‘For Scot’s Landing beneath it.’
‘I know. Remember how much I inquired before we left home.’
‘Since they are forced on to a lee shore, those with men aboard who know it pick the only safe spot. The rest follow.’
‘It is not safe,’ Niall said grimly. ‘I think Ysan fighters are waiting there to slay them as they debark.’
‘That could well be.’ Uail regarded his King. ‘You’ve a plan, master,’ he repeated.
‘I do that.
We
can work north. Never would I willingly forsake men who’ve trusted me. Have you not told me of another landing beyond the city?’
‘I have. It is on the far side of Point Vanis, as they call that part. The Romans had a station there, but Saxons destroyed it and nobody has used it since.’
‘We will. If the Ysans plotted this, as I do believe, then they expect that whoever came through the reefs alive will seek haven at Scot’s Landing. There they’ll stand prepared. Now our lads, however wearied, should give a good account of themselves. But I doubt they can force a passage to the heights and refuge in the hinterland. The Ysan aim must be to kill most and drive the rest back to the hungry waters. We, though – here we’ve a shipful of the finest warriors in Ériu. We’ll dock at the old station, hurry overland around the city, strike the Ysans from
behind, scatter them and join our comrades. After that, the enemy should sit earthed behind his defences till the weather clears and we can fare homeward.’
‘Homeward? … Well, it took Lir Himself to make Niall maqq Echach retreat. We’ll bring back our honour, if nothing else.’ Uail hesitated, even while he strained at the oar. ‘But what if the other approach is guarded also?’
Niall’s head lifted haughty as his banner. ‘Why, we’ll cut our way through.’
‘Row, you scuts!’ Uail cried. ‘Stroke, stroke, stroke!’
Four currachs, which happened to be far enough north, managed to follow. Doubtless the foe was watching and would guess the intent; but given his need to man the southern harbourage, could he stem
this
tide? The hope of rescue, vengeance, and glory swelled higher in Niall than ever did lust for a woman.
Passing the headland, where the pharos stood like a sinister phallus, he was almost unaware of the white fury of water churning between it and the city wall. This was his first sight of Ys. He caught his breath.
The rampart shot up sheer, a cliff itself, topped by crags that were turrets. The very smoothness of that height, the marshalling of battlements above, even the frieze of playful, colourful shapes aloft in the granite, made it more awesome than the ruggednesses which abutted on it. The gate was shut – barred and locked, Niall had heard – and the floats that opened it at low tide dashed back and forth, up and down, on waves that ramped and foamed. When one of those padded balls struck stone or metal-sheathed wood, a drum-boom rolled huge and hollow through the wind, with an iron rattle from the chains.
Behind the wall rose towers like frozen cataracts, rainbow-hued; and on the slopes beyond were terraces, gardens, gracious dwellings; and suddenly, briefly, Niall
thought he saw why the Romans in Alba had given him such stubborn resistance. He had his men to save. The galley drove onwards.
2
Another cloudburst struck, fiercer and longer than any before. Rain slanted down in sheaves of spears; hail skittered off stones and made hoar the grass it had flattened; wind shrilled till a soldier’s head rang in his casque. At last, as quickly as it had come, it went. The gale was dropping too. Through a brief rift in heaven, a sunbeam smote out of the west, from low above the waves, and shattered dazzlingly on them.
Eppillus trudged to the path and a little way through its mud and cascades, for a look below. When he saw, he stopped and whistled softly. Somehow, during the squall, a ship of the Saxon kind and four boats had made fast at the ruins of the wharf. They were vomiting warriors.
‘Son of a bitch,’ he muttered to himself. ‘More than we bargained for.’ Slipping and swearing, he climbed back up and trotted across to where his legionaries stood ranked. Native archers and slingers stared over their defensive walls, read his visage, and readied their weapons.
‘If we wanted a fight, Mithras has been mighty generous,’ he rasped. ‘We can’t hold the path against as many as are coming. Scoti are like goats anyway. Most o’ them ’ud scramble around and take us from the rear. Budic, boy, hit leather.’ He jerked a thumb at a horse tethered nearby. ‘Go tell the centurion we got a hundred or worse bandits on our hands here and could use whatever reinforcements he can spare us.’
The Coritanian snapped a salute, leapt to the saddle, and was off. To the rest, Eppillus continued: ‘What we’ll do is deploy in a half circle beyond the barriers. I drilled you in the manoeuvre; now let me stir those pea soup memories o’ yours. It breaks the line, but just the same, man for man you’re better than any two unarmoured barbarians. Besides, the idea is to let the lilies and the sharpshooters take some o’ them first. I expect they’ll get together after that and go hooting away inland. Whoever they’ve happened to point themselves at, stand firm. Everybody else watch me. When I swing my sword over my head, like this, you run to me, around any enemy. We’ll take tight formation while he’s busy with those first few of us and hit him wherever he looks ripest for it. Got me? All right, to your posts. Hang in there for Mother Rome, not to speak o’ your flea-bitten necks.’
He stumped to his place at the middle, directly opposite the trailhead. Though the wind was falling off, its chill bit through metal, wool, and flesh. Drenched, grass moved sluggishly under its flow. A second sunbeam pierced the tattered, flying gloom and lit wildfire over the wetness. He remembered such weather from his boyhood in Dobunnia – but there the countryside was tamed, neatly kept, graced with trees along the roads and in the paddocks where cattle grazed red, farmsteads such as the one which waited for him – not bleak and open above a city where sorceries laired; and the storms came in honest wise, of themselves. Eppillus swore, spat, planted his flat feet firmer on the ground, and loosened blade in sheath.
The Scoti appeared. Leading them was a very tall man. His shield was blood-coloured. The sea had not dimmed the brightness of his steel, garish clothes, beard, or the locks that streamed yellow from under a helmet. His billowing cloak half concealed a younker who bounded on his right. Behind him spilled his followers. Their
weapons whirled, their yells resounded, thinned but sharpened by the wind.
Before drawing his own sword, Eppillus dropped hand to a pouch at his wrist and squeezed it. The shape of the thunderstone within was comforting. ‘Sweat us out some luck, will you?’ he said. ‘Mithras, Lord o’ Battles, into Your keeping I give my soul. Come on, stone, I know you can do your job.’
As he observed, his heart bounded for joy till he thought it must be making the hair on his chest quiver. The foe had forgotten even such schoolboy discipline as their sort had shown in Britannia. They swarmed forward any old way, howling at the wide-spaced Romans.
Bows twanged. Slings snapped. Barbarians lurched, stared and scrabbled at arrows in them, fell to earth and lay writhing while blood pumped forth. Skulls shattered in a gush of brains where lead smote. Beneath other men turf collapsed, pits opened, their screams rose faintly from the stakes at the bottom whereon they were skewered. Why, this alone may panic them, Eppillus thought.
No. Their leader shouted. His sword flared aloft, a beacon. The wild men heard, and saw, and rallied to him. He has the magic, Eppillus thought. I’ve seen it before. The centurion has some, but this fellow got all there was to get.
The stripling loped ahead, probing for traps with a spear. In a loosely gathered pack, the Scoti came after. They were too fast for missiles to inflict many more casualties. Reaching the wall on their right, they overran it and butchered its Ysans in passing. The tall man stayed in their van. His sword flickered back and forth like lightning. Drops of blood dashed off it into the wind. He turned left and made for the centre of the defence.
He’s aiming straight at me, Eppillus realized. He knows what he’s doing. It’s like last year over again.
The deputy waved his blade on high. From the corners of his eyes he saw his men leave their posts and converge on him. Good soldiers, good grumbly roadpounders. But here came the Scoti.
Roman javelins flew. They stopped too few of those bastards.
Still ahead of his warriors, the tall man reached Eppillus. His blade whirred. The deputy’s shield caught the blow. Its violence tore through hand and arm and shoulder to rattle his teeth. He shoved the boss forward. The Scotic buckler intercepted that. Eppillus brought the top rim of his shield upward, trying for the jaw. The tall man swayed easily aside. His sword swung underneath.
Eppillus felt the impact as something remote, not quite real. Abruptly his left knee gave way. He shifted weight to the right foot and stabbed. His point went into red-, painted wood. The barbarian cut him across the forearm. His hand lost its grasp, he let go of his sword. His shield overbalanced him on the crippled left leg. As he fell, another blow took him in the neck.
Battle thundered over him. Armour or no, he felt ribs break. It didn’t hurt, nor was the blood that ran out of his wounds anything but warm. He was afar, a boy, lying at ease in a meadow where honeybees buzzed. Dimly he heard shouts, clash of iron, thud and grunt and saw-edged shriek. He tried to think what it meant, and could not, and gave himself up to sleep in the great summer.
3
Those of the Scoti who put their currachs alongside Ghost Quay and sprang on to it made a mistake. Ysan marines stood there, full-armoured, shield by shield in the Roman manner. From that fortress the laurel-leaf blades darted out. Archers and slingers on the path above sent a steady hail. Soon the close-packed stones were buried under corpses and entrails, while the water beneath foamed red.
Others among the incomers sought east of the wharf. They could beach their leather boats under the trail that led to Scot’s Landing, though time was lacking to secure these and most soon drifted away. Meanwhile the crews must climb a steep and rocky slope to the path – where poised the sailors of Ys. That became a desperate battle.
Holding the high ground, the shellbacks finally prevailed. Such of the barbarians as survived withdrew to the water’s edge, panting and snarling. A lull fell over the combat.
The wind was likewise dying down. Waves still ran gigantic, casting whiteness yards aloft where they burst on reefs and cliffs, but their ferocity was spending itself. The storm had done its work; now nature would fain rest.
Maeloch wiped his axe on the shirt of a dead foe-man. Rising, he leaned on the weapon, drew long breaths, stared outward.
‘What be ye thinking about so hard, skipper?’ asked Usun at his side.
‘I wondered what’ll become of the enemy fallen,’ Maeloch answered.
Usun was surprised. ‘Why, I suppose the funeral
barge’ll take them out and sink them, save as with anybody else but a King.’
‘Aye. But after that, what? Will they knock on our doors call us to ferry
their
spirits off – and to where?’
Usun shivered, he who had lately filled edged metal with furiousness. ‘Gods, I hope not! They’d find scant welcome on Sena. Can we cast a spell to keep them down, d’ye suppose?’
‘Not ye nor me, mate. Let’s ask our wives to try. ’Tis the women that stand closest to death, like they do to life.’
4
Dahilis had never altered the house she inherited from her mother. To her its softly tinted pastoral frescos had once been signs of love and peace, afterwards of refuge, lately of joy. She did fill vases with flowers in season; and in her bedroom she had replaced an ivory image of maternal Belisama with a wooden one. It was crude, but it had been carved for her when she was a child by an adoring manservant.
In dimness scented by roses, she knelt before the niche, raised her hands, and begged:
‘All-holiest, ward him. If he must go to the fight, ride before him, Wild Huntress. Keep him safe, Protectress. And if he is hurt – he is so brave, you know – make him whole again, Healer. For the sake of Your people. Who else is more wise and good? Oh, let him live many, many years. When time comes for the Sacrifice, may it be me who goes instead of him. Please.’
Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘But not ere – well, you know.’
The last few days, while Gratillonius was too busy to visit her, she had been sick in the mornings; and for more than a month, she had had no courses. She could hardly wait to tell him.
5
The King’s reserves were standing by at Warriors’ House, with horses bridled and saddled just outside High Gate. Thus when Budic delivered his news they were on their way immediately.
Galloping up the road on to Point Vanis, they saw the Scoti swarming down. What was left of the legionaries, about two dozen, followed closely but no longer pressed the attack. Maybe if Eppillus had been in command – but he wasn’t. The knowledge rammed into Gratillonius. Indeed an overwhelming force had landed here. It must have been more skilfully led than barbarians usually were, too. Plain to see was that, in spite of their losses, the Scoti had outflanked the Romans before those could dress ranks, killed several, and held the remainder off by rearguard action. Since they were not bound east towards safety but south towards Cape Rach, their intention must be to aid their fellows at Scot’s Landing. If they took the Ysans there in the back, they might well clear that whole area and evacuate every raider who was alive.
‘By the Bull,’ said Gratillonius, ‘it shall not be. Ghost of Eppillus, hear me.’ He cast reins over his horse’s nose, a signal to the well-trained beast that it must not stray, and jumped to the ground. In their strange bright armour, his marines did likewise. They assumed formation and quick-marched to intercept the Scoti.
There was no mistaking the enemy chief, a tall, golden-
haired man, like some pagan God of war. I’m going after him first, Gratillonius decided. Once we’ve taken him out, the rest will be dung to our pitchforks.