Beyond, the land fell away to the north in long swales, veiled in smoky haze. It reminded Gawen of the way the land beyond would sometimes be hidden by the mists that surrounded Avalon, as if the isle had withdrawn from the world. Borderlands could be like that too. For half a year he had lived entirely in his father’s world, but in this place, which belonged wholly neither to Britannia nor to Rome, he was becoming uncomfortably aware of his own mixed allegiances, and questioning whether there were any place where he truly belonged.
“I wonder if the new Emperor will do anything about the rebellion,” the voice of Arius came from behind him. “This Spaniard, Hadrianus…”
“No emperor has visited Britannia since Claudius,” answered Gawen, still gazing over the countryside. Was that a dustcloud, or smoke from a dying fire? For a moment he half rose, squinting, then settled back again. “The Brigantes would have to make a pretty good showing to merit his attention….”
“That’s true. The British can’t coordinate worth a damn—even when they had a leader, at the battle of Mons Graupius, they lost. That was the last stand of the tribes.”
“That’s what my father thought,” said Gawen, remembering the pride with which his grandfather had talked about his son’s military career. “He was there.”
“You never told me that!” Arius turned to him.
Gawen shrugged. He found it hard to think of the elder Gaius as his father, even though he had only to compare the portrait that Macellius kept in his study with a bronze mirror to know it must be true. At Mons Graupius his father had fought bravely. Despite his training, when it came to his own challenge Gawen wondered how he would fare.
“Unless they have found a new leader of the caliber of Calgacus, I don’t think they will be dangerous for long,” he said aloud.
Arius sighed. “No doubt it will be all over as soon as the Ninth catch up with the Brigantes. It will be reported to Hadrianus as no more than a border skirmish, if at all. The battle won’t even have a name.”
No doubt…, thought Gawen. In the past three months he had become intimately acquainted with the discipline and strength of the Roman Army. Despite their individual courage, for the tribesmen to stand against them would take a miracle. For a moment his dream of the Lady of the Ravens flickered into memory, but surely that had only been a night fancy. The iron tread of the Legions was the reality of the daylight.
“And then it will be back to barracks for us all,” Arius went on. “And exercises…What a bore!”
“They made a desert, and called it peace…,” Gawen quoted softly. “Tacitus said that about the pacification of the north after Mons Graupius. After this, we may be glad to be bored.”
“You’re twitchy because of the waiting.” Arius grinned suddenly. “I know—I’m nervous too.”
That must be it. His doubts were the thoughts a man has before a battle, that was all. Gawen managed a laugh, suddenly very glad that Arius was with him, and returned to his survey of the northern hills.
It was Arius who first sighted the enemy. He came running back up from the thicket where he had gone to relieve himself, waving his arms in excitement, and Gawen, slipping back through the tangle of pines, saw the dustcloud to the west, where the sun was already sliding toward the hills, resolving into a moving mass of men and horses.
The Brigante advance was slowed by captured oxcarts laden with spoils. A mistake, thought Gaius. One of the greatest strengths of the tribes was mobility. But there were more than he had expected—thousands of them. He looked southward, where the Legion should be waiting, calculating time and distance.
“We’ll watch until the main body of the enemy has passed and then light the fire.”
“And then what?” asked Arius. “If we get cut off from our own lines, we’ll miss all the fun.”
“If we wait, the battle will come to us.” Gawen did not know whether to hope or to fear that was true. The danger, it occurred to him then, was going to be in the moments between the lighting of the fire and the appearance—if they had reached their position and seen his signal—of the Roman Army.
The enemy was almost below them now, Brigantes by their gear, though he could see some of the wilder tribesmen from the north riding in the van. Arius caught his eye, and then, frowning grimly, pulled out his flints and steel. It took several tries to get a spark, but soon a wisp of smoke curled up from the tinder, which strengthened as they added kindling, and then burst into vigorous flame. A judicious application of green stuff turned the white smoke to grey; the plume wavered, then strengthened, staining the sky.
Could the Romans see it? Gawen tensed, staring. Light sparkled suddenly across the rim of the far hill. He recognized the silver shimmer of lance points, and one flare of gold. The Eagle… Wordless, he pointed at the legionary standard, and Arius nodded. A blur of shadow grew beneath it, deepened, spilled down the slope, inexorable as the tide. Sweet with distance, trumpets blared, and the moving mass became three columns, the center slowing while the two flanks advanced along the higher ground to either side.
The Brigantes had seen them too. For a moment they faltered; then a discordant bawling came from their cowhorns. A ripple of movement passed through the crowd of men as shields were shrugged from back to arm and lances swung forward. Gawen and Arius, making their way down the far side of the crag, paused as the yelling intensified, pulling at a screen of junipers to see.
The Roman formation advanced with the remorseless regularity of one of their war machines, blocs of men moving in straight lines at a steady pace, flanks curving out to protect the center. The Celtic rush pulsed with the wild energy of a wildfire, roaring toward the foe.
The British could see the Roman plan, but no one, not even their own leaders, could ever be sure what the Celtic warriors would do. And in the moment when it seemed that the entire Brigante force would be surrounded and crushed by the Roman foundation, several bands from the wilder tribes who rode with them broke away suddenly.
“They’re running!” exclaimed Arius, but Gawen said nothing.
They did not look panicked, but furious, and in another moment it was clear that they were swinging around to charge down upon the Roman flank, not running away. Suddenly the high ground, which had allowed the Romans to get beyond the center of the enemy, became a disadvantage, for the Celtic horsemen were higher still. Screaming, they sent their surefooted ponies hurtling down the hill.
On that ground, no infantry could stand against them. The legionaries went sprawling, trampled by the horses or by each other as they tried to get out of the way. The confusion spread through the ranks. From above they could see the orderly pattern unraveling, the flanks recoiling upon the center just as its front line encountered the main group of the unmounted Brigante warriors.
The two scouts watched the seething mass of men with horrified fascination. Gawen remembered suddenly how once, when he had dropped a squirrel with a thrown stone, it had fallen into a nest of bees. In moments the poor beast had disappeared beneath hordes of attackers. Unbelievably, that was what he was seeing now. Watching, he winced at every blow. Was it more horrible to be in the thick of battle, he wondered, or here, where he could die a thousand deaths in sympathy?
But the Romans, better armored against the stings of these enemies, were not entirely overwhelmed. Many died where they stood, but those who could do so broke and ran. The Commander and his staff had stationed themselves on a small rise. The bright cloaks began to move as the first wave of retreating soldiers reached them. Could Donatus rally them?
Gawen never knew if the Commander had even tried. He saw the red cloaks retreating, saw them engulfed by the rout, and then the flash of bloody swords as the British caught up with them. The Legionary Eagle tossed above the fray for a few desperate moments longer, then went down.
“Jupiter Fides,” whispered Arius, his face the color of cheese. But Gawen, seeing the flock of crows that whirled above the battle, knew that the deity who ruled here was no god of Rome but the Great
Queen, the Lady of Ravens, Cathubodva.
“Come on,” he whispered. “We can’t help them now.”
Arius staggered as they picked their way down the far side of the hill. But Gawen, who felt none too steady himself, had no time for sympathy. His senses were strained to the limit, seeking for danger, and when he heard, above the tumult of the battlefield, the clank of metal against stone, he shoved the other man down into the bracken beside a little stream, hissing at him to be still.
They lay like hunted rabbits as the sounds grew louder. Gawen thought of the severed head they had seen at the farmstead. The tribesmen took heads sometimes as trophies. For a moment he had an awful vision of his own head and that of Arius grinning from poles outside some northern warrior’s door. His gorge rose and he swallowed, afraid that if he was sick he would be heard.
Through the ferns Gawen saw scratched bare legs, and heard men singing. They were laughing, chanting in disjointed phrases that would become a song of victory. He listened to the blurred speech of the north and tried to make out words.
He was startled into looking up by a convulsive movement at his side. Above the heads of the tribesmen swayed the Legionary Eagle. He felt Arius rising and reached out to stop him, but his friend was already on his feet, drawing his gladius. The flash of sun on steel stopped the singing. Gawen rolled to a crouch, his own blade ready, as the Brigantes began to laugh. In alarm he realized there were nearly two dozen.
“Give me the Eagle!” Arius said hoarsely.
“Give me your sword!” said the tallest in accented Latin. “And maybe we will let you live.”
“As a slave among the women—” said one of the others, a big man with red hair.
“Oh, leave him for their amusement!”
“They’ll just love those curls—maybe he’s really a girl, following her man to war!”
From his companions came a spate of lewd speculation in the British tongue regarding what the women would do to him. For a moment, Gawen, caught between fear for his friend and a gibbering panic that urged him to run away, could not move. Then he found himself rising to his feet.
“This is a madman,” Gawen replied in the same tongue, grabbing the tail of Arius’ tunic to halt him. “The gods protect him.”
“We are all madmen.” The Brigante chieftain eyed him warily, trying to reconcile the British speech and the Roman gear. “And the gods have given us the victory.”
True enough, thought Gawen, and I am the craziest of all. But he could not stand by and let his friend be killed. That memory would have sent him mad indeed.
“The gods of our people have been kind,” answered Gawen, babbling, “and they will not care to see you dishonor the gods of your beaten foe. This one is their priest. Give him the Eagle and let him go.”
“And who are you to give us orders?” asked the chieftain, his face darkening.
“I am a Son of Avalon,” answered Gawen, “and I have seen Cathubodva riding the wind!”
From the tribesmen came an uneasy mutter, and for a moment Gawen hoped he was going to get away with this. Then the redheaded man spat and lifted his spear.
“Then you are a traitor and a fool traveling together!”
At the movement, Arius jerked free. Gawen was just a moment too late to catch him as he charged, but he could see, with excruciating clarity, the arc the Brigante spear cut through the sky.
A breastplate might have repelled it, but scouts wore only a heavy tunic of hide. Arius staggered as the blade pierced his breast, his eyes widening in surprise. Even as his friend fell, Gawen knew the wound was fatal. But that was the last coherent thought he had for some time. The face of Cathubodva rose before him and, screaming, he charged.
He felt the impact as his blade struck flesh. Without thinking, he parried a blow and ducked under the man’s arm. At close quarters the Celts could not swing their longer blades. His shorter sword stabbed upward, biting into flesh, scraping on bone. The long hours spent in sword drill directed his blows, but it was Druid curses that he was shouting, and to his enemies they were more deadly than his sword.
Gawen sensed first a faltering, and then, suddenly, no one was attacking him. He blinked, gasping like an over-driven horse.
He saw Brigante warriors disappearing over the rise. Eight bodies lay sprawled on the bloody ground. Staggering a little as the spirit that had filled him drained away, Gawen made his way back to Arius. His friend lay still, staring emptily at the sky. But nearby, where one of the fleeing Brigantes had tossed it, lay the Eagle of the Ninth.
He should bury his friend, Gawen thought dimly. He should lay Arius in a hero’s mound with his enemies around him and the Eagle for a monument. But he knew he did not have the strength, and it would make no difference. Arius would still be dead, like all the others. Even the Eagle was nothing to him now except a reason for men to kill.
I don’t belong here…, he thought hazily. The sword slipped from his hand. With clumsy fingers he pulled at the lacings of his leather tunic. It was better without the heavy gear, but he still stank of blood. In the silence, the trickling of water from the little burn called him. He stumbled back through the bracken and plunged his face into the chill water where the stream had hollowed out a deep pool, washed the blood from his arms and legs, and drank again. To his amazement, only a little of the blood was his own. The water made him feel better, but the stain of blood, the blood of his own people, was still on his soul.
I have not taken an oath to the Emperor, he thought. I don’t have to stay in the Army to be a butcher! Could they keep him if he went back to Eburacum? He did not know, and surely the disgrace would kill his grandfather. Better the old man should think him dead than believe that the horror of battle had made him run away. It was being a killer that he was afraid of, he thought, looking at the men who lay on the ground, not of being slain.
Finally he got up. Among the bodies, the gilded wings of the Eagle glinted balefully in the light of the setting sun.
“You, at least, shall destroy no more men!” he muttered, lifting it, and bore it back to the stream. The waters of the pool closed over its brightness, as water had hidden the gleam of many another treasure offered by his mother’s people to the gods.
On the other side of the ridge men might still be fighting and dying, but here it was silent. Gawen tried to think what to do. He could not go back to the Legions, but his Roman features would damn him among the tribes. There was just one place, really, where they had not cared whether he was Roman or British, but only about what was in his soul. Suddenly, with an aching intensity, he wanted to go home, to Avalon.
Chapter Six
The Vale of Avalon lay wrapped in harvest peace. Golden light filtered through the leaves of the apple tree, glowing in the scented smoke that twined from the firepot, and lending a soft illumination to the veils of the priestesses and the bright hair of the girl who sat between them. In the silver basin before her, water trembled at the touch of breath, then stilled. Caillean, resting her fingers on Sianna’s shoulders, felt the tension draining out of them as the girl’s trance deepened, and nodded. She had waited a long time for this day.
“Let it go, that’s right,” she murmured. “Breathe in…and out…and look at the surface of the pool.” She felt her own vision flickering as she breathed in the magic of the burning herbs, and looked quickly away, anchoring her awareness firmly in the present.
Sianna sighed and swayed forward, and Caillean steadied her. She had been certain the girl would have an aptitude for Seeing, but until Sianna had been sworn as a priestess it was not right to use her so. Then Gawen had run away, and the girl had moped and grown so thin Caillean had forbidden her to work any kind of magic. Only in the past month had she begun to recover her spirits. It was a relief to Caillean to see it. The daughter of the Faerie Queen was the most talented of the young girls who had come to them for training, and no wonder, with her heritage. The High Priestess had been harder on her than on the others, and she had not broken. T
his, if anyone, was the maiden who would be able to learn all of the ancient magics and wield them when she herself was gone.
“The water is a mirror,” Caillean said softly, “in which you can see things far off in distance and time. Seek now the summit of the Tor, and tell me what you see….”
Sianna’s breathing grew deeper. Caillean matched it, relaxing a little of her own control in order to share the vision while retaining her connection to the outer world.
“I see…the ring stones shining in the sun…. The Vale is laid out below…. I see patterns…glowing paths that pass through the isles, the shining road that comes up from Dumnonia and passes toward the eastern sea….”
Through half-closed lids, Caillean glimpsed the surface pattern of hill and wood and field, and beneath it, the bright lines of power. As she had hoped, Sianna could see the inner world as well as the outer.
“That is well, very well,” she began, but Sianna was continuing—
“I follow the shining path; northward it leads toward Alba. Smoke rises; the borders are soaked in blood. There has been battle, and the ravens feast on the slain….”
“The Romans,” breathed Caillean. When word of the uprising had come to them, the Druids had agreed to lend their power to help, and the priestesses, fired by their enthusiasm, were eager to join with them. Caillean remembered the first surge of exultation at the prospect of driving out the hated Romans at last, and then the doubt—was this the right way to use the power of Avalon?
“I see Romans and Britons, their bodies tangled together on the battlefield—” Sianna’s voice shook.
“Who won the battle?” Caillean asked. They had sent forth their power; they had heard there was fighting. And then nothing. If the Romans themselves knew what was happening, they had not allowed the news to travel far.