Dreaming the Bull (52 page)

More quietly to those around him, as if ordering his cavalry troop, he said, “Be ready. The rock prevents them from attacking the flanks and so they will send half the Gaulish auxiliaries as a spear-head to force a breach in the centre then come at us in line abreast. If the spear-head works and you are split into two groups, form circles with your backs to the centre and the weakest inside. Keep as close as you can to the rock; it will act as a shield.”

He raised his blade in salute and his face held the same dry, wine-fuelled mockery he had maintained for their two weeks of journey. To any and all he said, “Good luck. If your gods still listen, pray to them now for a clean death in battle. We are outnumbered by more than three to one. It should not take long.”

However much they loathed him, they could not call him a coward. In the moments before the two lines closed, Cunomar heard him speaking aloud in a tongue that was neither Eceni, nor Latin nor Gaulish. To untrained ears, it sounded like a litany of names, spoken in defiance. At the end he heard three spoken hard in Eceni, as a summoning. The last of them was the hound’s name, Hail.

With bitter vehemence, Valerius cursed the many names of his god in the tongue of the eastern magi who had first brought him to men. He did not want to die. He did not want to face the ghosts without Mithras’ protection. He did not want to fight against Marullus, whom he respected as much as any officer of the legions and more than most. He
particularly did not want to fight and die in the company of Caradoc of the Three Tribes who may or may not have betrayed him and of Luain mac Calma who may or may not have sired him. If he had to do all these things, then he wanted a shield, badly, and the company of Longinus Sdapeze who, alone of all men, could still settle him before battle, could make him laugh and set impossible wagers that made the business of war seem less brutal and more of a game.

Mithras did not answer the curses any more than he had answered the day’s prayers. He sent seventeen trained men against five adults and two children and it was not a game. Valerius was grateful only for the mare; he had picked her himself from the emperor’s stables before he left Rome and she was battle trained to a standard even Longinus would have appreciated. In the stretch of time before the first clash of iron, Julius Valerius, who had once been Bán of the Eceni, called in the ghosts that judged him most harshly, challenging them to stay with him until he died.

The Gauls came in a spear-head to break the centre as he had said they would. Valerius held the mare back until the first had crossed blades with Caradoc and then launched in from the side, acting as his own one-man wedge to break their group. It was not an orthodox manoeuvre, but it was what an officer would do. He would not have it said later by Marullus that he had acted either rashly or without courage. As the mare plunged forward, he heard the Belgic boy squeal in terror and offered a quite different prayer to the god, of regret for a child’s needless dying.

He killed the first of the enemy on a reflex, striking the unprotected throat of a man who would kill a weaponless slave-boy simply because he was an easy kill and only
afterwards, as the body fell away from him, did he see that it was a Roman, not a Gaul, whose life he had ended and that he knew the man. It was too late by then for regret; regret led to death and his body would not allow it.

Wrenching his horse away from another slicing blade, Valerius passed Cygfa, who killed as one born to it, keeping Cunomar safe at her side and Philonikos behind her. Breaking the sword arm of a Gaul for her, he heard her shout to Cunomar, “That one is yours!” and turned back in time to see the man use his shield to batter aside the boy’s powerless stroke and thrust the boss on through for his face. It was a killing blow, aimed to crush skull and vertebrae to the marrow. Valerius’ sword moved in a line of its own making, slicing up beneath the tilt of the man’s helmet into the only unarmoured space that would ensure a kill.

The shield dropped from nerveless fingers, missing the boy’s face by less than a hand’s breadth. The Gaul toppled from the saddle. Valerius saw Cunomar’s mouth contort in a scream that may equally have been despair or hatred or, less probably, thanks, but heard nothing. The noise of battle was already too great to hear one voice above many. Other Gauls attacked from the sides and a boy’s missed chance of glory mattered not at all.

The defenders killed and took wounds but none died. The rocks protected their backs and sides so that the enemy could only come from the front. In that much, Marullus had misjudged them, or had not thought to send scouts ahead to check the terrain. Valerius knew a blossoming hope until, in a moment of quiet, he heard the clatter of scattering shingle, like rain on a roof, and, looking to his right, saw a fresh body of horsemen riding hard from the west, the side away
from the town. They blocked all chance that any of the defenders might slip back from the battle line and run for the skiff, which was doubtless why they were there.

The officer in him admired Marullus’ tactics afresh even while he sought to counter them. The mare spun back of her own accord. Two men came at him, one on either side, and Valerius pulled on her soft mouth, hurting her, taking her up and out of reach. He felt the sudden draught on the small of his back and knew the slave- boy had fallen away and was sorry. He killed the first man and found that Luain mac Calma had taken the second. The dreamer should not have been there; he was needed elsewhere. In the knot of warriors that held both Caradoc and Dubornos, Valerius could hear the false ring of iron on at least one weak blade. When he took time to look, he could see that Cwmfen had moved her horse closer to Caradoc’s right, shielding him, and that the warrior was visibly tiring. He had no love for any of those who fought with him, but if their deaths were to be entwined, he did not want it sooner than he could help.

Marullus’ second line of men moved in. Breaking a thrust spear—the Gauls had spears!—Valerius shouted to mac Calma, “See to Caradoc. I am well.”

“Then get the boy back and ride for the skiffs. It is you they are trying to kill, not us.”

It was true. The brunt of the Roman attack was aimed against him. Only the dangerous shifting shingle of the beach and the warriors on either side stopped them from overwhelming him. In the mayhem, the dreamer shouted again, “Get the boy!” His blade danced right and left, making space about them. His hair and his cloak flagged in the wake of his turns. “Ride for the skiffs, man!”

“Can’t … new troop of Gauls in the way … death to move from here.”

“No. They’re our Gauls … friends…” A blade cut the flank of mac Calma’s horse and the beast reared, flailing, spoiling the killing stroke. The dreamer slashed back in his own right. Iron belled on iron. There was a chance he might live, which was more than could be said for the others.

Caradoc was wounded. Valerius could see from the way his horse moved that his right hand no longer controlled the reins. He pulled away from mac Calma.
Our Gauls?
Impossible. All Gauls were sworn to the emperor and Rome. A blade streaked across at eye height and the impossibility of Gaulish allies would have killed him if he had thought about it more.

Thinking kills. Unthinking, he knocked his attacker from his horse and then reached low from the saddle to slice the man’s leg below the chain mail, leaving the great vessel spewing blood and his enemy clutching his last moments of life.
Is life less precious to the grown man who understands what he has to lose…? I think not.
He was becoming detached so that a part of him floated above the battle, watching and judging. As always at such times, the ghosts had gone, which was unfair; if Valerius were going to die, he wanted them there to witness it. Savagely, he called them back and his heart rejoiced when they came.

Instinct pulled him to the right-hand end of the line to where Caradoc had slid from his horse and was fighting side by side with Cwmfen, using his body to guard Math, who was strapped to her back. Dubornos was wounded but still used his sword to good effect. He knelt at Cwmfen’s side, lacking the use of one leg. Weakened and without shields and proper armour, none of the three could live long.

Valerius was about to dismount and join them when a shield grazed the knuckles of his left hand, the grip pressing into his palm. He had swung his blade halfway to the side before he understood and slowed its arc. He took his eyes off the enemy long enough to look down and found the Belgic boy, who had neither ridden nor sailed but who might, once, have seen battle, or heard of it around a fire in the winter in the days when he was free. The boy smiled and was, indeed, Iccius, who had died in a hypocaust. The pain in Valerius’ chest might have been enough to kill him had not a ringing, many-voiced battle cry from the west jerked his mind away from the past.

Our Gauls.
A dozen horsemen charged at a full gallop into the chaos. They bore spears and long swords and good shields and, screaming to their gods, they carved into the Roman auxiliaries as blades into meat. In a single pass, five of the enemy died.
Our Gauls.
Warriors still loyal to Mona and the old gods, who would risk their lives in defence of a dreamer who travelled often to Gaul and those who rode with him.

Our Gauls.
Mithras! I thank you.

The slave-boy was standing in frozen stillness among the plunging horses. In Belgic, Valerius shouted, “Give me your arm. Come up on my horse. They must know you are one of us.”

The boy clutched at his sleeve and was hauled up. He weighed less than Iccius had ever done, even after Amminios had gelded him.

A loose horse passed, foaming white at the mouth, its eyes wide with fear. Valerius grabbed the reins and tore it round, bracing his weight against it. Dragging it beside his
mare, he forced a way forward. Behind him, the slave-boy whimpered once and was silent.

On the ground, Caradoc was holding his blade two-handed, carving air, but not cleanly. Valerius used the free mount bodily to block a Roman attacker. Thrusting the reins forward, he shouted, “For you! There’s a chance now. Mount if you want to live.”

The warrior’s reply broke apart in the chaos. “No … Dubornos has … greater need.”

The second wave of the incomers was on them, attacking at random. Valerius ducked and slashed and realized late that he had not forgone his decurion’s armour and was beset by those who were ostensibly his allies. Mac Calma shouted violently in Gaulish and the strikes against him lessened. In the cramped space in front of the rocks, Gauls fought other Gauls and only by the blue-stained heron feathers flying in handfuls from the hair of the newcomers could friends be told from foe. Marullus’ Romans were pushed to the margins and, not knowing what to look for, did not see the distinction, and so could not kill.

“Get to the boat!” It was mac Calma, singing his single litany.

Light-headed with fatigue, Valerius laughed. “You need a new chant, dreamer.”

He swung round. Dubornos mounted the gelding he had caught. His leg was bleeding, but not broken. Two horses were brought, one each for Caradoc and Cwmfen. Cygfa joined them, white-faced and cursing, shepherding a raging Cunomar who wanted to kill even if he died trying to achieve it. A pack of howling, blue-feathered Gauls surrounded them and escape seemed possible, but for the
sudden crash of the falling sky as Marullus, who had kept clear of the fray to give orders, now, at the last, committed himself and came crashing through.

“Go!” Valerius screamed it in his battle voice, in Eceni, as he had never screamed before. “Go for the ship. Marullus is mine. To get me, he will let you go.”

There was no time to see if he was obeyed. The centurion was a bull, inward and outward, and he swatted Gauls as a bull crushes summer flies and with as little care. Men fell before him and around him as he ploughed his horse through the battle lines to get to the man he had called son, whose life he had chosen not to take these past fourteen days.

The stolen shield saved Valerius. The first blow of the centurion’s blade cracked it, but did not break through. The power of the strike numbed his arm. The second swiped sideways for his head and he might have died but the mare slipped on the blood-slick shingle, going down on one knee, and the sweep of the blade missed them both. She was a good mare. Valerius heard her grunt as she rose and knew the bone had broken in her forelimb, or the tendons split. One last time, he dragged hard on her mouth and she gave him what he needed, rising high on her hind legs. The Belgic boy slipped backward to safety. The mare caught the back-swing of Marullus’ blade, taking it full in the side of the head, splitting bone and muscle down to the teeth. She screamed hoarsely and toppled. Crimson blood spumed from her nose. The sword wedged in her, held fast in the bone, and the centurion, loath to let go, was pulled off balance. Valerius was already clear, dropping the shield, rolling on the shingle, bruising the entirety of his back,
rising with his blade still in his hand. Longinus would have liked that. Longinus would never hear of it. Marullus was above him, still in his saddle, still off balance, bellowing.

Knowing himself lost for all time to the god and the legions, Julius Valerius Corvus, first decurion of the Prima Thracum, struck into the unguarded face of the man who had branded him, who had taught him the litanies, who had given him a reason to live when there was none. Marullus died, despising him, and was added to the ghosts. A shout in Latin recorded it and the Romans on the margins of the chaos, seeing him die, abandoned their discretion. No longer attempting to discern friend from foe, they began instead to attack every Gaul within reach. On the pebbles of the shoreline, the mare died, thrashing.

“Come!”

It was shouted in Gaulish and repeated in Eceni. A hand dragged on Valerius’ sword arm, pulling him along beside a running horse. Other hands caught him under the armpit and he was raised up and thrown bodily on the back of a mount. The battle fell behind and behind and he dragged himself upright and took control of the reins and saw the Belgic boy held safe by Dubornos and was glad it was not Caradoc and then they were on the spit of land with the rocks and the seaweed and the pinpoint barnacles lit fire-bright by the oarsmen’s lamps. Only because he could ride no further, Valerius braced himself against the saddle, ready to dismount. His mind would not allow him to consider where he might go when his feet met the beach.