Gaius looked at him with interest. The tribune had joined the Legion since Gaius had been in Londinium, but there must be others here from his father’s Legion whom he would know.
“And eight thousand auxiliary infantry, mostly Batavians and Tungri, some Brigantian irregulars and four wings of cavalry.” This was from a troop commander, who shortly thereafter took his leave to return to his men.
“Well, that’s not so unequal, is it?” Gaius said brightly, and someone laughed.
“It would be no problem at all, except that they hold the higher ground.”
On the upper slopes of the peak the Romans called Mons Graupius, the wind was colder. The Britons gave the mountain other names—the Old Woman, ancient and enduring, Deathbringer and Winter Hag. As the night wore on, it was in her latter aspect that Cynric was meeting her. Here, the gusts of rain that fell in the valleys were coming down in bursts of sleet that stung his cheeks and fell hissing into the fires.
The Caledonians did not appear to mind. They sat around their campfires, draining skins of heather ale and boasting of tomorrow’s victory. Cynric pulled his checked cloak over his head, hoping that it would hide his shivering.
“The hunter who boasts too loudly at dawning may find himself with an empty cookpot when night falls,” said a quiet voice at his elbow.
Cynric turned and recognized Bendeigid, his pale robes a ghostly blur in the darkness.
“Our warriors have always chanted thus before battle—it raises their spirits!”
He turned and gazed at the men around the fire. This lot were Novantae of the White Horse Clan, from the south-east coast of Caledonia, where the Salmaes firth ran in towards Luguvalium. But at the fire beyond them Selgovae men were drinking, their hereditary enemies. The volume rose and he saw the figure of their commander lit suddenly as someone threw a new log on the fire. The chieftain threw back his head, laughing, and the light flamed anew in his pale eyes and his red hair.
“We’re on our own ground, lads, and the land itself will fight for us! The Red-cloaks are driven by greed, which is a cold counselor, but we burn with the fire of freedom! How can we fail?”
The Novantae, hearing his words, left their own fire to gather around him, and in moments the two groups had become a single mass of cheering men.
“He’s right,” said Cynric. “If Calgacus has been able to persuade this lot to stand together, how can we fail?”
Bendeigid remained silent and, despite his bold words, Cynric felt the serpent of anxiety that had been gnawing at him since night fell begin to stir once more.
“What is it?” he asked. “Have you had an omen?”
Bendeigid shook his head. “No omens—I think the odds for this fight are so evenly balanced that even the gods will not wager on its outcome. We have the advantage, true, but Agricola is a formidable opponent. If Calgacus, great leader though he is, underestimates him, it could be fatal.”
Cynric let out his breath in a long sigh. He had fought so hard to prove himself to these tribesmen, who had begun by mocking him as the son of a defeated people even when they did not know his blood was tainted by that of Rome, defiance had become second nature. But with his foster father he need not pretend.
“I hear the singing, but I cannot join in it; I drink, but my belly remains cold. Father, will my courage fail me tomorrow when we face the Roman steel?” At times like this, he could not help wondering if he should have run off with Dieda when he had the chance.
Bendeigid turned him so the Druid could look into Cynric’s eyes. “You will not fail,” he said fiercely. “These men are still fighting for glory. They do not understand their enemy as you do. But in battle your despair will only make you more terrible. Remember that you are a Raven, Cynric, and what you will seek down there tomorrow is not honor, but revenge!”