Dreaming the Eagle (12 page)

The effect was magical. Walking in behind Macha, with the three fires throwing light out to the farthest edges, Ban felt himself surrounded by the living dreams of his people. Then he saw the wall hangings and passed beyond his wildest dreams. On every surface, wolves ran with hares, hawks flew with swans, deer sprang high over snakes. And there were so many horses; everywhere he looked, Ban saw extraordinary, numinous horses, running past him, running with him, running at him. He stopped, halfway from the door, unable to take it all in. Macha dropped her bundle by the nearest fire and came back to kneel at his side. She put a palm to his forehead and looked into his eyes. ‘Ban? Are you all right?’

‘Yes.’ He drew a long breath and made himself look at her and not the pictures. ‘It’s the smell, the pine and the rushes and the smoke. It was making me dizzy.’

That, too, was true. He walked on a thicker layer of fresh rushes than he had ever known. The feel of them underfoot spoke of luxury and proximity to the sacred. The scent of cut pine was not new to him, but he had never associated it with the work of the dreamers and had never smelled it so strongly.

‘It’s the resin for the torches,’ said Macha. She stood up, taking his hand. ‘We mix it with tallow and pine needles to make a paste and then we put that on the pine boughs. They burn better and longer like that, and last through to morning. It’s one of the secrets of the gathering. Come and see.’ She led him to the nearest fire. A pot stood on the heat, stirred by a sandy-haired dreamer. The air was thick with the vapour, so that Ban’s vision swam.

Macha said, ‘Ban, this is Efnis, who comes from the northern Eceni, up by the north coast. He is in charge of mixing the resin. Efnis, this is my son, Ban. He has come to help you with the torches.’

The dreamer looked up, briefly. He was a young man, not much older than Breaca, with a strained, anxious face and eyes that turned down at the outer edges. ‘Thank you.’ He nodded, distractedly, his mind elsewhere. To Ban, he said, ‘Have you a knife?’

‘Of course.’ His belt knife was a small one, shorter than Breaca’s but just as sharp.

‘Good. The boughs your mother has brought must have their side branches cut off cleanly so we can make them into torches. Can you do that?’

‘Yes.’ He said it quickly, because he wanted to stay. Ban had never been to the north coast but he had heard it was a place of harsh grazing and poor hunting and that the people lived on dried seaweed through the winter. He had spent the three days of the fair trying to find someone he could ask about this without giving offence and had not yet succeeded. The gods had clearly sent him here to find the answers to his questions. He sat down on the far side of the fire, then thought to look up at Macha. She raised a brow and then nodded. He felt the clasp of her hand on his shoulder and the press of her kiss on his head and warmth of her smile as she walked away, and he forgot, for the moment, about being a warrior and became instead a cutter of pine, assistant to the dreamers, which was almost as good.

It was not hard work but the boughs were newly taken from the trees and leaked sap on his palms and fingers. The high, resinous scent made his eyes water and his head float. He put a hand to his head to run his fingers through his hair and found that now his hair too had sap on it. He cursed, forgetting where he was. Efnis looked up, shocked, and for a moment it was like looking at Macha when she was angry, or the elder grandmother at any time. Then the northerner frowned and became a boy again or a young man, bearing new responsibilities.

‘Oh, the sap. I’m sorry, I should have told you. I did that on my first time as well.’ He left his pot and came round the fire to look. ‘Hold still. If you move your hand you’ll spread it further. And don’t touch your hound. If he gets it on his pelt, he’ll try to lick it off and be sick.’

Ban sat like a rock, fixing Hail with a glare that stopped him from trying to sniff out the tallow while there was no-one to guard it. Efnis parted his hair from his fingers. He said, ‘If we leave it, it’ll spread and you’ll have hair that sticks up for months. If I cut this bit out now, no-one will notice and the resin will be gone. We can burn the cut piece of hair on the fire as an offering to Briga. Would you mind?’

Ban said he didn’t mind. Efnis borrowed his knife, commenting with approval on its sharpness, and deftly cut away the glued lock of hair. They laid it on the fire together and made the invocation to Briga, which always had a wish at the end of it. Ban’s was the wish he always made: that he become a warrior quickly. He made it with his eyes shut tight so that he could see better in his mind the image of himself riding into battle with spear and shield held high. He had opened his eyes again when he heard the first horses; three dozen or more coming at a hand canter down the trackway. His heart leaped with hope until, moments after that, he heard his father’s bullhorn sound the all-clear. He knew the same twist of disappointment he had in the morning but it was swamped, quickly, by the urgent need to see who was coming. He was on his feet before he remembered his chore. He spun round, breathless. ‘Efnis? May I … ?

‘Go and see? Yes, of course. Just take it slowly. You have been breathing the pine-steam and you’ll be dizzy.’

He was already running. Carved and painted horses danced about him as he reached the door, gathering other symbols with them. His father’s shebear was there, and Macha’s wren, and the bright-painted sun hound that had been the sign of Cassivellaunos when he made his last stand at the river. He was just in time. Ahead of him, the warriors of the Eceni burst from the trees in a scatter of sunlit gold. There were hundreds of them - thousands; every spear the Eceni could muster and others from other tribes. Breaca rode in front, riding tall in spite of her wounds, with her shield on her shoulder and her bloodied spear held aloft and her hair braided for battle and her torc blazing as if the fires of the gods had just given it birth. The blue cloak of the Eceni swirled behind her in the sudden wind, taking up colours from the trees and the moss and the people, gathering patches so that it held all the colours of the tribes except only the yellow of the Trinovantes, the colour of the traitor Mandubracios. But that was there too, and the traitor with it. From the moment of Gunovic’s story, Ban had known him: a lean man with the nose of an eagle and watery eyes that would not meet his. He wore battle honours he had not earned and braided his red hair deceitfully. He dismounted now, before Breaca, the ultimate discourtesy. He had come, Ban was certain, to betray her.

‘Traitor!’ He screamed it as his father screamed before battle, as Cassivellaunos had screamed at Caesar’s legions when they first fought at the river. Beside him, Hail howled his war howl and the sound of it was taken up, echoing, by the sun hound and the shebear, the boar and the wren and all the other beasts from the greathouse that had followed him out to help. They crowded around him, promising blood. When he moved, they moved with him. Together, they hurled themselves at the enemy.

‘Ban, no!

‘Get off me!’

‘Amminios, don’t! It’s a child. Leave him.’

‘Ban!’

A horse reared and he was thrown to the ground. Around him, the people went to war. In the confusion and noise of battle, he heard Hail, howling, and the voice of his mother. ‘Ban!’

‘The hound …will somebody get hold of that cursed hound’

‘Amminios, stop!’

The world went black and then red and then all colours. When they settled, he heard Efnis speaking, and then his mother again. Both sounded distant and unhappy.

‘I’m sorry. It’s my fault. I let him go. I didn’t know he was—’

‘It doesn’t matter. You weren’t to know. Get me more water. Ban, can you hear me? Can you open your eyes?’

His head hurt, badly. Cold moss lay on his face, dripping down to his neck. He opened his eyes. The sky was very blue and the sun too bright. His mother made a shadow, leaning over him. Her face was distorted and upside down. He blinked and tilted his head. She moved round to where he could see her properly.

‘Ban? Can you see me?’

He screwed up his eyes. ‘Yes.’ His voice was a whisper. He remembered the battle. ‘Breaca? There was blood on her face. They were going to kill her.’

‘No. Ban, it was not so.’ His mother was grieving. He could hear it in the way she spoke and her cheeks were wet. He had never seen her weep for him. She said, ‘The Trinovantes came as envoys under the gods’ peace. You broke the truce and named one of them traitor. It is the deepest insult you could give to them and the gods. You will have to—’

‘Stop. That can come later. Let him tell what he saw.’ The last voice was one he knew but could not place. It washed over him, like the wind through dry grass, surprisingly warm. He rolled his head to the side and tried to see. Dry, bony fingers closed his eyes. The darkness was more comforting than it had been. The voice said, ‘Tell us what you saw when the warriors came out of the woodland.’

The image came to him again: Breaca riding at the van of the Eceni nation, with blood on her face and the snake-spear painted in red on her shield. At her side, the traitor with the yellow cloak raised his sword and swung for her horse’s legs. The grey filly screamed and fell. He flinched and his eyes sprang open. The elder grandmother smiled at him and, for the first time in his life, he did not feel afraid of her. ‘Tell me,’ she said.

‘Mandubracios,’ he said. ‘He came to betray Breaca. She won the battle and still he came to betray her.’

‘If she won, how could he betray her?’

‘In the next battle. He would be there, pretending to be on her side, but he would be fighting for the enemy.’ He pushed himself up. Something else came that he had forgotten. ‘Her spear. I saw him break her spear.’

There was silence. A gust of wind rattled the trees. Tethered horses stamped and jingled their harness. A crow flew overhead, calling, and was joined by two others. ‘Thank you,’ said the grandmother, distantly. ‘It is a good answer.’

There were more people around him than he knew. Feet scuffed on grass and shadows passed over him as they stood and walked away. He heard the snap of old joints as the grandmother rose. She spoke across his head. ‘Efnis, let go of the hound before you choke him. He will do no further harm. Macha, you are the lawgiver. You must explain to your son the debt he owes and the manner of repayment. I will speak with Eburovic and prepare him for what is to come.’

Efnis let go of Hail and for a moment the grandmother’s words were lost in the frenzy of greeting. Ban pushed himself off the ground. His head still spun but with Hail’s help and his mother’s he was able to sit upright. He looked round and found they were alone, but for Efnis. The young dreamer wound his fingers in the long grass and would not meet his eyes. Beyond him, the fair ground, which had been inhabited by every man, woman and child of the Eceni, was deserted. Macha said, ‘Ban, come inside.’

The greathouse was busy, but quietly so. The smell of pine was weaker and some of the horse banners had been removed from the walls. They returned to Efnis’ fire and Ban found that someone else had finished cutting the pine boughs and the torches had been made. They lay in an ordered pile on a sheepskin to one side. The pot on the fire heated only water. When it boiled, Macha filled a beaker and mixed in some herbs and made him drink it. The taste was of burdock, which he knew, and other, more bitter things that he did not. They made his tongue curl and his eyes sting but his head cleared and he could see better than he had done. Macha sat on the ground in front of him and drank the dregs of his drink. Her eyes were on the fire. He had never seen her so serious. He put a hand to her arm. ‘Where is Breaca? She had blood on her face. She may need healing.’

‘No.’ With an effort, Macha drew her eyes from the fire. ‘Efnis, will you leave us? I would speak with my son.’

The young dreamer did not run, but the flurry he left behind him was the same. When they were alone, Macha said, ‘Ban, Breaca is unhurt. She exchanged harsh words with the Trinovantes and I believe she crossed blades with one of them, but they did her no harm.’

‘But—’

Her eyes fixed on his. They were the grey of iron and firelight danced in the dark of the centres. ‘Ban, what you saw was a vision, a thing brought on by the pine-steam and your first time in the greathouse and … other things that we know too little of. But it was not real. Breaca has not yet fought her battle, the first or the second. The man you attacked is not Mandubracios. He cannot be. The traitor lived in the time of your grandfather’s grandfather. He is dead long since.’

Ban frowned. It made sense but only partially so. He believed in what he saw. ‘Then who was he?’

‘Amminios, second son of the Sun Hound, Cunobelin. He and his brother, Togodubnos, came as envoys from their father. An envoy is sacred, Ban. Even were it not midsummer, they are not to be attacked.’

Her face and her eyes said more than her voice. And she was weeping again. A fist of ice clutched at his chest, making it hard for him to breathe. Her words from before echoed in his head: You broke the truce and named one of them traitor. It is the deepest insult. She reached for his hand. ‘Ban, I know you did not mean to do it but the laws are exact and, for this, we cannot pass them by.’

He was going to be a warrior. A small part of his mind told him that this was what it was like to face battle: the terror churning in the pit of his stomach, the dreadful unknowing of what was to come. He tried to ask and found he could no longer speak. He resolved, whatever it was, not to weep.

His mother said, ‘I have spoken with the elders and they have agreed on a judgement. You owe a debt to Amminios’ honour, to his house and to his person. There are two ways it can be paid. The first is for you to serve him for a year, as Breaca serves the elder grandmother.’

‘But he is not blind, or lame. He does not need someone to be his eyes and limbs.’

‘No. And so service to him would be different.’

‘Like a slave?’

‘Yes. I believe so.’ He gaped at her. Neither the gods of the Eceni nor their dreamers permitted slavery. Simply to consider it was to risk the wrath of Nemain. His mother was still talking. ‘We have considered this and it is not acceptable. For many reasons …’