The Dawn Stag: Book Two of the Dalriada Trilogy (74 page)

CHAPTER 65

T
hey met the first farmers six days out from Calgacus’s dun. A small, ragged group of them came sliding down a wet scree slope, clad in rough tunics and trousers, with an assortment of shaggy sheepskin cloaks and furs tied around the packs hefted on their shoulders. They wore no armour of any kind, and only carried rough spears of sharpened ash and a mixed collection of farm implements, such as mattocks and picks.

As the Epidii warband continued along the shores of the great loch which ran north to Calgacus’s coastal fort, more men appeared, trickling down the slopes of the hills from every high pass and remote valley, emptying all the isolated homesteads. They fell in with Eremon’s men, swelling their ranks until the gathering streamed away along the entire length of the loch.

‘That’s where our army is coming from, then,’ Conaire remarked one day to Eremon, as they sat waiting for Lorn to bring his chariots over a shallow river ford. He frowned. ‘Though what good these farm boys will be in battle, I do not know.’

Eremon shot a swift glance at him, patting Dòrn’s shoulder with a murmur. The stallion had shied, as Lorn, ankle-deep in rushing water, shouted a curse at a chariot stuck in the muddy riverbank. ‘We have done more with far fewer.’

Conaire’s gaze strayed over his shoulder towards Caitlin and Rhiann, who had now disappeared among the hazel woods that ran east from the river. ‘When we had fewer,’ he murmured gruffly, his frown a deep valley between his brows, ‘we won because those we had were all warriors. But this …’ Conaire gestured at the herdsmen and farmers splashing through the icy water, dodging Lorn as he stormed around the bogged chariot wheel.

‘My brother,’ Eremon said, calming Dòrn again, ‘if we are lucky, we will outnumber the Romans three to one – there is no other way I would face them. The force of our charge must carry the day.’

Conaire snorted, and to Eremon’s surprise his normally open, amused expression had hardened into belligerence. ‘Eremon, if you thought it only about numbers we never would have trained the Epidii so carefully these last years. I’m no idiot, man!’

As Eremon stared at him, speechless, Conaire flushed and fixed his gaze on the twitching ears of his stallion. ‘Brother,’ he said more softly, ‘it is me you’re talking to, remember? Don’t treat me like the others.’

‘I … ah …’ Eremon’s eyebrows shot up. ‘I suppose I have become used to it.’ He scratched the back of his sweaty neck, under the edge of the helmet guard. ‘Certain platitudes have become habit.’

‘Well, spare me, please.’ Conaire eyed Eremon with grudging forgiveness. ‘So? Speak truly, and it goes no further. Ever since we joined this Great Glen you’ve had something stuck in your gullet.’

Eremon tilted his head to stretch his neck, letting the stifling mantle of fear settle over him. He stared forward between Dòrn’s ears, gathering his reins in tight hands. ‘Somewhere down deep, I’m so scared my bowels ache with it. We have trained the Epidii and some of the Caledonii, but that is, what, three thousand men? And what about the rest? Few warriors face a Roman army and win, no matter how fierce the charge.’ He sought for Conaire’s blue eyes, held on for dear life. ‘You see, brother, I cannot be sure that even with triple their number, we can win.’

The chariot came free with a loud sucking noise and rattle of wheels. Muddy to the knee, Lorn stalked back to his horse. With yips and the snap of reins, the creaking phalanx of chariots closed around Eremon and Conaire, sweeping them along the path through the trees.

‘Mars release me.’

Agricola heard the muttered oath from Lucius, but he was far too pleased with the view in front of him to reprimand his legate. He squinted back out across the bay at the white sails of his fleet, all twenty ships at anchor.

‘I have been looking forward to this sight,’ Agricola remarked to his officers. ‘And the requisition has also gone out for every available trading ship from Londinium north, although they won’t be as pretty.’

They were standing on one of the oak piers of the makeshift port established two years before on the south bank of the Tay inlet, on the eastern edge of hostile lands. Behind on the shore lay a cluster of barracks and storehouses, home to the garrison of 300 that guarded the port.

The Venicones lands had proven a rich source of stores for Agricola’s invasion force. Of course, he amended to himself, those lands that spread west and south from here were no longer a larder, but ashes. It was a good thing that after this year, he would have all Alba from which to feed.

Briskly, Agricola rubbed his hands together. Apart from Lucius, the other officers were bright-faced, showing little strain from the marching, the camping or the cleansing of the land with fire and sword that had brought them to this northern shore. Yet Lucius himself was pale and red-eyed.

The eyes could be accounted for by the pall of smoke through which they had been riding for weeks; their clothes and hair stank with it. Yet the pallor was something else. It could not be cowardice, could it? Agricola wondered. Surely not. No legate of his would have such a weak stomach for witnessing the punishment that had been inflicted on Alba. Then he remembered that Lucius had already taken this northern road once, and not far from here was where disaster first struck. There would be no such disaster this time, Agricola promised himself and his gods.

There was a suitably respectful silence, before Lucius spoke up wearily. ‘How can we be sure the devils won’t just run as they did before?’

‘They won’t run.’ Agricola looked out to sea, shading his eyes from the harsh glitter off the waves. The surface of the bay was ruffled into white-caps by a rising wind, and his sleek, beautiful ships strained on their anchor ropes. ‘The bait has been set, and they will take it.’

‘And the trap close around them,’ the young tribune Marcus joked, the others joining in with grim laughter.

Agricola allowed himself a thin smile, breathing deeply of the sharp air, letting it fill his chest as wind filled a sail.

Stretching the nagging ache in her back, Rhiann took a moment to realize Caitlin had drawn up her horse in shock. ‘Mother of all!’ Caitlin squeaked. Blinking away her exhaustion, Rhiann straightened.

They had previously come to Calgacus’s Dun of the Waves on the banks of the Ness river for a council of war. They had seen the river plain before its gates clustered with men, thick with the smoke of campfires. Yet to see that same effect multiplied ten times was more than arresting.

Every handspan of ground was sprouting with tents, lean-tos, banners and racks of spears. The grass was nearly obscured by ruddy leather, hides and standards of all colours, and of course, men – men clothed in every hue of cloth, fur and skins, the whole tangled mass of them glittering with helmets and swords, the farmers with their picks. Yet the hum of voices was less thick than the dense wave of smell that assailed Rhiann’s nostrils: of sweat, horse, birch tar, lanolin, mutton-fat and greasy meat.

‘I imagined it, that many men,’ Caitlin was saying, ‘but thinking, and then seeing …’ She shook her head. ‘Goddess, Rhiann, do those banners not stir your heart? Look!’

Rhiann slid a hand up the back of her neck and rubbed it, seeking for the knots that ached so much. She felt as if every part of her had been trampled by horses, and though her mind could marvel at the sight before her, her feelings kept sliding into fuzzy exhaustion.

As they pulled up before Calgacus’s main gate, Caitlin slipped nimbly from her saddle and patted Rhiann’s knee. ‘I’ll give you a deeper massage this night,’ she whispered. ‘They have helped, have they not?’

Rhiann eyed Caitlin’s bright eyes with envy. Though her old riding buckskins were stained with the dirt of travel, and her hair was half-bound tangles, Caitlin at least was bursting with health. The sun had sprinkled her cheekbones with freckles, and she had regained the ease in the saddle that she once enjoyed. She had found an eagle feather and tucked it into her braids, and it stuck up jauntily over the top of her head, echoing the arrows in her quiver. ‘They have helped greatly,’ Rhiann conceded, ‘yet I doubt I will ever feel in one piece again. Fola was right; riding while pregnant is not to be recommended.’

Caitlin clucked in sympathy, unable to hide the excited bounce in her heels. After a few days she seemed to have pushed her grief for Gabran into a place she only visited at night, or when she lapsed into thought.

Calgacus had been alerted to their arrival and was waiting for them before his gate, the kings and war leaders of the other tribes clustered about him. Rhiann shook off her exhaustion long enough to feel a flush of pride at this honour accorded to Eremon, which was furthered when Calgacus embraced him as warmly as he would a son, before all those nobles. Rhiann’s pride deepened to satisfaction when her eyes fell on the glowering Creones king. He had brought the men he promised, though he looked far from happy about it.

Eremon helped Rhiann dismount, and she was glad he was holding her tenderly by the arm when she reached the ground, for her legs were so cramped she nearly fell over. Her fingers dug into his skin as she cursed under her breath, and Eremon shot her a look of concern mingled with amusement at her choice words. Slowly Rhiann straightened, suddenly conscious of her exposed belly before all these men and wishing that she had ridden inside the gate out of sight.

Yet Calgacus dispelled her embarrassment. As the other kings dipped their heads to her, he greeted her with a deep bow, taking her arm to turn her away. ‘You must be very tired from your journey, lady. There are still some women here to attend you –they have a bath waiting.’

A bath. Rhiann’s whole body ached with yearning. For a moment she hesitated, until Eremon leaned close to her ear and gave her braid a tweak. ‘Don’t worry about missing anything,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll tell you all later.’

‘I’ll hold you to that,’ she returned sweetly, and let a serving woman lead her away.

As dusk fell, the kings returned to their guestlodges to bathe before the night meal. Calgacus invited Eremon to his private alcove on the second floor of his hall, screened from the rest of the bed gallery by a long wool hanging depicting a hunting scene of stags and boar. The brazier squatted on its three legs, cold and unlit, for heat floated up from the great fire below.

‘Many of the Venicones escaped north and were taken by Taexali scouts,’ Calgacus informed Eremon. ‘The traitors at last know, to their cost, the value of a Roman vow.’

‘I heard this news.’ Eremon sighed, staring into the shadows of the curving wall. ‘You know of course that Agricola took this road once before – in the western lands of Britannia, the lands of my grandmother’s people. He laid waste to them, conquered them utterly.’

The words hung in the air between them, as a draft of warm air lifted the edge of the hanging, making the shadows tremble. This is destruction that cannot be ignored, prince,’ Calgacus said heavily, sinking into his carved chair. For the first time that day, the Caledonii king allowed all his feelings to show. ‘It is meant to drive us to war.’

Eremon reached for his ale cup. ‘That it is. What else do you know?’

Calgacus leaned back. ‘Our scouts estimate a Roman army of ten thousand. They are moving slowly, so thoroughly are they scouring the countryside of any sign of life.’ His mobile mouth turned down with brief pain.

‘We will have almost three times that,’ Eremon remarked.

Calgacus nodded. ‘So it appears.’

Eremon took a deep breath and met Calgacus’s gaze. ‘So. Where are they, where are they heading and what are we going to do about it?’

That at least brought a smile to the king’s face, and he sat forward, his forearms resting on his chair. ‘Aye, my young friend, you do bring a fresh breeze of energy into this Hall. The truth is I am waiting on the latest reports to come in, hopefully in the next few days. Then we can make a plan with the other kings.’

‘Then let us speak plain now.’ Abruptly, Eremon also leaned forward towards the bark map spread on the bench, its edges weighted with daggers. ‘I believe the Romans are making for this dun specifically. They wish to finish what they started last year.’

Calgacus nodded, tenting his fingers under his chin. ‘I feel this, too.’

‘Your lands are the gateway to the interior of all Alba,’ Eremon continued. ‘From here, the glens spread north, south and west, allowing easy access to the high ground. If the Romans take the Caledonii lands, the mountains are laid open to them. There will be nowhere left to hide, for any of us. We cannot let them get this far north.’

‘Indeed we cannot,’ Calgacus agreed, his eyes beginning to glow with the fire that Eremon could always stir in him. ‘And I have thought of a place to make our stand.’ He stabbed at the bark with one finger. ‘Here. It is a lone ridge that rears from a wide plain. From it, one can see far. It is a strong place, called the Hill of a Thousand Spears by some. I do not know why. Perhaps a battle was fought there, long ago.’

Eremon nodded. ‘Soon it may have a new name, then. Yet let it not be where the hope of Alba was lost.’

Calgacus turned those keen, gold-flecked eyes on Eremon, and gripped his shoulder. ‘Hope will never be lost while we can raise a sword.’

For a moment, Eremon let himself be held by that male strength, relieved that it was not only his to muster for others. Then he smiled and reached for his cup, holding it up to the king’s hand. ‘Let us drink to that, my friend.’

Yet the chink of their bronze cups was a cold sound within the pool of warm lamplight.

CHAPTER 66

I
t was the strangest, most frustrated turning of Rhiann’s life. For as the bustle of the war camp swirled around her in an escalating blur of noise, smell and urgent movement, she became ever more still, drawn away unwillingly to another world unfolding inside her.

Her body was growing more heavy and slow, and for those few days at Calgacus’s dun Rhiann sat on a bench on the sun-warmed walls, her hands spread over her belly, as from below came the roar of the men in training, the clash of swords and shields, the thunder of horses. Yet it was not only Rhiann’s increasing weight and tiredness holding her there. For though her energy had played a large part in creating this – 30,000 men in a frenzy of excitement and preparation – she sat silent in their midst now, her thoughts and heart turned entirely inwards, with no part to play.