse fire.”

They had all seen it. Even Cunomar had known it signalled their certain doom. The decurion had been alone in believing otherwise.

Still casting his voice to the dark, Valerius shouted, “My orders were taken in good faith from a living man. If his successor wished to countermand them, he had only to send word.”

“He tried. You cut the throat of the bearer who had tracked you for two days to deliver exactly those orders to you in person.”

Valerius fell silent. In his lack of words was Cygfa’s unvoiced accusation.
See? You killed without need. No true warrior does so.

Mac Calma knew nothing of the slain messenger. Breaking the silence, he said quietly, “Thank you. They will not turn back now but you have done your best and we are grateful. There is still time for you to leave. The track to the west is clear and leads to villages where there are those who do not support Rome. I think they will not follow you when they have us penned here.”

Valerius laughed harshly. “And where would I go? If I am named traitor in Rome and Gaul, then as much so in Britannia. The Prima Thracum has no use for an officer who has committed treason against his emperor. It seems the god has spoken and he no longer promises success. Perhaps in the afterworld, he will explain why.”

He looked out into the night. He ran his sword along the crook of his elbow, wiping the blade free of mud so that
the rising moon and the stars raised a glimmer on the surface. Raising it, he shouted a final time, “Your choice, Marullus! We will test the son against the Father.”