At last he said, ‘You, of all the Legion, have a chance of killing him, for you have his love as a weapon to use against him. When he hesitates you can strike. I agree. You shall be dispatched to hunt him down, and you will go with a squad of twenty men. The men will have two instructions: to let you kill your brother, and if you fail in the attempt then they will try and kill him themselves. Secondly, that if you hesitate in the killing blow they will strike you dead immediately, and then slaughter the Horned Warrior.’
‘I agree,’ said Bedivyg gratefully. ‘Don’t worry, Centurion. I know my brother’s weaknesses. His days are numbered – the time it takes me to catch up with him.’
‘Talking of which,’ said Andronicus smirking, ‘where exactly has he gone? Did he tell you?’
Bedivyg shook his head. ‘We fought in the water, not talked,’ he said, avoiding the trap neatly. ‘But a few years ago, when we were taken from our village, I overheard him speaking with a Hag. His quest for some strange release from an equally strange curse will take him to a ring of stones in the lands of the Belgae. I know of this circle of stones. There were men at Venta who had been on the punitive expeditions to Sorviodunon, and who talked of the ring of henges that stands on a hill near the fortress.’
‘Excellent,’ said Andronicus. ‘You leave at once. Optione, detach twenty men from the third century to ride with our friend here. Instruct them as I have spoken.’
Bedivyg grinned and saluted, then backed from the tent, the relief on his face was almost tangible.
CHAPTER 9
The lands of the Belgae
Rain and darkness had been their companions for seven days and seven nights. Edwynna was in much distress, and the old druid, Gryddan, though he kept silent was not faring well beneath this onslaught of the elements.
Swiftaxe had rapidly come to regret bringing this bizarre couple of Deceangli with him on this final journey – he refused to think of the journey as anything but final – for they had not only slowed him up, but made demands upon his energy and time to acquire food that he, the Berserker, would have easily done without.
A Roman army marched for about one fifth of the entire day, marching in the early daylight and spending the rest of the time setting up camp and refreshing themselves. In this way, because they could march fast, they covered as much ground as a migrating British army moving for all the daylight hours. A simple strategy that was accomplished without complaint. If a troop of men was following Swiftaxe, then he knew they were only as far behind him as they had been when he had left the straits, and more than likely were closing the gap fast.
The three Celts had riden on stolen horses for hours and hours, stopping frequently, resting for agonising periods of time. Roman horsemen, riding according to a similar strategy as those who marched, would be fresh, active and strong, and would not have lost time.
But how difficult it was to realise that time spent resting was time on your side!
They had come through the lands of the Dobunni without incident, though ridge riders had dogged their passage for many miles, and edgy Roman patrols had passed along trackways as the three riders had concealed themselves in the woodlands.
Though Rome bragged of this land as being part of their province, the truth was that the chieftains of the various tribes left the superior forces of the Romans alone, and the Legions and cohorts and centuries of men that passed through passed swiftly through and stopped neither to talk nor to battle. On every hill top they implanted a standard of their Legion. Within moment of their vanishing, the standards were burned to cinders.
It was an uneasy and confusing situation. The Legions of the invader had certainly conquered key fortresses and enclosures, and eliminated key opposition, but they had moved on, then, and the tiny garrisons they had left behind remained as isolated pockets of soldiers not venturing much beyond their palisaded confines.
The tribes of the Britons regarded them with contempt, and would have laughed to have been told that they were ‘conquered’.
At length Swiftaxe wearily rode upon a ridge and, through the driving rain and misty greenery of the countryside, announced that they were about to enter the tribal lands of the Belgae.
‘How do you know?’ asked the druid, and Swiftaxe pointed out the signs, the crossed spears in a distant river, the curiously knotted lengths of cloth that had been tied about the branches of hill-top trees. Gryddan noticed these things as they were pointed out and agreed that they were indeed passing into a more hostile country, almost certainly that of the men of the Belgae.
Edwynna was white-faced and saturated. She rode her horse more by instinct than skill, and it was apparent that the days of slow progress had brought her close to such total exhaustion that she might never recover.
So now, at last, Swiftaxe reached for her and tugged her bodily from the blanket over her horse’s back. He sat her in front of his own body and wrapped his cloak about her, tying leather slings about her so that she became a part of his body. Her horse he tied to the tail of his own, and thus, more cumbersome than ever, the Berserker, still calm for the longest period of quiet he had known, led the way into the valleys of the hostile Belgae.
In the distance, towering high above the land, was a hill fort of enormous proportions, and the ridgeway lay close by.
The sour taste in Swiftaxe’s mouth was the sour anticipation of mayhem if those warriors came out for the kill.
At dusk they were much closer to the earthen fortress than they would have liked. On the ridge, pelted by freezing rain, they realised that they would have to ride down through the trees to the lower lands and find shelter for this most desperate of nights.
Swiftaxe, without consulting Gryddan, turned his horse and began the treacherous walk through woodland and rough bracken growth. The druid dismounted and led his horse on foot.
It was pitch black and as cold as death when they gathered in the shelter of some rocks and trees, near to a rushing stream. Against the grey clouds, made light where the moon blazed full behind them, they could see the sombre outlines of the great fortress, its multiple ramparts steep and forbidding, and not a flicker of light from its palisade to suggest an invitation to ride to its gates.
The rain drove against them, and they shuffled about in the scant shelter until they found a dry place. The wind screamed at them, and the trees, that were ostensibly their guardians, waved and creaked in the storm, and shook the gathering rain from their leaves on to the huddled three-some beneath.
‘This will be a long night,’ said Edwynna, speaking for the first time in three days. She huddled closer to Swiftaxe, reaching cold hands to his lukewarm flesh. She was shaking and the Berserker stroked her wet hair to try and soothe her.
‘A long night and a cold one,’ he said, and Edwynna snuggled still tighter. He wrapped his cloak about their bodies, tucking the material in around them to try and exclude every draught.
‘I am chilled to my spirit,’ said the girl thickly. ‘I believe I cannot last much longer. I have never been so cold in all my life.’
Swiftaxe looked through the darkness to where Gryddan was crouched, curled like a baby, but watching them. ‘Do something,’ said the Horned Warrior. ‘Please.’
Gryddan stared at him for a second, then glanced through the waving branches of a tree to where the fortress was a black demon in the night, shadowing them, towering them as if watching for them to break from cover.
Abruptly the old man rose to his feet and walked out into the full blast of the driving rain. Swiftaxe lost sight of him, though his voice carried through the wind, loud and shrill.
‘Fire to the tree!’ cried Gryddan. ‘Taran, God of the Dark Sky, send fire and warmth to the tree, light to the branches, flame to the leaves!’
A great streak of lightning broke the sky, illuminated the country in eerie blue for a moment, allowing Swiftaxe a sight of the druid, his arms outstretched, his frail figure effectively naked against the freezing rain.
The lightning play
ed about the man for a second and Edwynna, also watching, screamed – like Swiftaxe her first thought was that Taran’s answer was to destroy this insolent mortal, but a moment later the great bolt of sky flame drew back and played around the branches of an alder tree, inflaming it so that it burned brilliant yellow, and the rain and the wind were powerless to extinguish its fierce warmth.
Gryddan scuttled back to the overhang, beaming with pleasure.
‘We shall be warmed sufficiently,’ he said, ‘by the time they come.’
‘Who?’ said Swiftaxe, then realised that the flaming tree was not just a fire for the wild things of the woods, but was a beacon to the angry men of the fort.
Gryddan said, ‘It is, if you face it true, our only chance to survive this wretched weather.’
‘But if the men of the fort come for us, what makes you think we will survive them?’
Now the druid laughed. ‘Why, Swiftaxe … you do, of course. I’ve seen what you can do. I doubt that a night band of Belgic warriors could survive the first minute of their own hostility.’
Edwynna cried out at that moment. It was a few minutes, only, since the tree had begun to burn, but by following her outstretched hand Swiftaxe could see what she had seen; horse riders were gathering on the earth ramparts highest up the walls of the fort; their black shapes were indistinct against the dark grey clouds, and soon the men moved in front of the palisade and became invisible, black against black. But they were working their way down the steep slopes, and soon Swiftaxe heard the snorting of the beasts, and the rough cries of the riders urging their unwilling mounts faster through the treacherous conditions.
They came abruptly out of the night and the rain, emerging from darkness into the circle of eerie light thrown by the blazing tree. Fifteen riders, on drenched horses, each man wrapped in a dark woollen cloak, and wearing a broad-rimmed bronze helmet on his head. They wore no beards, but had long, stiffened moustaches curling down to their chins. Their swords were drawn, bright iron swords, longer in the blade than either Roman or Coritanian swords.
One man rode around the burning tree, then kicked his horse towards the overhang, regarding the three strangers who crouched there.
Swiftaxe was tense, waiting for the first sign of violence before he leapt to the attack. Though he held no weapon visible, beneath his warming cloak were his axe and sword, unslung and ready to bite flesh at a second’s notice.
But the man who stared at him made no move to attack, or call an assault.
‘Have you horses?’ he asked, his accent thick, his words sitting uncomfortable upon the ear.
Edwynna, perhaps more in distress than even her reason knew, said immediately, ‘Yes. Please let us shelter in your fort.’
Swiftaxe silenced her abruptly, and his hold upon the shaft of his axe grew tighter, ready to swing the blade out from concealment. As he moved slightly so his cloak slipped open and the bright light of the blazing tree made the wide axe-blade gleam provocatively.
The man on horseback stared at the weapon, then at Swiftaxe’s face, trying to assess the warrior worth of this stranger. Then he laughed, and Swiftaxe, with a great wave of relief, realised that his unspoken challenge had been tactfully avoided. ‘Are you Britons? I see you are. No Briton need fear us, unless he has conspired with the Roman dogs. If you are true Britons, then no matter from what tribe you hail, our fort will welcome you. If you try trickery, your heads will crisp in that same flame that the Taran has wrought from the skies. Follow us. Be in no immediate fear.’
The town that lay within the earthworks was densely laid out and inviting even through the rain.
Swiftaxe, carrying the exhausted Edwynna in his arms, followed the Belgic warrior who had led the patrol into a wide-roofed, and densely populated, round house. Women and children scurried to the sides of the vast room, but the men, seated around the blazing fire and telling stories of their exploits to while away the time, looked up and frowned as they saw the shape of the Berserker.
Swiftaxe was unbothered for the moment. His mind reeled with pleasure at the hot, sweaty stench in the room, the pungent odour of well-cooked meat, the sharp smell of burning logs, mixing with the human odour of flatulence and satisfaction. Swiftaxe was instantly at home.
One man among the suspicious group of warriors rose to his feet. He was a tall man, broad of shoulder and dressed in loose cloth trousers and a thick leather belt; his torso and feet were bare. His yellow hair hung loose and unstiffened, but his moustaches were smeared with oils so that they stuck out beyond each cheek like the horns of a young stag.
‘Who have you brought here, Carannas? Are we to entertain them, or execute them?’
‘Travellers, my Lord Vertingoris.’ The man called Carannas smiled as he spoke, looking the three of them up and down for the first time in clear light. ‘They claim to have ridden from the north and are on a peaceful mission.’
Vertingoris stroked his moustaches thoughtfully. ‘Hungry? Tired?’ He addressed himself to the Berserker.
Swiftaxe nodded perfunctorily. Edwynna roused herself in his arms and looked about her. ‘The girl is exhausted,’ said Swiftaxe. ‘May she dry and rest somewhere?’
Vertingoris called sharply to one of the women who ran across the great house and tried to take Edwynna into her arms. The girl waved her off and stood, walked with her, then, to a private cubicle at the side of the room, to dry her hair and scrape the dirt from her body.
Vertingoris waved Swiftaxe and the druid to the fire. The other warriors shuffled around to make room; Swiftaxe noticed that several swords had appeared from nowhere and now rested near to their owners. These men looked strong and vital, and the gleam of their blades told of conscientious warriors. The walls of the house were decked with shields and spears, and the trophies of war. Weapons, bent and broken, were slung from the enormous beams of the rafters, and through the haze of smoke, in the flickering fire and torch light, they seemed to twist and writhe as once they had twisted in the grip of some great warrior, now dead. This was the house of a great warlord, and carried memories of great wars.
And yet there was something about the fighting men who sat in this house that was not in tune with the memories of greatness that were strewn around – something that made the warriors seem uncomfortable in these surroundings. It was, within each one of them, some kind of desperation … in the way they stared, the way they talked, the way, even, that they dressed for war in this dark, storm-ridden night, when war was a long way off. Theirs was the desperation of a people who were defeated, Swiftaxe realised at last; they had been defeated in war, but were too proud to acknowledge the fact, even to themselves.
‘If you had been Romans,’ said the Chieftain, Vertingoris, breaking the heavy, contemplative silence, ‘we’d have carved you up. No Roman Legion has ever taken this fortress. Huh? Did you know that?’
Gryddan said, ‘This land is in the new Roman Province.’
Vertingoris roared angrily. ‘Not this land, druid. Not the land on which you sit. Not the land within these walls. And I would challenge any Roman to lay a claim to the hills that we can see from our defences. We kill every patrol or platoon of the invader that we see. They have not the courage to come and attack us in force. We are sons of the Belgae, exiles from Gaul. Though we are exiles, the Romans remember us from five generations ago, and dare not repeat that campaign.’
‘They drove you out of Gaul?’
‘By weight of numbers,’ said Vertingoris sulkily. ‘My grandfather was a warrior – young then, of course. His father and his grandfather were warriors, and each in turn became the Chieftain of the tribe. They were forced to abandon their homelands by the strength of numbers pitted against them. We shall return, though.’ His eyes grew alive with excitement, and he leaned forward to poke with his sword at the blazing log fire. ‘Already we lay plans for the return to Gaul. We shall return in triumph and sweep the Romans before us like dead leaves.’
Carannas, who had taken his place round the fire, laug
hed at this. ‘If there are any of us left,’ he said. He seemed angry, and his gaze, when it lingered on Swiftaxe, was openly hostile. The Berserker sensed the resentment in this warrior, and mentally made ready for provocation and trouble.
Vertingoris shouted at his warrior. ‘There are thousands of us, and we shall all unite before this generation is done.’
Another warrior, younger, drawn of face and bearing, and dull in the eye, spoke up here. ‘You dream, Vertingoris. You dream of what can never be. We are too scattered, and too many of us are under the Roman thumb.’
‘And too many of us,’ said Carannas bitterly, ‘have fled across the sea to the green lands of Eriu.’
‘Aye,’ said a third, shaking his head. ‘Freedom lies west, not east.’
‘What women I have for warriors!’ cried Vertingoris, looking in embarrassment at Swiftaxe. He shook his head. ‘Give me one hundred men with hearts of three-forged iron and I would drive the Legions out of this island, and then out of Gaul. It would take only spirit and strength, and favour from the gods.’
None there were who were inclined to comment. Swiftaxe stared at the group of warriors and recognised the games they played within their own minds. Dressed for war, arrogant men with proud hearts, who gave way so easily to their desperation. He felt very sad for them.
He was passed a joint of meat that had been cooking as they talked. It was crisped and blackened in the fire, but the meat inside was not overcooked, but was red and warm and Swiftaxe tore at it with his teeth, delighting in the hot juice and rich taste. Gryddan ate more selectively, and the men of this Belgic fortress watched them, perhaps wondering who their visitors were and why they were here.
At length Vertingoris, already further under the influence of the wine he was drinking than were any others of his men, leaned across to Swiftaxe and said, ‘Why are you in our territory? Do you seek sanctuary? You would be very welcome to settle here. Your strength will pay far more than the cost of keeping this withered chicken.’