Celtika (36 page)

Hence the slaughterers, culling the game alarmed by the movement in the earth. And the selected men who rode more distantly, taking over the watch stations. Orgetorix had spotted most of these outposts when he had ‘skulked’ for Brennos in the autumn and winter.

But he had not seen them all.

We were close to a valley that wound between five hills and would take us to the heart of Makedonia itself. I had overflown this place, when I had been searching for Fierce Eyes, before I had settled to the flight; and before Elkavar had found me in the ruined house.

I had rested briefly and seen the danger, though it was only now that I calculated the extent of that danger.

I had something of importance to impart to the leader of this endless legion.

I had a gift for Brennos.

PART FIVE

The Hot Gates

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

At the Watch Station

The watch station had been built just below the ridge of a hill, overlooking the wide valley known as the Run of Wolves which led south towards the fertile plains of Makedonia, still a warrior-nation to be contended with, despite the continued grief over the distant, ritual-death of its young king: Alessandros, also known as Aleksander, Iskander …

So many names in so many tongues for one small-boned man with an eagle’s eye for finding the edge of the earth itself. How quickly and persuasively his shade must have bargained with Time to let him take so much of legend hostage!

The house nestled in a copse of young cedars and pines, and with its dark-painted walls it was almost impossible to see from the valley below. Even eyes that knew of its presence would have been hard put to distinguish its walls below the crest of the wooded ridge.

Cloud shadow swept across the hills as the man who lived in the station went about his business, one day in early summer. He was cautious in his use of fire, never cooking until after dusk, and only when the wind would carry the scent of smoke to the south, away from danger. Towards the memory of Alessandros!

He had been so young, then, this watchman, just a boy, really. And too weak-chested to make that great journey to the east, to find Ocean herself, the end of the world. But the young king had liked him and made sure how to use him. ‘When you’ve grown up a little, you will be a watchman at my northern frontier!’

He was certainly grown up now. So much so that he was the oldest man he knew. Sometimes he thought that Death had lost sight of him. The years came and went in tens, and soon he would have seen eight such tens. He had learned to be good at counting. And yet he was as spry as a spring fawn. He was white-bearded but still hawk-eyed, a small man who could scamper from rocky outcrop to pine-scented copse like a hare darting from its form to deep cover.

Four times each day he passed like a ghost, like that same cloud shadow, around the hill where he lived, scanning the valleys and ridges for signs of danger, for the tell-tale signs of war bands, for the deep rumble and sky-haze that told of an army on the move.

And how he longed for there to be an army on the move! He could still remember, with an inner gleam of bronze and colour, the sight of the young king’s war-quest moving off to Persia. But no armies moved, now. These valleys were wasteland.

Behind the house, his precious pigeons were caged and calm. There was space for sixty. He flew them south in a special way. Each moon, the pigeons were returned to him by four riders from the fortress which they knew as home. When one of his birds failed to return—taken by an eagle, most likely—he felt sad. He knew them all. But there was always the pleasure of getting to know new birds.

Four times a day he scouted the mountainous land around his post. Once a day he wrote the same message on a piece of parchment:
Everything is as it should be.

Every day, the way this message was written and attached to the bird was changed; a little extra security for the men at the outposts, three days’ ride away, where the hills flowed down to open land.

A cautious man, he always varied his route, and routine, though in more than fifty years at this station nothing had occurred to make him urgently change the message to the south. But he always stopped for a while at the marble urn, hidden among its own small copse of thorn and pine, where his late wife lay in ash.

They had liked to dance; on the silent hill, they had danced to remembered music; and still, each morning and evening, he picked her up and danced with her. She had been happy here, despite the isolation of the station, and the regular difficulty in getting food, especially if the Makedonian winter was particularly hard. She had cried when their two sons had gone away. When no further word had come from the boys, his grief turned to stone. He had abandoned the memory of the brash young men, though two small, polished shields lay beside the urn, a token of hope. It had not been the same for his wife.

Alone for more years than he cared to count, the watchman lived for the day, as contented and clear of eye and mind as he had been when a child.

Everything is as it should be.

And sometimes he would write:
Several horsemen and pack animals, weary, lightly armed.

Or:
Migrants; a wagon train. A family; two oxen and five horses.

But usually nothing more than:
Everything is as it should be.

And this man, this whitebeard, might have lived happily until he died, to be placed in an urn beside his wife by the men in the south whom he guarded, had it not been for a moment of madness, when he left the cover of his house to chase a hawk.

The hawk had landed on the ridge. Fearing for his birds, he had flung two stones at the raptor. Hard eyes had turned to see him. A hard mind had realised where he lived, and how his house was disguised. Sharp wings had lifted the bird away and to the north.

It was that man’s misfortune, that breezy summer day, to have chased off a bird of prey, and by doing so, to have run into me.

*   *   *

Everything is

He stopped writing. The pigeons had fluttered suddenly in their cages, a brief moment of alarm. Had that hawk come back? The sun slanted in through the small window to the east, picking out the stone bowl of olives and dried fruit that was to last him for the day. Then a cloud passed over the sun and for a moment the small room, in the station, became gloomy.

Was it a wild cat? A lynx, perhaps?

But the birds were settled again, just the odd flurry of wings and the gentle ‘coo’ of the carrier pigeons as they watched the shadows from their cages. He turned back to his nook and completed the message:

as it should be.

He signed and carefully marked the small strip of parchment, then looked up again. The birds, now, were unusually silent. Perhaps there
was
a predator.

He picked up his sling, stretched it, rubbed the pouch, loaded it with a rounded pebble, then rose from his seat. But before he could take a step to the door, the door was pushed slowly open. The light from outside was blocked by a tall, cloaked man who stooped to peer into the room, then stepped forward, finger to lips, and closed the door behind him.

Behind the watchman, the shutters of the window creaked open. An olive-skinned man peered in, grinning. ‘Good morning,’ he said, in a dialect of the old man’s language. ‘My name is Thesokorus. I wouldn’t use that sling, if I were you.’

‘Excuse me,’ said the other man, his accent awkward. ‘I’m forgetting my manners. I am Bolgios, a commander in an army that wishes safe passage. I also wish you a good morning.’

And they both laughed.

The tall man took off his iron helmet and scratched at a beard that was flame-bright. His eyes, in a face that was dust-encrusted, gleamed as green as jade. His cloak was black, bearskin probably, and the stink of horse and human sweat flowed like a miasma from the patterned shirt and trousers below.

This green-eyed man was holding three pigeon cages, the six flustered occupants very much alive. ‘For today,’ he said to the watchman, ‘for messages.’ Then he pulled back his cloak to reveal ten birds, broken-necked and hooked into the fabric. ‘For supper,’ he added with a little laugh.

The olive-skinned man at the window hauled himself through the narrow gap and picked up the note, reading it carefully and nodding his approval.

‘Everything is
indeed
as it should be. Do send the message.’

‘Who are you?’ asked the watchman, terrified, eyes wide, his hands shaking as he held them defensively before him.

‘We are friends of what lies deep in Delphi,’ said the olive-skinned man. ‘Though in different ways.’ He put his arm around the old man’s shoulder. ‘Now attach the message. And send it.’

The watchman did as he was told. The bird flew high, circled the hill once, then disappeared to the south. The man called Thesokorus, watching from the window, blew it a kiss to speed it on its way.

‘Very good. Now write the next five messages, exactly as you would normally do, and attach them to the birds. And write down when the birds should be released.’

The watchman did as he was told, hesitating for a moment as he stared at the pigeons in their cages. He looked up, met the hard green gaze of the taller man, then sighed. Perhaps he had decided against the trick he had planned. He slowly inscribed the messages, marked them, then tied them to his birds.

He felt sick with the betrayal.

‘Well done,’ said gentle Thesokorus. ‘These birds will live. Hold that in your heart. There will be someone here to send them.’

When all of this had been done, the green-eyed man, the gruff northerner, put his arm around the watchman’s shoulder and led him outside. The other birds all lay dead below their cages, and Thesokorus scooped them up into a leather bag; more flesh for the pot.

‘I didn’t see you coming,’ the watchman muttered nervously, as Bolgios led him towards the edge of the slope. ‘How could I have missed you?’

‘We knew you were watching. We’d sent a bird to find you. He says you threw a stone at him.’

‘The hawk? That hawk?’

‘The hawk. We took precautions. It wasn’t easy, my friend. Look…’

‘Mercury’s cry!’ the old man wailed. ‘How could I have missed
that?
’

He stared in shock and bewilderment at the great swathe of horsemen, soldiers, women, wagons and oxen that filled the two fingers of the valley round the Hill of Artemia, a crush of bodies, a restless army, stationary, heaving in the ranks, watching the hill above them, waiting for the signal to move on, down the pass, towards the ocean’s edge. The green-eyed man raised his hand high, waved it to the right, and the earth trembled as the horde was mobilised and began to flood to the south.

‘It’s not possible … not possible … I looked here only an hour ago.’

‘We were not here an hour ago,’ the olive-skinned man said. ‘And your eyes and ears had been … distracted, shall we say?’

‘I would have felt the trembling of the earth.’

‘We came on tiptoe.’

‘It’s not possible.’

‘It has been done. Thank you for your help.’

The watchman looked into the dark eyes of the young man who spoke his language. Softly he asked, ‘What happens to me now?’

‘Come with me.’

Thesokorus led the watchman to where the marble urn was cool in the shade. ‘Who lies here?’

The old man crossed his arms over his chest and started to shake. ‘My wife. She died many years ago. That was the only time I left the station, to attend at her funeral. I carried her ashes here. I needed to be close to her. Don’t touch her!’

‘You loved her?’

‘Very much. I still do. Our two sons went south, to war. For ever. That was the last we heard of them. It’s a hard thing. To watch a loved one die of grief. I miss her very much.’

‘Well,’ said the other, ‘that is a love that must be respected.’

A while later, the watchman’s heart was placed with great reverence in the urn, rested on the ashes, and the urn sealed carefully again, and left in peace between the brazen shields of two lost sons.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Against the Makedonians

For a few days, after the silencing of the watch station, the great army continued south in the shadow of hills, spreading out between the narrow valleys, the columns squeezed thin. It was a time of nervous silence and gloomy anticipation. The sound of our progress seemed to swell in the gorges, doubling and doubling again in volume. But the word had spread, like a summer fire in an olive grove: the watch station is silenced. There is nothing to fear until we reach Thermopylae.

Even Brennos was confident. Bolgios’s triumphant story—how he had tricked the old man at the head of the valley, a story repeated twenty times, in the saddle, at camp, at meal times—had so numbed the war chief’s sensibilities that he could scarcely believe the enemy had ever existed. So it was a surprised and rather confused warlord who led us from the valleys and on to a narrow strip of open land which rose steadily towards misty hills, there to find a force of fierce and heavily armed Makedonians waiting for us, barring our route to the south.

They had occupied a ridge and made a grim and threatening sight. Their lines stretched as far as the eye could see across the horizon ahead of us, facing every wood and the tumble of tall, grey rocks through which the Celtic army was slowly emerging.

Brennos sent riders back to stop the columns moving forward. He snapped quick orders: bring up chariots; bring up archers; get men on to high ground to see what these troops might be hiding behind their front line.

But then he fell very quiet, holding his boar’s tusk helmet and idly polishing the ivory with the palm of his hand.

On his left, Achichoros, stripped to the waist in the heat, left leg casually drawn up across the saddle, was peeling and inspecting an orange. On his right, dark-eyed Orgetorix, now in his bull’s-hide battle kilt and leather vest, leaned forward on the high saddle of his own war horse and scanned the army that was spread out before them.