Dublin (6 page)

  And who exactly were these tribes? Where had they come from, these Sons of Mil who had sent the legendary Tuatha De Danaan under the hills? Goibniu knew that the conquering tribes had come to the western island centuries ago from neighbouring Britain and from across the sea to the south. The people of the western island were part of a great patchwork of tribes, whose culture and language, called Celtic, stretched across much of north-western Europe. With their swords of iron, splendid war chariots, and magnificent metalwork, their druid priests and poets, the Celtic tribes had long been feared and admired. As the Roman Empire had spread northwards and across to Britain, the main centres of each tribal territory had usually become a Roman military centre or market town and the Celtic gods of the local tribe likewise put on Roman clothes. Thus in Gaul, for instance, the Celtic god Lugh, whose festival this was, had given his name to the city of Lugdunum, which would one day become transmuted to Lyon. And the tribes in turn had gradually become Roman, even losing their old language and speaking Latin instead.

  Except on the outer fringes. In the northern and western parts of Britain, which the Romans largely left alone, the former tongues and tribal customs had continued.

  Above all, in the western neighbour island across the sea, where the Romans came to trade but not to conquer, the old Celtic culture, in all its richness, remained intact. The Romans were not always certain what to call these various people. In northern Britain, which the Romans called Alba, lived the ancient tribes of Picts. When colonisers from the Celtic western island sailed over and established settlements in Alba, gradually pushing the Picts back towards the northern British interior, the Romans referred to these Celtic settlers as Scotti, or Scots. But the Celtic tribes of the western island did not call themselves by that Roman name. They knew who they were, ever since they had come to the island and encountered a friendly goddess there. They were the people of Eriu.

  As he watched the Celtic tribesmen approaching the festival, however, Goibniu's stare was cool.

  Was he one of them? Partly, no doubt. But just as up at those strange old mounds above the Boyne he felt a nameless sense of belonging, at these great Celtic gatherings he could not help an instinctive sensation that he was somehow alien, that he came from some other tribe who had been in this land since long before.

  Perhaps the Sons of Mil had conquered his people, but he still knew how to make use of them.

  His single eye continued to move over the scene, separating, with knifelike precision, the colourful groups into different categories: important, not important; useful, irrelevant; owing him something, or owed a favour. By a large cart he saw two magnificent young champions, arms thick as tree trunks, tattooed-the two sons of Cas, son of Donn. Wealthy. To be cultivated. Some way off stood two druids and an old bard. The old man, Goibniu was aware, had a dangerous tongue, but he had a few pieces of gossip to keep the old man happy. Over to the left he saw Fann, daughter of the great chief Ross: a proud woman. But Goibniu knew that she had slept with one of the sons of Cas, which her husband did not.

  Knowledge is power. You never knew when such information could be used to secure a piece of future business.

  Mostly though, as his eye scanned the crowd, what Goibniu noticed were the people who owed him something.

  Stately, plump Diarmait: nine cows, three cloaks, three pairs of boots, a gold tore to wear round his neck. Culann: ten pieces of gold. Roth Mac Roth: one piece of gold.

  Art: a sheep. They all borrowed, all were in his power. Good. Then he saw Fergus.

  The tall fellow from Dubh Linn, who owed him the price of twenty cows. Fine girl with him: she must be his daughter. That was interesting. He moved towards them.

  Deirdre had also been watching the crowds. The clans and septs were still swinging in from all parts of Leinster. It was certainly an impressive sight.

  Meanwhile, a curious exchange was taking place between her father and a merchant. It concerned the chief's magnificent golden tore.

  It was the custom on the island that, if you had given your jewellery away as security for a loan, you should be able to borrow it back for the great festivals, so that you should not be dishonoured. A kindly dispensation. If Fergus was embarrassed as he retrieved the splendid gold neck ring from the merchant, he certainly did not show it. Indeed, he solemnly took the heirloom from the other man, as though they were performing a ceremony. He had just placed it round his neck when Goibniu arrived.

  Whatever the smith thought of Fergus, one couldn't fault his politeness. Goibniu addressed him with all the high-flown courtesy he would have used to the king himself.

  "May good be with you, Fergus, son of Fergus. The tore of your noble ancestors looks well upon you."

  Fergus eyed him cautiously. He hadn't expected the smith to be down at Carmun.

  "What is it, Goibniu," he asked somewhat sharply, "that you want?

  "That is easy to tell," said Goibniu, pleasantly. "I wished only to remind you of your promise to me, before last winter, of the price of twenty cows."

  Deirdre looked at her father anxiously. She knew nothing of this debt. Was this going to be the start of a quarrel? So far, the chief's face remained impassive.

  "It is true," Fergus conceded. "You are owed it."

  But then, in a lower voice. "It's a hard thing you're asking, just now. Especially at the festival."

  For it was another pleasant custom of the festival that Goibniu could not actually enforce his debt during the proceedings.

  "You'll be wanting to deal with the matter when the festival is over, perhaps," suggested the smith.

  "Not a doubt of it," said Fergus.

  During this exchange, Deirdre had continued to watch her father closely. Was he hiding his anger? Was this the calm before the storm? Goibniu was a man with many important friends. Perhaps that was keeping her father in check. She hoped it would continue to do so.

  Goibniu nodded slowly. Then his single eye rested on Deirdre. "You have a beautiful daughter, Fergus," he remarked. "She has wonderful eyes. Will you be offering her in marriage at the festival?"

  "It is in my mind," said Fergus.

  "It will be a fortunate man, indeed, who wins her," the smith continued. "Don't dishonour her beauty, or your noble name, by accepting anything but the highest bride price." He paused. "I wish I were a bard," he said, with a polite nod towards Deirdre, "so that I could compose a poem about her beauty."

  You'd do that for me?" she said with a laugh, hoping to maintain the amicable mood of the conversation.

  "Certainly." Goibniu's eye looked straight at Fergus.

  And then Deirdre saw her father look at the cunning craftsman thoughtfully. Was Goibniu offering to find her a rich bridegroom? She knew that the one-eyed smith had far more influence than her father. Whatever bridegroom Fergus might consider, Goibniu could probably find something better.

  "Let us walk together," her father said, with a new softness; and Deirdre watched the two men move away.

  So that was it then. Whatever momentary relief she had felt that her father had avoided a quarrel had now been ruined by this new turn of events. With her father, at least, she knew she could still keep some control of the situation. He might shout and rage, but he would not actually force her to marry against her will. But if her fate lay in Goibniu's hands-Goibniu the confidant of kings, the friend of druids-who knew what his deep brain would devise? Against the one-eyed man, she hadn't a hope. She looked at her brothers. They were admiring a chariot.

  "Did you see what happened?" she cried. They looked at each other blankly, then shook their heads.

  "Anything interesting?" they asked.

  "No," she said irritably. "Just that your sister is to be sold."

  Lughnasa. High summer. At the ceremonies, the druids would make the harvest offerings to Lugh; the women would dance. And she, quite possibly, would be given to a stranger then and there and, perhaps, never return to Dubh Linn again.

  She had started to walk alone across the open ground.

  Here and there, people at the bright stalls or standing in groups had turned to look at her as she passed, but she had scarcely been aware of them. She passed some tents and pens, and realised that she must be getting near the big track where they raced the horses. There was no big race due yet, but some of the young men would be exercising their horses, perhaps organising an informal, friendly race or two. It looked as if some horses were being led out for that purpose. The late-morning sun was filling the sky with a hard stare as she came to a railed enclosure where a number of riders were preparing to mount.

  She stood by the rail and surveyed the scene. The barebacked horses were skittish. She could hear goodnatured taunts and laughter. Over on her right, she noticed a group of men, finely dressed, clustered round a dark-haired young man. He was a shade taller than they were, and as she caught sight of his face she noticed that it was unusually fine.

  An intelligent, perhaps a thoughtful face-whose quiet expression, despite his smile, suggested that his mind might be a little distant from the activity in which he was engaged. He might, she thought, be a highborn druid rather than a young champion. She wondered who he was. The little group parted and she realised that he must be about to ride in a race since, except for a protective loincloth, he had stripped his body naked.

  Deirdre stared. It seemed to her that she had never seen anything so beautiful in her life. So slim, so pale, yet perfectly formed: an athlete's body. He had not a single blemish, as far as she could see. She watched him mount and ride, easily, out onto the track. "Who is that?" she asked a man standing nearby.

  "That is Conall, son of Morna," he replied; and seeing that she had not fully understood: "It's the nephew of the High King himself."

  "Oh," said Deirdre.

  She watched several races. The men rode bareback. The island horses, though small, were very fleet and the races were exciting. She saw Conall come in just behind the leader in the first race; the second he won. He did not ride in the next two, but meanwhile, more and more people were arriving at the side of the track. One of the main attractions of the day was about to begin.

  The chariot races. Already Deirdre could see that the King of Leinster had arrived on the small mound by the track from which vantage point he would preside. For if the racing of horses was the sport of warriors, the riding of chariots represented the highest and most aristocratic of the arts of war. The chariots were strong, lightly built, two-wheeled vehicles with a single shaft between two horses. Each chariot contained a two-man team-the warrior and his charioteer. They were swift and, in the hands of an expert charioteer, wonderfully manoeuverable.

  Against the disciplined armour of the Roman legions they were not effective, and so in the Roman provinces of Britain and Gaul they had long ago fallen into disuse; but here on the western island, where warfare was conducted along traditional Celtic lines, the ancient art was still practised. Deirdre could see about twenty chariots preparing to enter the track. But first, it seemed there was to be an exhibition. For now two chariots came out, unaccompanied, into the huge, grassy arena.

  "There's Conall," remarked the man she had spoken to earlier, "and his friend Finbarr." He grinned. "Now you'll see something."

  Conall and Finbarr were both stripped, since it was also the tradition that Celtic warriors fought naked.

  She noticed that Finbarr was very strongly made, a little shorter than Conall, though thicker in the chest, upon which she could see curls of fair brown hair.

  Standing just behind their charioteers, each man carried a round shield decorated with polished bronze which flashed in the sun. The chariots went out together into the centre of the arena before wheeling apart to opposite ends.

  Then they began.

  It was astounding. Deirdre had seen charioteers at work before, but never anything like this. Hurtling together at breakneck speed, their spoked wheels, each a blur, almost touched as they passed. Out to the ends they went and turned. This time each hero had taken up a great javelin. As they raced together again, they hurled their spears with devastating skill, Finbarr casting his just an instant before Conall. As the two spears crossed in the air, there was a sudden intake of breath from the crowd. And with good reason: for the aim of each was deadly. Conall's chariot, hitting a small bump in the turf, was slowed just an instant so that the spear thrown by Finbarr would certainly have struck and probably killed the charioteer if Conall had not reached across with lightning speed and deflected it with his shield. Conall's aim on the other hand, was so perfect that his javelin fell precisely on Finbarr's shield as he raced forward so that, holding it up before him, Finbarr could neatly turn the sharp point to one side. There was a roar of appreciation from the crowd. This was warfare as a high art.

  The two men were taking up their bright swords as the chariots wheeled round again. Now, however, it was the turn of the charioteers to show their skill. They did not dash straight at each other this time; instead, they began an intricate pattern of pursuit and avoidance, making dizzying circles and zigzags all over the field, swooping down upon each other like birds of prey, chasing and being chased. Each time they came close, sometimes careering along side by side, the two warriors struck and parried with sword and shield. If these fights had been choreographed in advance, it was impossible to tell.