Dreaming the Serpent Spear (62 page)

“Would you help me find a hare?” her mother had asked. “A strong young doe, in young, but not too heavy so that she can still run fast. We’re not going to kill her. I have an idea of something that may help us today.”

Breaca had been with Airmid, clearly; the legacy of that hung around her like a cloak and made sharper her gaze so
that she looked like the elder grandmother, except that the care was more evident, and that had made the morning brighter and less frightening.

There had been the challenge, then, of finding the right hare, and the unquestioning belief that she could do it, so that, rising from sleep and strange, intricate dreams, Graine had not questioned it, only splashed her face with the water and drunk a little, and tasted things other than elderflowers and then let out the web of her mind until a young, strong and pregnant hare was within it, and she had walked and then crawled and then slithered within reach of it.

Her mother had a net. It was already set, hanging up on forked hazel twigs, so that it would fall and fold onto anything that ran into it. Graine had decided she did not want to rely on it. She marked the line in her mind, and moved on through the grass.

The hare could feel her, as she felt the hare. The moment of joining was a physical thing, the rebridging of an umbilical cord that each had sought, but not known how to find. Fear and hope came together; its fear was her fear, her hope was its hope, and the certainty of safety. She sang to it in her mind and it sang back high silvered notes, like the music of the moon.

The moon hung old and sharp and fading in the sky, but was still there to be seen, running ahead of the sun. They reached for it separately and together, the beast and the child of Nemain, two sides of a triangle that, once made, was not to be broken.

The hare lay down in its form and laid its ears to its head and sang. Graine sang and slid forward and gathered it,
warm beast held safe in sanctuary against her warm skin, heartbeat to heartbeat, breath to breath, soul to soul with the moon between.

A long time later, she stood up, and walked through the drying grass to her mother, who said nothing, only reflected the sun in her honour and whistled Stone in to heel and led her back to the war camp where warriors who did not know what had been made sang their battle songs and braided their hair and the chattering skull drums of Cunomar’s she-bears had finally come to rest.

Airmid met them with a doeskin bag for the hare and sat with Graine by the last embers of Braint’s pyre and they sang to the beast of an ancient battle between the ancestors and the eagles in the days when the world was young.

Bellos came to sit beside Graine and she did not need to talk to him of the un-blinding and the new colours in the world. Instead, she said, “I don’t understand what has happened.”

“You have been to Mona and that is no small thing.” He had combed his white-gold hair and set a raven’s skull in it, for Briga. It looked like a jewel in the morning. “And then you were required to find the stone for Dubornos. He healed more than himself with the gift of his life.”

He turned his face to her, in the way she had come to recognize on Mona, so that although his eyes were in the wrong place, his attention was on her. “When it was needed of you for Dubornos, how did you know you had found the right stone?”

“I felt it.”

“Did it call to you? As the hare called? And join as the hare joined?”

The hare was still joined. She could feel the tug of it against her belly and could not imagine a child being joined any more strongly. The joining to the stone had been less, a thread thin as spider’s silk. Without the more tangible feel of the hare, she would not have recognized it.

Bellos put a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t hold that sense too hard, or chase the feel of it. Just stay with it and know how it is and be ready to know it again when it comes.”

He rose, smoothly. The hollow eyes of his raven’s skull stared down at her from his height. “You should stay here while the rest prepare for battle. I need to find Cunomar and then Hawk. Can you point me to one or the other?”

Her old brother and her new were together, which was a miracle in itself, although there was no clear peace between them. She showed Bellos where to find them and set his feet on the right path and settled back with the warm weight of the hare heavy against her and watched the warriors make themselves ready for war.

Cunomar said, “You are my brother.”

“Yes,” said Hawk. He bore the bear-blade of Eburovic on his back, and had set his hair in the Eceni way, with the warrior’s braid at the side. Someone had given him the small antler of a young buck and he had fixed that at his temple in place of kill-feathers and painted the serpent-spear on the top part of his sword arm. Everyone, by then, knew why.

One should love one’s brother, or at least not hate him.

They were evenly matched. If they had fought, Cunomar believed he would have won, but only because he had the advantage of the bear. New claw marks bled freshly on his shoulders, as on the shoulders of the two hundred
others who had danced with him in front of Ardacos to the rhythms of the skull drums and given their souls afresh to the bear.

Hawk was not one of those, but he had sat on the margins, by Ardacos’ invitation, and had seen some of the mystery. Only the Boudica and Cygfa had been so permitted before. More even than Eburovic’s blade, it had affirmed Hawk’s place within the family.

Around them, the singing of the warriors had halted. Some were mounted, ready. Valerius’ cavalry was moving into a mass and beginning to organize into a semblance of squadrons, as he had shown them on the ride up from Lugdunum. Cygfa was a shining spear, drawing warriors behind her, like gulls behind a ship. The Boudica was talking with her honour guard. The horses were gathered and already sweating.

There was no time left for indecision. Cunomar was still undecided.

Hawk touched two fingers to the hilt of Eburovic’s blade, and then the serpent-spear on his arm. “I didn’t ask for this. It was freely given.”

“I know.”

Cunomar had heard it first from Breaca, and then Ardacos, and then Cygfa. Standing by Braint’s pyre with his mother newly returned, there had been too much havoc in his heart and head to make sense of yet another new strand. In the brisk morning, with the mist clearing and battle close, he still did not know which way to turn.

A new voice said, “If you would be a match for each other in combat, how much would you both combined be a match against the legions?”

Bellos spoke from Cunomar’s side, the bright-haired Belgic youth whom he had met as a frightened slave boy in Gaul and who had become, it seemed, a dreamer of Mona, given to Briga; and blind; he had been told that in the night, too.

Hawk knew him, and respected him. He gave the salute of warrior to dreamer and then, unexpectedly, turned to Cunomar and gave the salute of warrior to warrior, and shield-mate. “If you would accept it, I would swear to fight as your shield-mate, to give my life for yours, to the ends of the earth and the four winds.”

The hair stood upright on Cunomar’s arms. The bear scars on his shoulder pulled tight, as if they were cut and then scabbed over and healed, all in one movement. He heard the harsh breath of the bear, and felt the moment of its death, as he had killed it. He said, “That oath is too old. I would not hold you to it.”

“But it’s an oath made within families. I offer it, knowing what it means.”

Bellos said, “You can’t accept it if you hate him, but you don’t yet have to love. Can you find something between these two?”

Cunomar thought about that. At length, he said, “I can respect and honour the courage of one who danced for the deer-elders, who would have given his life.” He still regretted not having been there. He looked to the last warmth of Braint’s fire and saw Graine. “Are you not already sworn to my sister?”

Hawk said, “The dreamers will stand together away from the battle and Graine will be with them. They’ll be behind the battle lines. If we’re lost, they are lost, but they know that. I spoke to your sister last night and she set me free to fight in the battle.” He offered a tentative smile. “On
Mona, I taught her to fight. The legions should be more afraid of her than any of us.”

Graine was so small. If the tip of Eburovic’s blade were placed on the floor between her feet, the hilt would have reached almost to her chin. She would have been hard pushed to lift it, still less wield it, even had her grandfather not expressly forbidden her to touch it years before.

The absurdity of it reached a place beyond love or hate. Cunomar grinned fleetingly. “Then we can leave the dreamers in their safety.” With due gravity, he returned the warrior’s salute. “I accept your offer, but release you from it also so that you might fight with our mother. I’ll be on the left wing, while she leads the centre. She should have at least one of her children with her.”

“I accept. On the understanding that if the dreamers are in danger, you and I will come back alone or together to protect them, whatever may be happening elsewhere.”

Bellos said, “Thank you. We are all grateful for that.”

It could have been done just by the saying of it in the presence of a dreamer, but they clasped arms, hand to elbow, in the old way, so that they felt the mettle of each other for the first time since they had met.

Cunomar thought he was right, that he would have won if they fought, but that it would have been closer than he had imagined and it was better by far to fight together against Rome. In the knowing of that, his nightmare of the bear turned at bay haunted him less.

Stepping away, he wanted to give something that would match the moment. “You should meet Ulla,” he said. “Come to the bear’s fire. There is time yet to introduce you before the final gathering begins.”

The Boudica addressed her war host from the back of the white-legged colt that was Cygfa’s heart-gift to her on the eve of battle.

She stood to the west, with the rising sun in front and Braint’s pyre rebuilt behind and all the Roman army gathering for its own address behind that.

She had not slept for two days, and felt as brisk as if she had just risen. The sun was within her, and the horned moon. The pulse of the earth was her own pulse. The gods walked within and without and death was all around, so that she could have stepped down from the colt and crossed any one of the unseen thresholds into the lands beyond life without any need for a battle, or even a stone hammered down to break open her head.

She was not ready to die, and might never be; life held too much promise.

Ahead was her hope for that promise. Fifty thousand warriors gathered, all given to her. All tribal marks were gone; Coritani fought alongside Cornovii and both beside Eceni and the sign of the serpent-spear was on everything. Once, the ancestor-dreamer would have been with her, behind or to one side or echoing snake-dry in the cave of her mind, declaring the mark as her own. There was no cave now, and no echo; she had claimed the mark for herself, and all that it had been and was and would be, and the gods did not gainsay her.

The warriors were silent, waiting. They had their backs to the east. Only she saw the moment when the sun broke free of the land, and parted the shadowing cloud as it had done at Camulodunum, but sooner, so that the fire
of the gods met the fires of the warriors, and she the gateway between.

She raised her arms to her war host. A forest of spears stabbed the sky in silent answer. A great wave of polished shield bosses caught the sun and sent forward an ocean of light that flowed round her and emptied into Braint’s pyre.

She did not try to speak to them; she could speak to a thousand, three thousand, possibly ten thousand, but not to the fifty thousand who faced her and as many refugees who waited beyond them with any hope of being heard.

Even so, they needed something from her to carry them into war.

Her family were around her; Airmid and the dreamers on one side, her sons and daughters on the other and Valerius at the meeting point between. The sun was their signal. Unpractised, but planned, Valerius and Cygfa moved forward on foot, carrying one of the great round war shields of the Votadini between them. They held it flat at shoulder height as a platform. Hawk and Cunomar brought Graine to it and, between them, they lifted her onto it, so that she stood level with her mother, in sight of the full fifty thousand.

Her balance was good; astonishing in fact. She had dressed carefully, in a tunic of undyed wool with edged hemming in Eceni blue. Her hair was a rich, dark ox-blood and hung flat down her back, sleek as polished wood. She said, “Now, while they are quiet,” and held out her hands.

In view of the full fifty thousand, with the children among the throng all reared on stories of the heroes, and of how children had brought them water in the heart of combat, and so enabled them to rise again and win the battle, Breaca of the Eceni and of Mona, Boudica of the tribes,
lifted the torc of her ancestors from her neck and placed it in the waiting hands of her daughter.

They had not planned clearly what came next. Graine’s face became still. In front of thousands, she closed her eyes and dipped her head and pressed her brow to the arc of the torc, then raised it to the sun as if she might drain the sky of light and hold it in the gold. Last, she slipped it about her own neck.