Gallicenae (47 page)

Thereafter he moved onward. King Fergus came forth against him. The armies met on a field which ever afterward bore the name Achat Lethderg—the Place of the Red Goddess, Medb of Temir.

There did Niall break the Ulati. Throughout that day the battle crashed and snarled. Edges grew blunt with striking, men grew so weary that they staggered about, horses that had been stabbed or hamstrung screamed while wounded warriors fought to keep their pain to themselves, wheels and hoofs and feet trampled earth into mud and the fallen into shapelessness from which jutted shards of bone. At last terror came upon the Ulati, and such of them as were able fled any way they could while such of the Firi Mide and Aregésla as were able pursued them like hounds a deer, cutting at them and laughing in glee. Behind them they left their King Fergus, dead in the wreckage of his chariot, and comrades beyond counting. So did Niall prevail.

Too weary for more thanksgiving than a muttered dedication to the Gods of those Ulatach captives whose throats they cut, the warriors dragged themselves into fireless circles and slept where they dropped. In the morning Niall left most of them behind to rest and prepare proper honors for their fallen. With Conual Gulban, Éndae, Éogan,
and enough guards to be safe from attack, he drove ahead for a look at Emain Macha.

This was a bright day. Wind whooped over meadows and shaws, which glowed intensely green. Small white clouds ran before it, and birds in their jubilant hundreds. Here and there, water gleamed like silver. Though the air was cool, along it flowed smells of loam, leaves, blossoms, growth—summer. Good it was to ride at ease, taking some stiffness out of the hard-used flesh by balancing against jounce and sway, calling merrily to each other, as charioteers tried which team could show the most paces and prances: they, the victors.

Smoke stained heaven. Niall scowled. “That can only be Emain Macha burning,” he said. “Hurry now.”

They topped a hill and looked across to the drumlin beyond. There on the ridge, behind its earthworks, the ancient seat of the Ulatach Kings was, and flames consumed the buildings within. “Stop,” Niall told his driver Cathual. In a voice gone heavy: “The Ulati themselves have done this. They knew they could not hold it, and would not let us have it.”

“So they are indeed brought low!” cried Élogan.

His father shook a silvering head and murmured, “I did not mean the war to end thus. Here something great is perishing. But you are too young to understand.”

Higher and higher raged the fires. The smoke of them blackened half the sky. It roiled and swirled, that smoke; uneasy red light played on it from below; shapes came and went within it, darkling visions. Were they chariots that ascended on the wind, and in them Conchobar, Cú Culanni, Amargin, Ferbaide, and more and more, the heroes of the Red Branch departing forever? The sounds of flames afar was like all Ériu keening for her beloved, her defenders.

Chill struck into Niall. He fought it off. “Well,” he said, “for good or ill, this is the end of an age. The new one belongs to you, my dears.”

Nevertheless he kept himself at the head of things. Notwithstanding that Conual, Éndae, and Élogan would be kings over these conquests, much was left to do before they were firmly in power. He must quell the Ulati who still resisted, and make allies agree to a share of spoils neither unfair nor overly large. Niall did not think he could return home before Lúgnassat, if then.

He even thought about pushing on after the enemy. It was against his better judgment. Driven into corners, the Ulati would be as dangerous as trapped wolves; meanwhile the Midach host would melt away, because men must go back for harvest and other work. What Niall and his sons had won should be ample for their lifetimes. To overreach would be to court the anger of the Gods. Yet… Domnuald was unavenged.

Thus it was with a certain relief that Niall received a present from one of his Condachtach kin when they met. This man had been in a clash to the southwest, where his folk overtook a ragtag company living
off the land. Prisoners said its leader, who fell in combat, was Fland Dub maqq Ninnedo, who had fled to league himself with Fergus Fogae. Remembering that Niall had set a price on the head of Fland, the Condachtach chieftain brought it as a gift.

Niall made lavish return. Later, alone by lamplight in his tent, he stared long at the withered thing. Was it indeed what remained of his son’s killer? Men lied, perhaps most often to themselves. They said what others wanted to hear, or their hearts did, and soon believed it. How could he know? In the meantime he could only bring home this head to show, which he had not taken with his own hands. It was a thin revenge.

Morning mist followed a night’s rain. The Rock of Cassel reared out of it against gray heaven. Seen from below, blurred to vision, the castle on top no longer looked stark. It was as elven as Ys glimpsed across the sea.

Rufinus and Tommaltach paced the ruts of a road near the foot of the upthrust. Pasture lay empty, a drenched green on either side. Sometimes a sheep bleated out in the blindness that closed in after a few yards. The men could be quite sure that nobody overheard them.

Although each took every chance to practice the language of the other, today each spoke his own—if Ysan be reckoned as Rufinus’s; for it is easier to be exact when the tongue moves in familiar ways. “You understand, then,” the Redonian said. “I am not here, once again, simply to talk about further trade arrangements, now the Roman expeditionary force is departing Britannia. Trade could take care of itself. My mission is to gather intelligence for my lord, King Grallon.”

Tommaltach’s young visage writhed. He gripped his spear tighter. “I’ll not be betraying King Conual.”

“Certainly never.” Rufinus stroked fingers across the hand that held the shaft. “Have I not explained, have you not seen for yourself, there is not conflict? ’Tis Niall in the North who’d fain destroy Ys—Ys where you keep memories and friends and dreams dear to you.”

“But Niall and Conual are—”

“They are not enemies. Nor are they blood brothers. They have a fosterage in common, little else. Besides, Grallon seeks not the destruction of Niall. He merely wants forewarning, so he can be prepared to fend off any assault.”

“What you mean to do is, is underhanded!”

Rufinus laughed. “Truly? Think. Having learned that Niall will likely be gone for some while, I propose to fare up to his country and see whatever I can see, hear whatever I can hear. No more. ’Tis only that in his absence I, a man from Ys, can travel freer than would else be the case. Conual has already given me leave. Indeed, he’s charged me with carrying gifts and messages to various people.”

“But he supposes—”

“He supposes I will be exploring the possibility of peace and commerce.” Rufinus shrugged, spreading his palms wide. “Well, is that a falsehood? Grallon would welcome the event. To you and yonder boulder, I confess ’tis unlikely in the extreme. Conual has told me the same. Yet there is no possibility whatsoever ere we know more about the circumstances at Temir. I am just staying discreet.”

Tommaltach sighed and gave in. “You’ll be needing guides,” he said. “Sure, and I wish I could be that, but we have another season of war ahead of us here, until himself has gotten the oaths he wants.”

“I know. May the Gods shield you.” Rufinus was silent for a dozen paces. “Guides will be easy enough to engage. And I doubt anybody without powerful cause will attack a band of Ysan marines. I’ve confided in you, good friend, not because I wish your aid today, but because in future we can help one another.”

Tommaltach gulped. “How can that be?”

Rufinus tugged the forks of his beard in succession. “You are son to a tuathal king, and a warrior who has won some fame. Men heed you. Our ships that lie waiting to bear us home—can they be protected by a gess as well as a guard? You could lay one. Also, I am no druid, to read the morrow. It could be that we return here under… difficult conditions. I know not what they may be, but a strong voice in our favor might prove invaluable.

“In exchange—Well, I’ve spoken with King Grallon. He’d like having a man from Mumu reside in Ys, to handle such matters as may arise concerning Scoti. ’Twould encourage commerce, and thus be to our advantage. Now we understand that this is a thought foreign to your folk, and so we would undertake to support such a man ourselves for the first several years, with a generous stipend—”

Tommaltach gasped. He stubbed his toe, nearly fell, came to a halt, and cried, “I could live in Ys?”

“You could that,” Rufinus said, “and be welcome everywhere, among both commoners and Suffetes, on into the presence of the King and his wives and daughters.”

2

By Hivernian standards, the estate of Laidchenn maqq Barchedo was magnificent. Southward it looked down a sweep of meadow to an argent streak that was the River Ruirthech; beyond, vague in vision as
a fairyland, reached the country of the Lagini, which Rufinus had skirted on his way north. Elsewhere he saw more grazing for great herds of cattle and sheep; shielings near their small fields of oats or barley; woodlots, coppices, primeval forest in the distance. Rain-washed, the land gleamed smaragdine, incredibly lush, under a sky that had gone deep blue save for white flocks of cloud.

Rufinus had the idea from what he had heard that Laidchenn did not actually own this acreage in freehold, as a dweller in the hinterland of Ys owned his home ground, nor as a creature of the state like a Roman on his latifundium. Earth in Ériu was inalienable from the tribe that occupied it, unless a conqueror drove that tribe out altogether. However, King Niall had bestowed the trust here on Laidchenn, from which flowed rich proceeds. Likely the people were pleased. These barbarians revered learned men as much as had the olden Greeks. Laidchenn could safely dwell so near the ancient foes of Mide because a poet was inviolable.

Approaching from the west, Condacht now several days behind him, Rufinus saw a house, long, rectangular in form, loom above its surrounding outbuildings. Moss and flowers brightened its thatch, over peeled studs and whitewashed cob. Hazel trees grew round about; Rufinus recalled that they were not only prized for their nuts, they were believed to be magical.

Hounds clamored but did not attack. Shepherd boys and the like had long since spied the Ysans and dashed to bring word of them. The few armed men who came forth did not act threateningly. At their head were two without weapons. One, thickset, bushy red hair and beard beginning to blanch, carried a rod from which hung pieces of metal that could jangle together, and wore a tunic and cloak whereon the number of the colors showed his rank to be just below the royal. The second was young, brown-haired, pockmarked, more plainly clad, but otherwise resembled the first.

Rufinus’s followers kept their seats. It was politic for him to dismount. Leaping down, he raised an arm and said, “Greeting. I am Rufinus maqq Moribanni of Gallia across the water, come here from King Conual Corcc in Mumu, who asked me that I bear word from him to his dear friend, the ollam poet Laidchenn maqq Barchedo. Long have we traveled, inquiring our way. Have I the honor of addressing himself?”

“You do that,” said the aging man. “From Conual, are you, now? A thousand welcomes!” He stepped forward, embraced the newcomer, and kissed him on both cheeks.

“You give me more respect than is my due,” Rufinus said. “Forgive me if I, a foreigner, am ignorant of the courtesies proper for my great host.”

Laidchenn took the bait, though quite likely he would in any case have replied: “You are indeed my guests, you and your men, Rufinus maqq Moribanni, and under my protection. Come, be at ease, let my
household see to your needs. Whatever wishes you harbor that we can fulfill, you have but to let us know.”

There followed the usual bustle. In the course of it, Laidchenn introduced his companion, who proved to be his oldest son and student Tigernach, and put some innocent-sounding questions about how the strangers had fared and what brought them to these parts. Rufinus appreciated the shrewdness with which his social standing was ferreted out. He took care to slip in a mention that besides speaking the Roman language, he could read and write it; the latter, at least, he would be glad to demonstrate if anyone was interested. This learning placed him immediately under a poet, more or less equal to a druid or a brithem judge. As for his purposes, that was a long story. Wisest was he that he confer with his host before relating it at the feast which Laidchenn had ordered. Some of it might not be suitable for all ears. “Thus, blame not my followers if they are close-mouthed at first. They are not being unfriendly; they are under gess until I can give leave. Anyhow, they know little of the Érennach language, and nothing of the Midach dialects. You hear how awkward my tongue is.”

“You do very well,” said Laidchenn graciously, “while I lack all Latin.”

He put no urgency on his guests, except in making them as comfortable as might be. Rufinus had taken hospitality as he found it in the island, from a herdsman’s cabin to the hall of a tribal king, but not since leaving Castellum had he encountered any like this. After a bite of food and drink of ale, he was brought to a bathhouse to steam himself clean. On coming out, he found fresh clothes waiting. The attendant explained that women had taken his own down to a brook to wash, and these were his too. He would have private sleeping quarters: a small bedroom among several in the main building, formed by partitions that did not reach the roof but were amply high. The attendant said a girl was available if desired, and added she was pretty, skilled, and more than happy to make the close acquaintance of a man from abroad. Rufinus replied that he was grateful, but at the moment he had too much wish to meet with the poet. He selected a carnelian brooch from the city’s finest jeweler to take along, as a preliminary gift in return for the garments. At the feast he would make his real presentations.

Laidchenn received him in a hut outside, well furnished in a rough fashion. “This is for when I would be by myself to think and compose, or speak with someone privately,” he said. “But since the day is beautiful, shall we walk about instead?”