Authors: N. M. Browne
He takes some time to study the now damp bark on which Cassie scratched the marks of which she was so proud. When he speaks, it is to the other men and women assembled round him.
‘The Queen’s consort, Venutius, may have been too optimistic. If this missive is true, it seems that Cartimandua, our Queen of the Brigante, is still paying her Roman dues. If she is to join us, I don’t think it will be yet.’ He sighs. ‘She is a wily politician as likely to do one thing and say another as any man I’ve met but we will have to proceed without her, for now at least.’
There is much murmuring at that, but I can’t catch any of the words. It seems clear to me that this news is a blow to him and perhaps to the others assembled there. I seem to have stumbled upon a council of war. I never thought that this message, that was so precious to Cassie, would matter at all to anyone else. I only delivered it out of duty. I revise my estimation of Cassie yet again. It seems that she is not only a spy but a useful one.
He turns his attention towards me again. ‘We are grateful to you for carrying this news, however unwelcome to us. Ger had prepared us for the arrival of a great seer, but I see you are more than that.’
I look towards the fireside. It is Ger! He greets me with a shy, gap-toothed smile.
‘There is a great army gathering against us. If we can defeat it before it reaches our holiest lands, then we may yet preserve our heritage. You at least have arrived in time for the fun.’ He sounds grim and the effect of his words is not much softened by his smile. I know little of tribal politics, but even I understand that my Queen commands numberless warriors and, with her support, Caratacus could expect an army of ferocious, well-trained Brigante fighters to swell his ranks. I know that he doesn’t think he can win the battle that is certainly coming without them, or rather us, for I should by rights be part of that Brigante army. I fear that he cannot win it either, for what victor travels to the stronghold of his enemies in chains?
‘Sir, there is more.’ Finally he waves my armed escort away and I tell him of the encampment I have seen. He sends slaves to bring a tray of flat damp sand and a narrow golden dagger which I use to mark the layout of the camp. I smooth it away and try to shape the sand into the form of the landscape around the camp.
Ger looks grave. ‘Our seeress here estimates the numbers of legionaries at around twenty thousand – which fits with our other intelligence.’
‘We’d better get a move on with the fortifications then.’ I don’t know who speaks but it is a woman’s voice and after that I lose track. Perhaps it is exhaustion, perhaps it is the gods’ revenge for my days of freedom from my visions, but suddenly I am beset by them: Caratacus in chains again, Morcant the man, a white corpse, the Parisi pedlar burning and screaming, Ger’s druid on fire, and everywhere in every vision now the grey folk are there, watching.
Chapter Twenty-nine
I can’t stay here where there is the stench of men, their cooking, their fires, their middens and their graves. Where there are so many tribesmen there are accidents and several fights have yielded mortal wounds. Man-stink buries all other scents. It makes me angry and I know I walk with hackles raised. I am protected by the word of Caratacus, but wherever I go by I see murder in men’s eyes. Others come to stare at me as if I am a wonder. There are many warriors whose throats look ripe for the ripping and it is hard not to snarl and worse.
Trista is gone, cared for by Caratacus’ women, kept close because of her gifts. She is lost, laid low by visions, and even the sweet-smelling grey ones can’t reach her. There are druids here. I’ve heard they are sending for more – more soothsayers and philosophers, diviners and tale-tellers. I listen to the talk of this camp but little of it makes any sense. One thing is certain, I don’t want to see any druids; I keep out of their way. There is talk that there are other shapeshifters too, but in all the confusion of man-stink I’ve not detected their scent. I am a wolf now. I was a soldier. I was a shapeshifter. Now I am a simply a wolf.
I will fight when the time comes because Trista will fight and she will have need of my teeth, my claws, my strength and my ferocious power. Now I must answer the needs of the wolf. My mate has come for me, crossed the wide river at a narrower point and found me. She howls for me and I must go. I have told the grey folk to try to tell Trista I will return. Trista will understand, but I don’t think the grey folk do.
Chapter Thirty
In the women’s hall, where I’m tended by slaves and guarded by armed men, the visions are relentless. Mostly they are of places I’ve never seen and people I’ve never met, but that doesn’t make their deaths any less terrible. One of the slaves helps lift me into a seating position and props me up on skins and pillows. A young woman is there to meet me.
‘Trista?’
She is young, barely older than me, and she is carrying a baby.
‘They say you know what is to come?’
I nod. ‘Sometimes.’
‘Tell me. Do we survive?’
Oh no. Not this. I dread this question above all else. ‘We all die, lady,’ I say. ‘In the end none of us survive.’ I know she is going to make me touch her or the child or something and then I will see what neither of us wants me to see. Her gaze is steady, unblinking.
‘I have three children. All I want to know is if it would be better for me to take them and hide somewhere or follow duty and stay with my husband.’
‘Your husband?’
‘Caratacus.’
I am shocked. I am more disturbed when I understand why. In some secret part of myself I still thought that Caratacus and I might be destined for each other. Why else would he dominate my dreams? I hide my confusion by requesting a drink. The slaves give me wine, though I would have preferred water.
‘I can’t advise you – my gift is too erratic . . .’
‘Please.’
She reaches out her hand, which is plump and white and has never toiled in the fields or wielded a sword. I take it. As ever, I am somewhere else in an instant and I have to pull my hand away, panting for breath.
‘What is it? What happens to my children?’ She looks alarmed and I realise that it has taken courage to come to me, to face what has to be faced.
‘I did not see this battle . . .’ She clutches her baby to her as if the very word fills her with fear. ‘I see you playing with two children, your children, somewhere else. I don’t know where it is but you are in a fine room with servants all around, so you are safe.’ She gives a strangled cry between a sigh and a sob. Because I am a seeress I am compelled to add, ‘The baby is not with you there. I see him in the arms of a running slave . . .’
‘What happens to him?’ She holds him so tightly I’m surprised he can breathe.
‘I don’t know. I’m sorry.’ I fall back down on to the pillows, overcome by the familiar nausea and have to close my eyes.
When I next open them, some dreadful dreams later, she is gone.
After the visit by Caratacus’ wife I receive a steady stream of supplicants and interrogators: a man in druid’s robes, a warrior, or sometimes an old woman with her long white hair unbound and flowing over her shoulders. Once I am visited by a wolf. It is not Morcant and I think I may have dreamed him. It is hard to tell and I don’t know what any of them want from me.
Caratacus comes as night approaches. My pallet is screened by thick and expertly woven hangings. It is quite private but for the guards and the slaves and he sends both away. This space is lit by Roman oil lamps for, though Caratacus dresses as a tribesman, he is fond of the invaders’ innovations. I have heard that his home is a villa furnished and built in the Roman style with a bathhouse and even a temple where he worships the Roman gods alongside our own. These stories have reached me in the chatter of the slaves and the guardsmen and I don’t doubt them. Caratacus is not a simple man.
‘Have you seen my future, Trista?’ He whispers because it would not be good for us to be overheard. ‘Are we victorious?’ I am a seeress and I speak the truth. ‘Sir, I don’t think it ends in victory, or at least not for you.’
It is hard to say this to the vital, driven man in front of me. I want to make him happy and I can’t – not if I’m true to all I believe about my gift. The expression that flits across his face is hard to read.
‘I’ve been fighting the Roman invaders since they decided to make my lands theirs. I’ve been fighting to keep Alba in the hands of the tribes since before you were born. If the tribes united, we could end it now. If Cartimandua brought your countrymen south, we could trap the bulk of the enemy forces and finish them. They are not gods, you know, these Romans. They lack a good leader here. With the Brigante fighting with us, as well as the Silures and Ordovices, I couldn’t fail. I can’t fail.’
I daren’t speak. Perhaps I am wrong, perhaps he wins, but I don’t believe it.
‘Have you seen this battle?’ I shake my head. ‘Then we can win?’
I can’t lie. ‘I don’t know. Maybe you win this battle and lose the next?’
There is a pause – a long one. Caratacus doesn’t want to believe me and perhaps it would be better for everyone if he did not. No one wants to go to war believing they are doomed. If anyone can make this work, it is Caratacus. I’ve only just met him and yet I know this.
‘Have any of your visions yet failed to come to pass?’
‘There are things I’ve seen that have not yet happened. Who is to say if they will come to pass or not? My gifts are strange, unreliable, but it may be that the gods brought me to you for a reason – so that you could make preparation . . .’ I have a sudden memory of the destruction of the Chief’s hall and fall silent. I think something of that remembrance might show on my face because he leans forward and squeezes me on my shoulder.
‘I see that you are honest. Ger has already vouched as much. I will plan for success and prepare for failure. If we do not win, then all must withdraw to their homes. There will be no Keltic slaves from this venture. We must survive to fight another day.’
I know that he is talking as much to himself as to me. I sit up.
‘I will fight for you,’ I say, ‘With Ger’s men if he will have me.’
Caratacus nods. I can see that his mind is already on other arrangements. I think he has forgotten me, then he turns and gives me the full force of his smile. ‘I will send you a scabbard,’ he says and then is gone. I am surprised he noticed my lack.
I sleep then and at dawn slaves help me wash and ready myself. I ask them not to touch me with their hands because I don’t wish to foresee their deaths. They accept that calmly as if they dealt with a seeress every day. They plait my hair in tiny plaits as they do in the furthest parts of Rome’s Empire. I don’t know how they know this, as they are both of them from the southern tribes of Alba, but it is a good way of keeping it out of my eyes. I note their slave brands and wince. I am careful to leave food on my plate in case they’re hungry, but Caratacus treats his slaves better than my old Chief and they give the scraps to the dogs. One of them brings me new clothes, good boots and warm foot bindings, and a sword with a scabbard of worked gold that astounds me. They have a new sword belt for me too, that is decorated with gold and enamel. I have to rescue my own belt with its pouch before the slave can sweep it away. I keep the pouch with Ger’s armband still inside it. I can’t accept the gift of the sword. The Chief’s sword was returned to me by the goddess of the water and only a fool would reject such a present. I explain that to the youngest of the slaves.
‘I cannot give this sword to you, but you could perhaps keep it somewhere so that if all goes wrong you are not left weaponless.’
The look she gives me is forthright. I don’t doubt that she has fought herself. Her hands are scored with a lattice of white scars of the kind we all get in training. ‘Thank you, but you should keep it as a spare blade. If all goes as wrong as you suggest, there will be plenty of corpses to plunder and no one will go weaponless.’ She is right, of course, on both counts. I have seen the heaped corpses of our tribal dead in my visions, but I did not lie to Caratacus. I don’t know if they die now or at some other time. And it is true that everyone must die sometime.
Before I go in search of Ger I put on his gift to me. My dress bears witness to my loyalties to the goddess, to the Brigante fighters and to Caratacus. I need nothing from Morcant; some loyalties require no outward sign.
Ger greets me as one warrior greets another – a form of respect that pleases me more than it should. I’ve earned this right – to be greeted as an equal, but it is rare enough to gladden my heart.
‘You shouldn’t have left us as you did, Trista. We thought you were lost.’
He is looking at me with such affection and concern I feel a little overwhelmed.
‘How long is it since I left your camp?’
‘What do you mean? We lost all trace of you for two months.’ So it is true that time passes differently on the druids’ walk.
‘It did not seem so long to me. It’s some time since anyone worried about me. I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to alarm you.’
‘Ah well, Bethan blamed herself for letting you go, but you are here now and you will do me honour if you will fight beside me in this glorious fight!’
‘The honour will be all mine,’ I say and have the pleasure of seeing his gnarled face light in a smile of delight and pride.