The Boar Stone: Book Three of the Dalriada Trilogy (7 page)

In the wake of the rain the wind blew from the north in a lonely song, lifting the hawks high in a pale sky. It gusted through the emptiness inside her, filling up her hollow chest. She could not remain unmoved by such a wild, haunting breeze, and her soul began to stir with a primal feeling that made her heart skip.

Cian saw her breathing it in. ‘Pretty grim, isn’t it?’ he remarked, shifting his pack. He looked strained. ‘Cold, wet, muddy, windy and barren.’ He shook his head. ‘Hellish place.’

Minna had wrapped a woollen scarf around her mouth and chin, and from behind this she directed a sidelong glance at Cian. She found the cold pricking the back of her nose exhilarating, not grim, like a draught of clear water. He obviously didn’t feel the same, judging by the sour twist of his mouth.

For two days she wandered along with her eyes on the sky, until on the third Cian suddenly called her name. She stopped, shaking herself awake. Away to their left an escarpment reared above a river, and cresting it was a large fort with many gatetowers, the sky above smeared with smoke. Carts and people were peeling off the road towards it. Banna.

‘Come on,’ Cian said, frowning. ‘We have to cross the river further along and head to the milecastle with the gate that opens north: that’s where everyone crosses, barbarians and Romans alike.’

The north gate of the milecastle was set into the Wall, which stretched west to Banna and east across the hills. Atop the exposed tower over the gate, Vabrius of the First Cohort of Dacians squinted into the driving wind. That wind could scour flesh from bone and eyeballs from sockets – he still hadn’t got used to it since his posting from Lindum in the south.

‘Eyes down,’ his comrade Aelius grunted, holding the edge of the wall to peer over. Tufts of grass sprouted from the stone between his hands, nursed by the constant rain. That rain beat at the soldiers on the frontier like blows from an invisible enemy: freezing into stinging hail, driven into eyes beneath helmet guards. Even when the blueskins weren’t in sight, still Alba attacked, with sleet, creeping fog and biting wind.

‘What?’ Vabrius snapped, stamping his feet.

‘That.’ Aelius pointed down at the band of hairy men picking their way up the northern slope to gain admittance through the Wall into the Province. Their shaggy sheepskin cloaks and wind-blown hair obscured their outlines. ‘Those packages on their horses; are they spears? Or those barbaric longswords? I don’t like it.’ Fear was a keen edge in his voice.

The Wall soldiers never lost those nerves, held constantly taut as bowstrings. There had been enough ambushes by screaming Picts over the years to tighten the neck muscles of every man who ventured forth on patrol. The land seemed empty but it wasn’t, for Vabrius always felt the eyes on his back, as if the hills themselves watched him.

The unpainted Dalriadan tribe in the west had signed treaties; the Picts in the east had signed none. This should have made Vabrius feel better, posted to a western fort. However, he had seen the faces of the Dalriadan warriors who came to deliver their taxes of grain. Stripped of swords and pride they should look less dangerous, but they did not. They might take a cup of wine with the commander, bow and smile, but the sullen hatred was still there in their eyes.

‘I don’t like it,’ Aelius muttered. He took up the bronze trumpet on his belt and blew one blast into it. A row of white faces looked up from the winding path below, pinched and bony.

‘You! Halt right there!’ Aelius turned to Vabrius. ‘Come on. We’d better search them before they get to the gate. I can smell their stink from here.’

The milecastle was small and cramped, just four walls with two opposing gates and twin barrack blocks. Minna and Cian crowded in through the south gate and joined a motley line of people waiting to be admitted through the Wall to the north.

Guards pacing the walkway looked down on the crowd, faces cut into tense lines by the helmets with their cheek and brow-guards. The civilians kept being forced back as soldiers marched in and out, and once a band of cavalry trotted through, their horses tossing their heads, swords and spears clattering against iron mail. Minna stared up at each horseman, but none was Broc.

Some traders in the line looked like those at Eboracum, with their different skin hues, hair and clothing. Others were obviously barbarians, with white skin and ruddy hair, and pale blue eyes that did not change expression when they moved over Minna.

The soldiers were also mixed; some fair and grey-eyed, others swarthy and dark. Minna had imagined the Wall soldiers in polished, gilded armour and scarlet wool, just as the old tales said. Like those in Eboracum, however, these men wore sturdy mailshirts, unadorned helmets and plain tunics – though here the mail was battered and the hide trousers stained. She felt oddly disappointed, until she noticed that every iron ring of the mail was oiled, the straps and buckles of helmets, boots and weapons triple-sewn. Swords were fast-bound to sides, leather hilts shiny with the imprints of fingers. The men looked infinitely worn and desperately wary, and every face bore the same drawn cheeks and hard mouth.

All of a sudden, a trumpet pealed and soldiers poured down from the walkway and streamed through the north gate to challenge a party on the barbarian side. Roman swords were unsheathed, spears braced. The queue of people at the south gate crowded forward, necks craning.

Minna could just see a group of ragged men with pack ponies. They put their hands up, babbling something she couldn’t hear. Beside her, Cian’s eyes narrowed. The soldiers prodded the voluminous cloaks of the Albans and swarmed around the ponies, tugging packages off saddles and tearing them open. Inside there were only bundles of wool, rolled hides and furs, and one which held tines of deer antler. Trade goods, that was all.

The tension flowed out of the soldiers. With sharp words they thundered back up the stairs to their posts, leaving the scowling Albans with their belongings scattered in the trampled mud.

Minna’s shoulders lowered, and she swayed back as the line reformed.

‘Watch it!’ a voice growled behind her. She turned to stammer an apology and saw a stocky, broad-shouldered man with skin like cured leather. His dark hair was pulled back in a tail, his short beard threaded with silver. In one ear he sported a gold ring, though his tunic and cloak were plain.

But before her curiosity could take any more in, someone barked, ‘Next!’ and it was their turn.

Annius rocked on his stool by the gate, hawking a gob of spit into the mud.
Stinking Alban scum.
He wished they had found forbidden goods on the bastards, for it would give him something to report to the Dux, and then the garrison might get an increased measure of ale. The Christos knew they needed it. Or better yet, cloaks that actually kept the rain out, though the fat little administrators in the south seemed more interested in cutting costs.

The next in line were a young woman and man of close age. Annius tapped his pen on the table before him, as his guards patted them down for weapons with grimy hands and searched their packs. One guard looked at him and shook his head. Annius’s tax tally this month wouldn’t look too healthy to the commander. Sourly, he swung the stool back, leaning against the wall. ‘Business?’

The youth melted into the shadows, whistling, so he fixed his eyes on the girl. She gulped. ‘I’m going to join my brother,’ she faltered. ‘He’s a scout, just been posted up here.’ She spoke better Latin than most of them.

‘Name?’

‘Broc … of the Aurelius family … at Derventio. Near Eboracum.’

‘Last detachment of new scouts from Eboracum went to Fanum Codicii. You’re on the right road.’

The young woman glanced at the youth with relief in her curious, light eyes. Annius rapped his pen on the table, making her jump. ‘But he should have notified us of any such visitors. You are aware the road to the Codicii fort is a restricted area?’

The girl ran her palms down muddy trousers. ‘Well, I’m a surprise, actually.’

‘A surprise.’ So here were the trade goods.
Her brother, my balls.
Annius glanced over to the tall youth. ‘Plenty of whores up there already, boy. Every barbarian girl within ten miles of here gives it up for a bit of bread and a warm bed.’

There was a muffled exclamation from the girl as the young man stepped forward. ‘We’ll take our chances.’

Annius cocked his head. This youngster was brimming with an oily confidence that irritated him. All three legs of the stool thudded into the grass as he sat forward. ‘Your name?’

The cocky youth grinned, though his eyes were hard. ‘Cian the acrobat. We’ll pay you a tax on the way back. We’ve got nothing right now.’

With a grim purse of his lips, Annius scribbled on a wooden tag. ‘There’s a watchpost on the road. Try to impress them a bit more than me, boy, or they might not let you through.’

*

Shoved through the arch of the north gate by Cian’s firm hand, Minna stumbled from shadow into light. She was about to turn and rebuke him when the words died in her throat. Behind them, the ramparts of the Wall loomed up sternly, but in front a path wound down a slope to a pale track that led north.

Rust-red moorland. Bleached gold heath. Bent, wind-scoured trees.

Alba.
She was suddenly speechless, her legs almost nerveless.

Cian ran into the back of her. ‘Come
on
!’ he grumbled, ducking around and stomping down the path.

Minna, however, was held there. She should have been daunted by the bare plain, which swung low to marsh and then rose again to hills; by the shreds of mist which hung in that scoop of moorland like an Otherworld veil through which she must pass.

But she was not at all afraid. Instead, the further she and Cian travelled from the safety of the Wall, the more her heart soared, like a great bird lifted higher with each beat of its wings. Swifter her blood ran, until she tore her wrap away and stretched her chin to the wind. She felt suddenly as if she could fly free of all fetters here, under the upturned bowl of this endless sky.

Cian turned and barked something, but she could not hear his words. She could only stumble along behind him, quivering, the land under her feet drawing her in with its song.

Chapter 7

B
y the end of the day, Minna’s sore feet and runny nose had drained some of the poetry from her soul.

The land rose to a plateau of heath, the grasses bleached by cold, gold-tipped in the lowering sun. It seemed uninhabited.
And why would people live here
? she wondered, with one of the odd insights that had been entering her mind ever since she crossed the Wall. This land, pounded by the hooves of Roman horses, raided by Picts, was no safe place for a little hut, a wife and babe.

The road was not deserted, though. The rough-looking man behind them at the fort had passed them earlier with a party of men leading mules and a few carts, their sharp eyes scanning the land ahead and then pausing to study Cian and Minna. Cian stared boldly back, but Minna dropped her eyes. It was not only the air that had changed. She was no longer in the Roman Province, part of the Empire. She was beyond all law now.

They had started out late, and at length Cian decided not to push on in the dark. The sky glowed with the embers of sunset as they left the road to seek camp. The heath was now a misty, purple sea, broken by clumps of ghostly white birches.

‘Do we have to go so far? I’ll break my ankle.’

Cian stopped and turned. ‘Tiger, the watch doesn’t like people skulking about after dark. They would shoot first and ask questions later.’

She blinked. ‘I thought you said there were treaties, that everything was safe in the west.’

Cian gazed down at her, though she could not see his eyes for shadows. ‘Did I?’ he said softly. ‘But the night is always full of enemies.’

Minna was silenced, and they resumed walking. ‘What about tomorrow?’ she eventually whispered. The sounds were making her jumpy: the trickle of a stream, something cracking twigs in the underbrush. ‘Will they let us through then?’

‘Oh, aye.’ Cian’s voice turned dry. ‘Then they’ll see we’re just a girl and a swordless boy.’

Dark had fallen in a damp veil all about them when Cian grunted, ‘Over there is a likely place, out of the mist.’

Minna stumbled along behind him in the blackness as they trudged up a slight rise. But just as he was about to speak again the ground fell away and they saw the glow of a campfire that had been hidden by the hill.

Cian swiftly shoved Minna behind him as two men stepped out of the dark trees on the edge of the hollow. ‘Who goes?’ one growled.

‘No one,’ Cian returned. ‘Just travellers on the road, forgive us. We’ll be leaving now.’

After a cough from the other man, the first voice softened into gruffness. ‘You are a long way from the road, friend, so you may as well join our fire. There are many of us, only two of you. Or are there more?’

Before Cian could answer, another man came from the fire, striding up to the lip of the dell and peering at them in the ruddy glow. ‘Well, well,’ he drawled, in a gravelled voice. ‘If it isn’t the little whore and her boy.’