Dreaming the Eagle (33 page)

Ban drew his hand back from the straw and turned to see his visitor. The woman on the threshold had recently given birth but she was slim again and she held herself well. She had black hair that hung past her shoulders and wide, oak-brown eyes. Her hair was braided in a way he did not recognize, she wore rings on three fingers and the cut of her tunic showed white skin at her shoulders. She was the first woman he had seen, barring Arosted’s daughter, who was not of the Eceni and he made an effort not to stare. She came in and crouched at the head of the hound bitch and spoke to her, warmly, as he might with Hail.

‘I brought back the whelp,’ said Ban. His presence needed some explanation.

‘I know.’ Her voice was smooth and flowed over him the way Airmid’s did. The whelp had sucked itself to sleep and lay mouthing at the nipple with white milk dribbling from the corner of its mouth. The woman reached in and picked it up. The pup squirmed lazily at her touch but did not wake, a sign of good handling.

‘You are of the Eceni?’ she asked. ‘The boy with the red mare?’

‘Yes.’ If it was a label, it was a good one. With luck Amminios would have heard it.

‘Togodubnos told me of you. He said you had a good hound already.’

‘Thank you. I have. But we have need of a good brood bitch to go with him.’

‘Of course. One always needs a good brood bitch for the hound. She doesn’t always have to be good at the hunt.’ Her smile was tight and showed fine, white teeth. Had she been Eceni, Ban would have thought he heard irony in her answer and strands of other, more bitter things beneath it, but she was Trinovantian and he was not certain. He said nothing and the moment passed.

The whelp was persuaded to wake. She stood at the edge of the straw, blinking. One of her siblings took it as provocation and fell on her, growling ferociously. She threw off the torpor and fought back with commendable courage. They fell apart presently and both wandered off to find others to spar with.

‘She is a good whelp,’ said Ban. ‘Stronger than the others.’

‘She is the best I have ever bred. Tell Caradoc that. And return this to him.’ The woman straightened her arm and drew a band from above her elbow. Holding it out, she said, ‘Give him my thanks. Tell him I mean no disrespect, but too many will notice if he is seen without it and as many will know where it came from if they see it on my arm.’

The band was twin to the one Ban wore above his own elbow. His father had melted down three of his own and others collected from the Eceni warriors to garner enough bronze to cast a simple band for his family and each of their guests. It was something to unite them, more tangible than the quality of the horses, and the mariners had taken them up as a badge to be worn with pride. Ban had not considered that they might be used for barter, or that one might become a message in its own right. He took the thing and fitted it on his right arm, which had no decoration.

‘Caradoc shall have it,’ he said. He had not needed to add that he would make the transfer covertly. That much was obvious, together with the fact that he had been trusted to do it well. The weight of it pressed on him, pleasantly.

The return of the band had been achieved as the warriors and the mariners milled around the midden before the start of the meal. Ban had joined them, slipping between Curaunios, the ship’s mate, and Caradoc, and it had been easy in all the swirl of cloaks and tunics to return the band. The grin and the clap on the shoulder and the warmth of shared secrecy sustained him through the meal. It was coming to Ban, slowly, that he liked Caradoc a lot and that his approval was worth more than that of most men. He had begun to dream of travelling west, to the land of the Ordovices, of taking and passing their warrior tests - after those of the Eceni - and being pledged to Caradoc in the way Breaca was. The sharing of the whelp between them had been a step along the way and it had left him buzzing with an excitement that the rain did not dampen. Sitting in the rain with the horses, he had been considering the journey west when the smith emerged from the forge. The man was ill, clearly; his skin was the colour of old tallow and his eyes had the fixed, unseeing quality of a cornered deer. But he was not open to the offer of help, nor did he seem prepared to stay and talk of what was happening inside. When the horse-boy hailed him by name, he flinched as if struck and sprinted away from them to vanish amongst the huddle of smaller, less tidy workshops that flanked the track. Watching his departing back, Ban considered the possibilities and decided on action.

‘Here.’ He slid down from the mare and passed the reins to the horse-boy. ‘I’m going inside. Breaca and Caradoc might need help.’

The child stared at him blankly. Ban said it again, pointing, and took a step towards the door of the forge. The boy fell on him, grabbing at his tunic with both hands, gabbling in a frantic, incomprehensible patois. His gestures made more sense than his words. One of them, or both, would die if the door-flap were lifted.

‘That’s not true.’ Ban prised the clutching fingers from his forearms. Some of the words sounded Gaulish. In that language, speaking slowly, he said, ‘I am a guest. I can go where I wish.’

‘No.’ The possibility of common understanding calmed the lad. A measure of terror left his eyes. In stilted Gaulish, he said, ‘The Sun Hound will not permit it. You may not go inside.’

‘My sister is in there, and my friend. They may be in trouble. I have a duty to help them.’

‘No.’ The boy could not have been more than eight but he was fierce for his age. His fingers gripped with the strength of one much older and his mouth was set firm. ‘The smith was the only one in the forge when we came. If he has been dismissed it is because they wish to be alone.’

‘You mean, Cunobelin wishes to be alone.’

‘It is the same thing.’ The boy was very blond, paler than Caradoc or any of the southern Gaulish mariners, and his eyes were an intense, vibrant blue. He smiled, tentatively, offering consolation. ‘Your sister is armed, your friend also. If there is trouble, you will hear it. Besides, the young lord is a warrior like no other. Even his father would not attack him without other warriors at his back.’

It was true. Ban had forgotten that Caradoc’s reputation would have preceded him, particularly here. He relaxed and, after a moment, the lad calmed and withdrew his hand. ‘We will wait here,’ he said. He sat down on the grass by the feet of Cunobelin’s horse and, reaching up, pulled Ban with him. ‘My name is Iccius.

My people are the Belgae. You are Eceni?’

‘Yes.’ Ban edged in under the shelter of the red mare’s belly. ‘I am Ban mac Eburovic, also known as harehunter.’ His belt buckle was cast in the image of a running hare. The elder grandmother had made it for him. He loosened it to show it off. The boy admired it, shyly. ‘And this mare, she is yours?’ The question was tentative, as if the mere suggestion were ridiculous.

‘Yes. She was Luain’s guest-gift to my father after the shipwreck of the Greylag. Eburovic passed her on to me.’

It was a long story and it had to be told from the beginning, with interruptions for Iccius’ wide-eyed questions. The rain fell more heavily as it progressed and they both moved further under the shelter of the horses. Even so, by the end of it, they were drenched, the horses with them. Rain ran in a continuous stream from the mare’s hocks. It dripped under her belly and spilled in sheets onto Ban’s hair and shoulders. Wiping the water from his eyes, he considered the welfare of his mare, his harness and his new friend, in that order. He leaned over and tapped the Belgic boy on the shoulder.

‘How far to the stables?’ he asked. ‘We should get the horses in before the saddles are ruined.’

The lad gasped. ‘No! We - I - cannot leave …’ He gestured towards the forge.

‘Not even if I asked you to take me? I am a guest. I might get lost. Is it not your duty to direct me?’ It would have been so in Eceni lands, but then, in Eceni lands, no child would have been left out in the rain holding another man’s horses.

‘No.’ Iccius was emphatic. ‘But you can go. I can tell you the way.’

Ban knew the way; that had not been the point. He chewed his lip, considering the options. Thunder rang overhead and the mare sighed, shifting her weight onto her other hip. The gods spoke, occasionally, in ways even he could hear. Grinning, he lifted his shoulder in an exaggerated shrug. ‘If you have to stay here, then I should stay too,’ he said. ‘We should keep each other company. And the rain might pass soon.’

‘It might.’

Neither of them believed it.

Ban reached into his tunic and pulled out the small calf’s-hide bag that Airmid had given him after the meal. ‘We could play knucklebones,’ he offered, ‘if you know how to play?’

‘Of course. Everyone knows that.’

The lad was nimble-fingered and had a quick mind. Ban was losing the second game when he heard footsteps on the path. The tread was less measured than the Sun Hound’s but had a similar cadence. He looked up, blinking the wet from his eyes. His gaze passed over a tunic dyed a deep purple that appeared to be running slightly in the rain, and a cloak of brilliant Trinovantian yellow. The armbands were gold, inlaid with coral but not overly gaudy. The hair hanging in sodden ropes at the shoulders was red, darkened to the colour of dead oak by the rain. With a tightening foreboding, Ban craned his neck beyond the belly of his horse. The man crouched down, bringing his head level so that Ban looked into eyes the colour of snakeskin and a smile that haunted his dreams. It was Amminios and he was laughing.

‘I thought I might find you here.’ He jerked his head back in the direction of the forge. ‘They’ll be in there arguing for ever. It’s my father’s way of ensuring they’re not overheard. You don’t have to stay out in the rain and wait for them.’ He was wetter than they were and he had walked from the greathouse to find them. His tone was conciliatory, almost conspiratorial, as if they were old friends, and Cunobelin the only enemy. Ban hooked his elbows round his knees and edged back towards the mare’s head, where he could make a quick grab for the reins.

‘I have to stay here,’ he said.

‘Then you should let the slave take your mare into the horse barn. She is too good a horse to let her go stiff standing out in the rain, and my brother’s colt, also.’

Ban stared. He hoped, sincerely, that his ears had deceived him. He was not certain it was so.

Amminios grinned, his eyes wide with a deliberate, mocking frankness. ‘Iccius is a slave. Of course he is. Did you think we sold them all before you came? Or that we have them hidden in huts awaiting your departure? Grow up, child. This is not the horse lands. My father will only go so far to avoid offending Eceni sensibilities and freeing the slaves is a step beyond his limits. The child is Belgic. His father sold him when he was six years old. I brought him from Gaul to decorate my hearth and table and I would say he fulfils his purpose amply. Today, however, he is a horse-boy and he is going to take my father’s horse to the barns.’

The man had spoken in fluent, flowing Gaulish. Beside him, Ban felt Iccius flinch. The knucklebones had dropped from his hand. His skin turned the colour the smith’s had been: a pale grey, tinged with an unhealthy yellow. In a voice quite different from that with which he had been speaking earlier, he said, ‘My lord, I have to await the great lord-‘

‘No, you don’t,’ said Amminios pleasantly. ‘You’re mine. If I order you to take my father’s horse to the barns and rub it down before it stiffens and tears a muscle, then you will do so. If our guest has any sense, he will let you take his horses with you.’

The boy was caught, miserably, between two conflicting orders. The difference was that Amminios was present and could enforce his. The battle lasted only a moment. Iccius ducked his head and took the reins of his charges.

Amminios rose, extending his hand. Rainwater coursed unheeded over his bare head, blotching the fine wool of his cloak. ‘Ban? We are older than we once were. We are both younger brothers who will have to make our own way in the world while our elders lead the warriors of our people to battle. We should be allies, not enemies. This is not an attempt to wrest your mare from you. The guest laws forbid it and I would be a fool even to try. I am concerned for your horses and for you. At the very least, you should stand out from under the oak tree. The fact that it has seen lightning strike before does not necessarily mean that it will not do so again.’

It was a day in which the gods spoke often. The thunder sounded again, closer, and a flash lit the sky. Ban might have stayed for himself but he was not going to risk the life of his mare and Caradoc’s colt. He ducked out from under their feet and reached for the reins.

‘I’ll bring them,’ he said. ‘Iccius has enough to contend with leading my sister’s battle mare and your father’s horse.’

‘As you wish. In that case, perhaps we should run? The weather will not improve with our standing here and we are all of us wet enough already.’

They ran back along the path to the horse barns. Iccius ducked into a neighbouring house and brought out warmed mash and good hay. He fetched wads of rolled straw and pads of sheepskin and together they swabbed the rain from the horses’ hides. Amminios worked on the dun colt and it took to his handling as well as it had to Caradoc’s. Breaca’s grey mare would not have him near her but there were many, even amongst the Eceni, whom she treated the same; it was not necessarily a reflection of integrity or worth. Iccius was better. The mare snuffed him suspiciously but allowed him to dry her down. The saddles were stacked on harness stands at the end of the barn and another boy - another slave - of Iccius’ age was called out to dry and grease them. The air filled with the warm smells of boiled oats and neatsfoot oil and steaming horses. But for the presence of slaves, it could have been any Eceni horse barn in the aftermath of a storm.

Amminios stood to the side, his hands on his hips and his sodden cloak thrown back over his shoulders. He turned to Ban.

‘Happy now?’

‘The horses are better, yes. Thank you.’

Iccius seemed better, too. His colour had improved and the shy smile was back, although there had been a warning in his eyes, and a plea, and Ban had not yet made sense of either. Until he had, it was best not to talk of it. He took a comb and began to tease out the mare’s tail, stripping out the mud and grit of the journey. Amminios laid a restraining hand on his arm.