The Makedonians were lined up in phalanxes, eight men deep, iron breastplates shining, sandalled and metal-greaved below loose, red tunics, strangely shaped yellow helmets on their heads, very unpleasant bearded faces below. They all held spears: long spears at the front, longer spears behind, and very long spears indeed at the back. The sun picked out the rising ranks of points. The blades looked lean and mean. These spears were slowly lowered and raised to the steady rhythm of a low, sinister chant from the warriors who bore them.
Pigeons, circling above the pristine field of encounter, sometimes landed on those slowly moving points and struggled to keep their balance. The only ripple of disorder in the orderly ranks opposed to us was the quick waggle of a spear, dislodging its unwelcome avian visitor.
‘Of all the sights I expected to see when I came out of that fucking valley and on to this plain…’ Brennos said suddenly.
Orgetorix stayed silent and Achichoros considered it diplomatic to stop his juicy chewing, watching the other warlord and waiting for the sentence to be completed.
When, after a while, no further words had been spoken, Achichorus ventured: ‘You didn’t expect to see four thousand Makedonians waiting for you, clearly knowing you were coming? Is that what you were going to say?’
Brennos gave him a sour look. ‘Words to that effect. How did they know? One of those pigeons must have been wrongly messaged.’
‘Probably the watchman’s, at the head of the valley,’ Orgetorix ventured. ‘The message upside down; a wing-tip feather bent; some subtle signal. We Greeklanders are good at that sort of trick, and these Makedonians learn quickly from their neighbours.’
‘That damned watchman!’
‘Damned?’ Orgetorix shook his head, amused. ‘I doubt it. He’s walking arm-in-arm with Alessandros even now, laughing at us. That old man knew he was going to die and he made a damned good job of persuading us that he’d sent the message we wanted him to send. Well, he’s dead and out of it, and we’re here and in trouble. So what shall we do, Lord Brennos?’
Achichoros waved his half-eaten orange at the enemy. ‘I suggest attacking, Brennos. It’s bloody, but it tends to keep things moving.’
‘Go ahead,’ Brennos said. ‘Full frontal. You and your elite spearmen. We’ll watch and follow later.’
‘I thought oranges were supposed to be sweet,’ Achichoros commented studiously. ‘This one is quite sour.’ He threw it over his shoulder.
Now Bolgios and his two-man guard galloped up, red hair streaming below his helmet, limbs glistening with sweat. He was in his battle leathers and carrying five javelins and his oval shield.
‘Is there a reason for this delay?’ he barked at Brennos.
‘About four thousand, in case you hadn’t noticed.’
‘Seventeen hundred and eleven, to be precise,’ Bolgios declaimed, with a grin at Orgetorix. ‘It’s not just the Greeklanders who are good at figures.’
‘Well counted,’ said the Greeklander.
‘Thank you. And just to remind you, Brennos, we are tens of thousands against that seventeen hundred. If we were the sort of people who feasted on our enemy’s guts in triumph, we could be belly-full with Makedonian liver before the day is half done! What is the reason for the delay?’
‘Strategy,’ Brennos said irritably.
‘Strategy?’ Bolgios looked confused.
‘Why are they making it so obvious how little they’ve lined up against us? And their tactics. Chanting, spear lowering and raising, threatening to rip our horses open…’
Bolgios seemed even further confused. ‘Spear lowering? Horse ripping? That’s tactics?’
‘They’re making it very obvious, good friend Bolgios, which suggests to some of us that they’re hiding something else.’
‘Perhaps they’re just … How can I put this without seeming to be impertinent, good friend Brennos?… Perhaps they’re just … obvious.’
The two men glared at each other.
‘I accept your criticism,’ Brennos said quietly. ‘But there’s more to it. Not everything is as it seems.’
‘Where have I heard that before?’ Bolgios muttered. He suddenly looked up at the morning sky, his black horse rearing to take the great weight of its rider as it moved backwards in the saddle. He turned on the spot, still staring upwards, removed his ridge-coned helmet and laughed out loud. ‘Yes! You’re right. That cloudless sky! I see it now. It’s just deceiving us by staying up there. It’s about to fall and catch us all by surprise! Excuse me, my lord, I must go and instruct my legion to raise their shields above their heads!’
He cantered off, shouting violent abuse at the Makedonian force.
Brennos stared at the enemy grimly. ‘He’s right, of course.’
Orgetorix laughed out loud. ‘That the sky will fall on us?’
‘That we should cease this delay. All I can think of is that they’re hiding chariots, or archers, behind their rank. They’re well hidden. If Bolgios was able to count their numbers, he must have been higher up, and still he didn’t see the concealed force…’
‘I suspect Bolgios was joking,’ Achichoros said with a quick smile, stretching in the saddle. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I don’t doubt his courage, but I do doubt that he can count above the number of horses he could steal in a raid. That would be a high number, certainly, but not that high. He was trying to cheer us up. We’re looking at three times a thousand men at least.’
‘Yes. I suspect you’re right.’
‘Seventeen hundred or three thousand, that’s a massed rank of them,’ Orgetorix pointed out carefully. ‘And they are blocking the exit from this pass. And we’re not even at Thermopylae.’
‘Bugger Thermopylae!’ Brennos said with passion. ‘One pass at a time. Where’s that enchanter? The one who warned us of the watchman…’
‘He’s behind you.’
Brennos turned heavily in the saddle and stared at me. When he glanced down at my horse, the animal shied slightly, as if this man’s fierce eyes were as frightening to the equine world as they sometimes could be to the human. But even powerful men can be curious, and curiosity softens fierceness.
‘Does your far-sight see men beyond these men?’
I answered quite simply, ‘There are more, but not many more. They want you to think they’re hiding nothing by pretending to hide a legion, to discomfort you. They seem to have succeeded.’
Brennos’s face glowered for a fleeting moment, then relaxed, and a small smile touched his lips. He turned to Achichoros and said something and both men laughed. Achichoros moved away, riding steadily back to the head of his own army, and the spearmen who stood ranked at its head. Brennos sent a rider to Bolgios, on the right flank. Behind us, the chariots began to rattle in anticipation. Again, Brennos looked round at me. ‘I would like you to leave the field; find a vantage point and watch from safety. You too, Orgetorix. I would like to keep you safe. I want to send you south again, ahead of us.’
‘As you wish,’ the Greeklander said, rather gloomily.
We rode forward to canter along the line, a dangerous manoeuvre if the Makedonian phalanxes were indeed hiding archers as well as several hundred cavalry, but we had hardly left the commander’s group when, with a great shriek, a war cry of howling anger, a small chariot, drawn by two long-maned black horses, raced from behind Bolgios’s front line of horsemen and streaked across the level ground towards the rise where the Makedonians waited, still uttering their growling chant, still raising and lowering their spears.
They seemed as surprised as the Celtic army at this sudden, singlehanded attack on them.
There was something familiar about the two protagonists of this small but noisy raid: the charioteer, leaning forward, whipping the horses ferociously, was a lean-bodied woman, clad only in a thin, green vest, bare-armed, and ragged leather britches. Black-faced, her dark hair streaming, she exhorted the animals to greater speed as the chariot came almost up to the line of pikes themselves, before turning tightly and racin
g down the hill.
Not before the passenger, tall, stripped to the waist, holding a short throwing javelin, launched that weapon with incredible strength, bending almost double as he flung the shaft, straight into the Makedonian lines, impaling a soldier so deeply through the chest that the man seemed transfixed, and probably was: to the man behind.
A long javelin was thrown back at him, and this lithe figure actually ducked and snatched the shaft as it grazed his shoulder. The charioteer turned the horses back towards the Makedonians, and that heavy spear was returned with vigour. But now arrows and slingshot began to hiss and clatter through the open ground between us, and the couple, struck and hurt by stones, ducked and turned for safety, the man hanging on to the chariot rail, his arm raised in meaningful farewell, his voice a piercing, taunting torrent of abuse and insult.
Urtha could certainly summon words of insult!
Ullanna was a wild and handsome charioteer!
Their attack had precipitated action in the ranks of Brennos’s army, and as Ullanna steered the horses back to safety so our lines were broken by chariots pushing through, to sweep towards the Makedonian phalanxes, throwing spears at the ready, a noisy and exuberant charge at the enemy. Horsemen followed, earthshaking, shield-striking as they drove towards those deadly spears. Achichoros and Bolgios had launched attacks as well. We all raised shields to defend against the sudden rain of arrows that fell upon us, and Elkavar was hit in the leg, though the narrow point only skinned him. He was too busy trying to protect his pipes.
I shouted to Urtha. The man had a fierce look on his face, and was deaf and blind to anything but the attack. Ullanna had been hit on the shoulder by a sharp-edged slingshot, which had sent her flying from the chariot. She was crouched on the ground, now, plucking grass and rubbing at the bloody split in her flesh. There was a lot of blood. Urtha saw me and acknowledged me, but then Ullanna was back in the chariot, awkwardly turning the panting horses, and they returned to the battle. From the grim look on her face, she was clearly in great pain now.
Behind me I heard a man say, ‘That damned bird again! That raven.’
Orgetorix was watching the sky. High above us, a raven was falling towards us, but it suddenly turned on the up-draught and flew over the seething mass of men and murder. Elkavar and I withdrew to higher ground. The valleys were alive with restless men, waiting for orders to attack, kept still only by the steady nerves of the three men who led this horde. Riders raced along the columns, and the hills flooded with figures, anxious to see what was happening ahead of them. The wind was to the north. They could smell the stench of this frenzy and hear the noise of it, like the high-pitched shrieking of carrion birds at this distance, and the strident blasts of trumpets, keeping everything disturbed, on edge, and in endless fury.
* * *
A king of Makedonia died that day, with over a thousand of his loyal troops. The rest scattered, a broken army. We didn’t know at the time that we had claimed so great a head, but the head was brought to us by the scavengers who had stayed behind to strip and bury the dead. They brought this king’s trophy, and his armour, and the rings still on his fingers, including a royal seal. They had looted the fallen generals as well. Brennos gave them the armour from the generals, all the rings except for the seal. He sent the trophy back down the line, for oiling, preservation and eventual display.
* * *
The losses from Brennos’s army had been huge. It was hard to say whether they would have been lower if the action had not been so compulsive, following Urtha and Ullanna’s wild challenge to the Makedonians. What was clear was that, despite grieving for many of the dead, the Celts were in a state of elation. They had skirmished all the way from the Daan, but this had been the first significant confrontation, not expected, and won by sheer force of numbers and determination.
It seemed to many of the men who had fought that nothing, now, could stand against them. All pretence of silence vanished; fires were lit at night, game roasted, and trumpets were blown each dawn and dusk, and there was certainly no lack of singing and mock combat.
As many wounded as dead had been sent north again, under escort. The Celtic dead had been buried with great ceremony, the day after the battle, below five huge mounds that had been raised above them at the end of the valley. Whether time and wind would preserve those tombs was another matter. Brennos, practical to the last, recognised the need for ceremony among the grieving followers of the lost, and using his own wiles, with a wonderful eulogy by torchlight, sent the spirits of the men on their way to Ghostland, and urged the army to hasten south without further delay, since all in Greek Land would be rising from their beds, ready to confront the invader, now.
So we buried, feasted, sang to the Gathering God, who sent darkwinged birds to assist the ghosts back to their homelands … and then we marched through the night.
To make up time.
Orgetorix had quietly disappeared, travelling ahead under Brennos’s direction.
It wasn’t long before Brennos sent for Urtha. Ullanna was in great pain from the strike on her shoulder, and Elkavar was at the reins of the chariot, the Scythian woman curled up in a fever, wrapped in blankets, inside the light wood of the vehicle. Her illness would soon pass.
Urtha and I met up with Brennos, and introductions were made. Urtha explained that, on his way to catch up with the army, he had found the chariot abandoned in one of the narrow passes. Brennos remembered several skirmishes and presented the vehicle to the man without hesitation.
‘I’ve heard a lot about your land,’ he said. ‘My father told me that beyond its shores there is a place where the shadows of heroes ride, waiting for their time on the earth. Not the dead, the waiting-to-be-born.’
‘That place lies close to my great fort,’ Urtha declaimed, puffing himself up in the saddle. ‘Yes. My great fort looks down to the river that separates our worlds. Sometimes I see the glowing boats that sail those waters. We light fires and sacrifice in the willow groves. When the shadow of a hero crosses the water, he first steps on my own land, although where he then goes, to settle, to quest, is his own business.’
‘I very much like the sound of your land,’ Brennos said thoughtfully.
Urtha could hardly restrain his pride. He said, ‘I would be honoured to have you as a guest in my fort. My house is entirely at your disposal. The hunting in Alba is swift and clever, unsurpassable; and close to the river there is an orchard that is always in fruit.’
‘And if I came with a hundred men, you could accommodate us all?’ Brennos asked. ‘Without thinking we had come to invade?’
‘Come with a thousand,’ Urtha bragged. ‘We’ll feast on deer-flesh and partridge for a full cycle of the moon, and then raid to the south for some of the strongest bulls you’ll ever have seen. Southerners are not up to much, but they do breed wonderful bulls.’
‘Your fort must be one of the largest I can imagine. I’m impressed by the sound of it. When this jaunt is over, I’ll bring that thousand men, and enjoy your hospitality. Thank you. And thank you, again, for the spark that lit the fire. That charge. I will always acknowledge when a good action, spontaneously taken, breaks through my own uncertainty. That was a charge to remember. And your charioteer was like a screeching owl, but more desirable. The memory of her will linger the longest. Is she your sister?’
Urtha said nothing, just stared ahead as he rode next to the warlord. Brennos glanced back at me with a quick smile, realising that he might be straying on to delicate ground. In fact, I realised at once that quite a lot of the conversation was a typical tease. Brennos would have known that Urtha was exaggerating the hospitality and size of his stronghold. And a thousand men, crossing the sea to ride to Urtha’s land, would certainly have been seen as an invasion.
But Urtha needed something; and if Brennos knew it, he was making it as easy as he could for the brash young Cornovidian.
‘She is not my sister,’ Urtha said after a while. ‘She is from east of here, where accord
ing to the Hittites…’
‘Hittites?’
‘Gossips. Liars. They claim the women of her race—the Scythians—cut off their breasts to facilitate the use of a bow.’
‘Now that is something I’ve heard about. But though your charioteer wasn’t plump, from what I saw—’
‘As I said, Lord Brennos. These tales are lies. Ullanna—that’s her name—has been aiding me in a very personal task. There is a man, riding somewhere in your army…’
Brennos reined in and waved a warning hand. ‘If you’re going to say you wish to kill someone, the answer is no. Gods, we’ll have a hard enough time getting to that snake hole, Delphi, without stopping every hour for some combat, some revenge joust, over the taking of a horse or the killing of a dog.’
The two men glared at each other. Urtha was red-faced and furious. Brennos was white-faced and cold.
Riders and chariots continued to stream past us. Somewhere, a wagon turned over and dogs barked fiercely as they darted for some of the spilled meat. A man rode up to Brennos, took one look at him, turned and cantered away.
Then Urtha said, very quietly, ‘His name is Cunomaglos. He is somewhere in this horde.’
‘There will be a hundred men with a name like that. In this horde.’
Undaunted by the cold suppression of his unspoken request, Urtha said, ‘I was afraid for the future of my land. I listened to false advice, and abandoned my fort. I looked for answers in the world when I should have looked for the truth in my family itself. Does this mean anything at all to you, Lord Brennos?’
‘It does,’ the warlord answered with the merest nodding of his head.
Urtha said, ‘When I was away, Cunomaglos and others came to join this expedition. They left my fort unguarded. I live at the edge of Ghostland. Not everything in Ghostland is friendly to the living. Does this mean anything to you, my Lord Brennos?’
‘It does,’ Brennos answered, leaning on his saddle, looking down. ‘More than you might think.’