Dreaming the Eagle (75 page)

We are mounted; they are mostly on foot. If we can rout their cavalry, we can break them.

Breaca turned to Airmid. ‘We need to scatter the horses if we are to stand a chance with the infantry.’

‘Macha’s dream is that we will hold them. The means will be shown us.’ The dreamer was unnaturally calm. Faith expunged fear.

Dubornos appeared by their side. To Breaca, he said, ‘I have been to the far ends of the line. We are two thousand and rising. Still not enough. They will not have sent less than five thousand.’

‘I know. Airmid, if the gods want us to fight they will have to show us-‘ The wind freshened, blowing from the north. Flames billowed from the fire. Hail ducked flat to the ground. The bear-horse flinched sideways in a haze of singed hair. All the way down the line, warriors fought for control of their mounts. Comprehension blistered the walls of her mind.

‘The fire - we can use the fire against them. See-‘ Breaca was already cutting a length of her cloak. She carried three spears now; weapons, once scarce, were plentiful. She bound the cloak strip round the head of her spear, just behind the haft. ‘Efnis!’ He stood four dreamers up the line. ‘Have you the bear’s grease and pine resin?’

He was running before she completed her sentence. A score of smoke-stained children scampered in his wake; he had always been good with the young. When he came back bearing the torch pitch, warriors in their hundreds were binding their spears. More children and the younger warriors fetched beakers and jugs - noone would drink that day, or if they did, it would be at the battle’s end. The vessels were filled with cloth and grease and all things flammable. Children tied leather thongs about the handles and necks so they could be swung and thrown further. Each one saw in the weapons a chance for honour and a song told at firelight. Not one expected to come out alive.

Caradoc pushed his horse up on her left. His presence filled her. The serpent-spear brooch she had given him a lifetime ago flashed silver at his shoulder, the love tokens of red horsehair renewed for all to see. Pain jagged and caught in her throat. ‘Caradoc, I-‘

‘I know.’ He kissed her. ‘So do I. Here.’ He had found a cache of spears, some of them Roman, taken from the dead Batavians. They rattled to the ground between them. His colour-patched cloak lay across his saddle in fraying strips and he was already ripping the spare. She swallowed her soul and began to bind the spearhafts. She said, ‘We should aim for the horses. If we can break the cavalry, we can attack the lines at the end.’

‘Until they send the reserves across the river to cut us off.’

‘Don’t ask for what has not yet happened.’

The river lay to their left. Breaca felt it through the fog, pricking her skin, promising danger. It would not be long.

They were ready. The Roman line had slowed, snagged on a knot of death-sworn Trinovantes. Their death-songs filled the mist, full of hatred. The warriors of the sun hound no longer fought for the protection of their land, but to avenge the death of Togodubnos. Breaca cursed. ‘They sell their lives too cheaply. When the legions break us, they will march straight for the dun and the slaughter will be terrible. They must know that, surely.’

Caradoc looked at her as he had done once in the night, his soul on his face. His hand grasped hers. ‘Breaca? When? Not if? What do you know?’

‘What?’ She was distracted by the fire. The wind spiralled inside it like a summer dust storm. Flames lifted in a wash of red light. The elder grandmother stood within them, perversely opaque and bigger than she should have been. Around her, the warriors of the ancestors painted the serpent-spear in blue woad on their arms. Every one of them bore the same mark but the leader, who bore the hare. Above, in a blue sky, the eagles circled, ready to kill. The elder grandmother pointed a bone-thin finger through the fire. They are learning, but not fast enough. These are the last. After them, there will be no more.

Her own voice, younger, said, These are only the men. There must be women and children. If they live, then the people live with them.

The grandmother cocked her head sideways. That is up to you.

Her head spun. She felt ill. She grabbed at Caradoc’s cloak because she could not see him clearly.

‘The children - the children must live.’ She turned to her other side. Airmid was watching, alert for the voice of the gods. ‘Airmid - tell Macha, Luain, Maroc, all of them. We are not here to hold a line to stop the invasion, only to hold them back long enough for the children to escape. These are the warriors of the future. They must not die here.’

The grandmother occupied her head. In a parody of her own voice, she said, That is not enough. There must be those old enough to carry their ways, their dreams and their tales. How else does a people know itself?

Aloud she said, ‘We cannot run. Warriors cannot flee the field of battle.’

Then you can die for nothing and the people with you. For all time. You are the last who can fight.

It was sacrilege, the ultimate negation of the warrior. Pain knifed through her heart. For a moment, she believed she had been hit and her battles were over. She saw Caradoc’s face and knew tearing regret. Airmid slapped her, sharply.

‘Breaca! Speak to me. What have you seen?’

‘We have to leave. We must all go, warriors as well as children. This is not the time and the place - not the right way to fight them.’ She swallowed on ashes, and the words scalded her tongue. In anguish, she said, ‘The warriors of the sun hound are enough to hold the line. Those of the serpent-spear must go. We have to live to fight again or the whole land is lost.’

‘What?’

‘Are you sure?’

She was Warrior of Mona, she was Boudica, Bringer of Victory, and she was asking for retreat. All around, she felt the pressure of their resistance. Only Ardacos was with her. He knew the mistakes of the ancestors better than any, and trusted her above all others. ‘The Warrior is right. The battle is lost, but not the war. The children must live and enough to show them how to follow the gods.’ He looked round into the mist. ‘How do we find a way out?’

Nobody answered. All waited for Breaca’s word. Caradoc’s eyes, holding hers, were a broad and turbulent sea. Breaca felt herself drown in them, felt the tides of his spirit search the corners of her being. In gratitude, she showed him the elder grandmother and all her acid laughter and felt the bedrock of his understanding. To the others, he said, ‘We’re surrounded by marsh and the fog is a gift of the gods to conceal us. If we can’t see beyond the ends of our spears, neither can they. If those of us who stay here make enough noise, they will not see you go.’

He clasped Airmid’s arm as he had once clasped Odras’. Foolish that it had ever seemed greater than friendship. ‘Go,’ he said. ‘Breaca’s right. There is nothing to be won here but a hero’s death and that for nothing if everyone dies. Leave now and take the children. I will see that the line holds strong. The legions will pay dearly for each step forward.’ Turning to his other side, he gave Dubornos the warrior’s salute, the first time he had done so. ‘You must go with them. The dreamers need a warrior’s protection. Sing of us later.’

Dubornos’ smile shone in the mist. A childhood of enmity lifted from his shoulders. He made the singer’s salutation of greatest honour, his eyes wet. ‘The song is already made.’

‘No.’

‘I won’t leave you.’

Airmid and Breaca spoke together. Airmid’s voice, pitched higher, was best heard, ‘Caradoc, you can’t stay. If Breaca lives, you must live. The dream does not lie. And this is your land. Only you can lead the way out. Go now with the others. The dreamers will hold the line. It is what we have lived for.’

‘What?’ Breaca laughed, loosely and out of control. ‘Airmid, are you mad? What will you do? Throw pitchers of fire at the legions?’

‘Macha dreamed the line and there were dreamers in it.’

‘Which ones?’

They argued against each other, against the dream, against time. The songs of the fighting Trinovantes became weaker, became the animal screams of the wounded and dying. Breaca read the pain of betrayal in the faces around her. The Boudica should not desert the site of her victory, even in the face of certain defeat. Shutting her ears to the cackle of the elder grandmother, she raised her voice to carry and said, ‘I will not leave this place unless every warrior who bears the serpent-spear rides with me - and their dreamers. If so much as one stays, we all stay.’

That settled it for them. More than one would stay, given the chance. The warriors smiled their thanks, raised their weapons and turned to face the enemy. The plan died as it had been born.

‘No! You will go when and where you are told. Do you think this fog is an accident? Do you?’

It was Macha who spoke, standing in the centre of the line of dreamers, her back to the fire so that the light flared red around her and her shadow swayed and swooped across them all. Her voice was god-given, penetrating far beyond the walls of fog. ‘In the time of Caesar, Onomaris and all the dreamers called on Manannan, god of the sea, for aid. The gods heard their plea and gave the storm that wrecked the invaders’ ships. So again have we called on Briga and Nemain to aid their people and they have granted us this fog. What worth is it if we do not use it as they have told us?’

Caradoc said, ‘We will use the fog to fight.’

Anger raised Macha higher. Her voice flayed him, and the warriors who had nodded agreement.

‘Against four legions who have broached the river? I think not. You will use it to buy yourselves honour and glory and an easy death. What do you care for those left alive in a land without leaders, without dreamers, without warriors to carry the battle? You are selfish beyond all who have gone before. The gods will abandon you in death.’ To Breaca, in a voice of utter contempt, she said, ‘The elder grandmother gave the last strength of her life to bring you a dream of untold power. It is your choice alone if you cast it aside. Do not expect her thanks when you meet her in the lands of death.’

She stepped away from the fire. The flames guttered and sank. The fog wavered and the Romans, seeing them, cheered. They were a dozen spear-throws away and the Trinovantes who held them could be counted in spare hundreds, not thousands.

Breaca stepped into the place before the fire. She felt the wall of heat behind her and heard the sucked-in breaths of those around. Ardacos raised his stolen shield as a mirror and she saw herself reflected in the boss, red-haired against a red fire with red fog around. She felt cold, and torn by the lash of Macha’s tongue. She raised her shield and shored up her voice as Maroc had once taught her, that she might carry the authority of the Warrior.

‘Macha is right,’ she said clearly. ‘The gods must be heard. We will go as she has asked. All who bear the serpent-spear will take the horses and the children. Those of the sun hound will stay and fight. Caradoc will lead those who are leaving.’

The pyre hissed as if devouring new wood. The fog swirled and hid the battle lines. The gods could not have spoken more clearly. A long, moaning sigh swept the waiting defenders, like the first harbingers of mourning. Breaca felt the weight of their resistance lift.

She was alone and very cold. Caradoc gripped her wrist as he had in the night and, leaning down from his horse, pressed his lips to her head. Breaca would have spoken, but the words would not come. He nodded, grim-faced and silent, and turned his horse to the north. Every warrior who bore her mark turned to follow. Within a hundred heartbeats, the exodus had started. Silent, wide-eyed children were grasped and lifted onto saddles, their voices like reeds in the fog, asking if they were being taken to the fighting. Spare horses were untethered and took dreamers or children, two or three at a time. In the line of the dreamers, men and women took their leave. Of the Eceni, only Macha stayed, and Gunovic. Luain mac Calma had parted swiftly from them both and rode near the front with Caradoc. All that needed to be said between them had been spoken in the night, knowing what was to come. All who mattered had known, it seemed, but Breaca. The knowledge was a knife that scored at the rawness of her heart. She pushed the bear-horse forward to Macha. ‘How long have you known?’ she asked.

Macha was no longer angry. Her eyes carried a peace they had not known since Eburovic’s death. Her face was Ban’s, lacking only his constant wonder at the world. Smiling, she said, ‘A while ago, uncertainly. It became clear in the night.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Would you have listened? I know what it takes for a warrior to leave the battlefield. It had to come from the gods for you to believe it.’ The bear-horse nuzzled Macha’s neck. She soothed his muzzle, absently, and lifted her hands to the torc of the Eceni, as if the horse had reminded her of its presence. Drawing it off, she held it out. ‘This is yours as it was your mother’s before you. Wear it with pride and when the day comes that you are free of your duty to Mona and can return to the Eceni, rule them well and with love, as she did.’

Once, Breaca had thought of the torc as a living thing, a snake of gold in the hands of the elder grandmother. Now the fog folded around it, a cushion of white, and the band lay like a woven corn-crown in the centre of it. Bending, she let Macha fit it round her neck. The sense of her mother, briefly, was overwhelming. Macha saw it and smiled. ‘You will do as well as she, if the gods allow it.’

Pain rose and set in Breaca’s throat. ‘You are Eceni, both of you. You don’t need to stay. Please come with us.’

Macha shook her head. ‘We can’t. Who do you think is holding the fog?’

The wrongness of it ached, and the calm acceptance. Desperately, Breaca said, ‘Our gods are not Roman gods. They don’t demand the death of their people as the price of their gifts.’

‘A life freely given is not payment. One must stay to hold the fog, just as Onomaris walked into the sea to hold the storm in Caesar’s time. It is the way.’

‘Someone else can do it.’ Breaca turned and found a face. she knew; the sole dreamer of the Trinovantes stood not far from the pyre, her mouth moving in invocations to the gods. ‘Lams is staying,’ she said. ‘She can hold the fog, surely?’