CHAPTER 12

Very suddenly, there was no-one left to fight.

On the ancestors’ trackway, with marsh in front and forest behind, Valerius sat his new mount and gave attention to breathing before his chest exploded and his heart leapt out from between his ribs for lack of air. His head swam with the aftermath of battle; more than usual, the swarming spirits of the dead clamoured for attention and an explanation of the betrayal that had killed them.

He fought to see past them, to where Breaca must be among the living. Like a lover felt from across a room, he had known exactly where she was throughout the fighting, and had only lost the sense of her towards the end. Still, he believed he would know if she were dead.

Longinus came to him, pushing through the throng. “Your sister lives,” he said shortly. “And Civilis.” Longinus, too, was breathing as hard. The last few legionaries, encircled, had faced outwards and fought with the ferocity of men who have nothing left to lose.

Civilis had hurled himself at them, spurning shield and helmet. He had fought as the Germanic tribes of his heritage fought: with a savagery that drove hardened soldiers to desperation. Desperate men make errors and all those who came against Civilis made mistakes that killed them, and thus denied him the death in glory that he craved.

“There you are!”

The old warrior rode up to Valerius and clapped him thunderously on the back. His face was scarlet and the wattles of his neck purple almost to black; his hair shone like frosted silver in contrast. His horse and his blade were both running wet with sweat and blood and the slime of men’s guts. His eyes shone as those of a youth in first love, or first combat.

“Son of my soul, what a battle! And that only the first half. Gather your warriors now, we have a fast, hard ride to Cerialis’ camp before nightfall.”

Valerius’ breathing had calmed a little. His hair straggled across his brow, pasted in place by sweat and other men’s blood. He ran his fingers through it, rearranging the gore. Somewhere, he found the energy to laugh.

“I don’t think so, old man. We are training youths here in the hope that they may live to fight on, not sending them to death, however draped in glory.”

Civilis shook his head. “Valerius, this is not a time for jest. We have to ride. Now.” He spun his horse. Valerius shifted the white-legged colt so that it blocked his way. The Boudica’s brother was no longer smiling. He laid a hand on Civilis’ reins.

“No.”

“I don’t understand.” The old man frowned. “Will you let Petillius Cerialis keep to his night camp in safety and ride on in the morning to attack your people? Is that what we have fought for through this afternoon?”

The old voice croaked high, like a crow. Inevitably, he had been heard, so that more ears than Civilis’ were awaiting the answer.

Cursing inwardly, Valerius raised his voice to match it. “We fought this afternoon to halve the ranks of the Ninth and we have nearly succeeded. One cohort at least of the three is gone. Tomorrow, we will wait until Cerialis has ridden on and do the same again. Perhaps better, now that we are half cavalry. What we will not do is attack in a fortified camp a man who has made his reputation in the conducting of sieges, from within and without. We don’t have enough—”

“Valerius.” Longinus spoke, quietly urgent. Among the crowd, men and women parted to let a small knot of others through.

“…warriors to indulge in suicidal displays of valour. In any case, I don’t want to set one half of your Batavians against the other. Henghes is good and those who follow him might yet decide to join us if we give them half a chance. It will make our lives a lot easier if a full wing of Batavians could guard against the remaining cohorts of the Ninth should they find themselves able to muster—”

“Julius, it’s your sister.”

He had to turn, then; Breaca was next to him, with Longinus at his other side, looking concerned, and there was no time to explain that he knew his sister was there, and had known it before the crowd parted, or that he knew she was angry and had no idea why, only that he was exhausted and not ready for confrontation in front of a thousand strangers, when the battle was so recently won and the plaintive whispers of the dead still filled the spaces between the land and the sky. He breathed in noisily and so missed the first of what she said to him.

“…thinks he can storm Cerialis’ night camp with a handful of the she-bear.”

“What?” The words caught up with him late. “Who?”

“Cunomar, who else?”

Breaca was angry with Cunomar, not with him. Ridiculously, the relief of that left him giddy.

She said, “He hasn’t been seen since the oak tree fell and trapped the legionaries. Ardacos believes he has taken his she-bears and run them along the side of the track to the night camp, to attack it when dark has fallen. It is something they sing about at the winter fires: the attack of the she-bear on the eagle under the kiss of Nemain’s moon.”

Valerius found that his mouth had fallen open and closed it. Presently, when it was clear some answer was expected of him, he said, in wonder, “He really is determined to prove he can outmatch me, isn’t he? Do the songs say that any of the she-bears live through to morning? If so they’re lying.”

He thought Breaca might lose her temper, which might not, after all, have been a bad thing. He braced himself for it, and saw her smile and shake her head and realized how much of her he still had to learn.

“Of course they’re lying, that’s what songs do. But if we are to keep any of the she-bears alive, you’ll have to gather the Batavians, and as much of the war host as can find horses, either to stop him, or to help him. Can you do that? Will you?”

He thought, This has come too soon, and saw from her face that she knew it. He said, “I can help him, Breaca, I can’t stop him. Only you can do that.”

She shrugged, and he saw that the anger was founded on grief and frustration turned inward on herself and the failings of her body. “The survival of the war host matters more than one warrior’s dreams and ambitions,” she said, and stepped back. Louder, for the listening ears, she said, “Cygfa will go with you. Where she goes, I go in spirit, if not in fact. Ride to the aid of my son, knowing that I would be with you if I could.”