Thousands of soldiers were now inside the fortress and Maro glanced back, picturing the grid plan and locating where his fifty men were stationed. Replacing his helm he strode from the ramparts and crossed the compound to where the tents of his own section were situated. Having ensured they had been fed he went back to his own tent, and began to compose a letter to Cara. There were four letters now in his pack. He had numbered each of them in the order they were to be read. Tomorrow he would ask again if his letters could be carried back to Accia. Only ten officers a day were allowed to submit letters home, for there were only two riders carrying despatches, and Jasaray always insisted they rode light.
As he was writing he heard a commotion beyond the tent, and put aside his materials. Stepping outside he saw a group of cavalry had arrived. Many of the men were wounded. Maro stood in the sunshine and watched as the cavalry leader dismounted, and glanced back at the men with him. There were around thirty horsemen. The insignia on the officer's breastplate showed that he was the commander of a hundred. Maro eased his way forward. The officer, a lean, middle-aged veteran, was talking to one of Jasaray's flag officers, the dour, laconic Heltian.
'They hit us from the woods to the east,' said the cavalryman. 'The Cenii scattered and ran almost immediately.'
'Losses?' asked Heltian.
'I lost sixty-eight men,' the officer told him. 'They surrounded Tuvor, and I doubt any of his men survived. I recognized the old bastard who came to Stone. Fiallach, isn't it? He led them.'
'Enemy losses?'
'Hard to say, sir. All was chaos as they struck. We thought the Cenii scouts would give us warning of any attack, but they either ran or were killed. The enemy were upon us in moments.'
'How many?'
'I'd say around a thousand.'
'Get your wounded to the hospital tents,' said Heltian, 'and then prepare a fuller report for the emperor when he arrives.'
'Yes, sir,' replied the cavalry man, saluting.
Maro was still standing close by when the cavalryman walked off and Heltian turned. The flag officer looked at him. 'You have no duties, young man?'
'No, sir. My men have been fed, the tents pitched.'
'You are the son of Barus, are you not?'
'I am, sir.'
'And you listened to the report.'
'Yes, sir.'
'Tell me what you made of it.'
Maro struggled to gather his wits, his mind racing back over the conversation he had overheard. 'It seems that a hundred and sixty-eight of our cavalry have been killed by Fiallach's Iron Wolves.'
'Go on.'
'They were attacked from hiding… outnumbered five to one. The Cenii scouts proved ineffective.' And then he had it. Realization struck him. 'Our two cavalry units were riding too close together. Had they been at the regulation distance of… of two hundred yards… one of them should have broken free. And cavalry orders are to skirt wooded areas, out of bowshot range.'
'Indeed so,' said Heltian. 'The officers were careless, and treated the enemy with disrespect. They learned a hard lesson as a result.' Heltian turned away and walked off towards the northern gates.
Maro returned to his tent, and his letter to Cara, telling her yet again how he missed her and their infant son. Then he described the lands of the Keltoi on this side of the water, the beauty of the mountains, the purity of the streams and rivers. He paused, and thought of Banouin, wondering where his friend would be now. He was not a warrior, and was unlikely, therefore, to be at risk in the coming battle. Then he thought of Bane the gladiator. Rage said he had come home to the mountains. It was probable that he was out there, sharpening his swords. Maro shivered. The late-afternoon sun was giving little heat now.
There was no bed in the tent, but a canvas sheet had been pegged across the earth. Maro removed his breastplate and scratched his back. Then he stretched out, laying his head on a folded blanket. Back home Cara and their son would probably be in the garden, the boy asleep in a crib placed in the shade of the old elm. Maro closed his eyes and pictured them. As he did so he felt a swelling of love for them both, and an aching sadness that he was not with them.
Cara had been angry when he left, and had refused to say farewell. 'You have allied yourself with evil,' she had told him, when he announced his commission in the Twenty-Third Panther.
'It is not evil to defend one's city,' he replied.
'This is our city,' she said. 'Where is the enemy army? I do not see it.'
'The Rigante are massing men, and their agents have crossed the water, stirring up trouble among the conquered tribes, encouraging them to revolt against the rule of Stone. If we do not deal with them now, then in the future they could well have an army at our gates.'
'Some men will always seek a reason for war,' she said coldly. 'Bane told me that the Rigante have never made war across the water, and have no interest in acquiring the lands of others. They are not a greedy people. They do not lust for conquest and slaughter.'
'Neither do I,' he said.
'And yet you will invade their lands, enslave their women, and kill their men.'
'You make it sound so base, Cara. Everywhere ruled by Stone knows peace and harmony. We are bringing civilization and culture to these people. Did you know that their druids sacrifice babies on their altars? They are a barbarous and uncouth people.'
'Barbarous and uncouth?' she echoed. 'Yesterday in the Great Arena five women were torn apart by wild beasts for the entertainment of the crowd. Don't talk to me of barbarous and uncouth. The Rigante have no arenas.'
'This is an entirely different matter,' snapped Maro. 'It is typical of a woman to change the subject. The women you speak of were obviously criminals and thus subject to execution. Murderers, probably, deserving of all they received.'
'You are a fool, Maro. And I hope you come to see that before it is too late.'
In the weeks leading up to his departure she had not spoken to him. He hoped that his letters would soften her heart, and that when he returned, as a conquering hero, she would look more kindly upon him.
Braefar's head jerked round. Just for the briefest of moments he thought he saw two men on the outer edge of the stone circle. He blinked and they were gone. Just a trick of the fading light, he thought, and settled his back against the golden column of stone. The wind was cool, and he drew his sheepskin cloak around him. The others had set a fire, and were sitting in a circle round it, but Braefar had no wish to join them. In truth he had no wish to be here.
If Connavar had not been so selfish, so hungry for power and praise, he thought, none of this would have happened.
Braefar stared down at the large golden ring adorning the third finger of his right hand. It had been a gift from Connavar upon his coronation. A princely gift. Of course Bendegit Bran had been given a golden torque, Govannan a beautiful cloak brooch with a ruby centre, and Fiallach a sword, the hilt entwined with gold wire, the pommel stone a beautifully cut emerald. Braefar had examined the gifts closely. His own golden ring had cost less than all the others. It was a studied insult.
Braefar had been swallowing such insults all his life. Ever since the day of that accursed bear!
He could see it now, huge and black, its jaws dripping with the blood of the boys already slain back in the woods. It was charging at Connavar. The sight of the beast was awesome, and it froze Braefar's blood. Conn had leapt at it, stabbing it with his dagger. Then Govannan had run in to help. It was all over so fast. One moment Conn was alive and strong, the next torn apart, blood sprayed all over the grass. The hunters had come then, plunging their lances into the beast. Only then did Braefar discover the power to move. They had all looked at him, thinking him a coward. They didn't say it out loud. But they felt it. And Braefar's life had been cursed from that moment.
Conn had never forgiven him. He said he had, but it was a lie. He had spent the next twenty years punishing him, causing him to fail and look stupid in front of his fellows. Oh, how Conn must have laughed on each occasion.
