Dreaming the Bull Read Free

thanthe others and bounced smoothly on her palm. She breathed a different prayer into it, one for which tradition did not supply the words.
    “For Caradoc and for Cunomar, for their joy and their peace if I am taken in battle. Briga, mother of war, of childbirth and of dying, take care of them for me.”
    It was not a new prayer; in the three and a half years since her son was born, she had spoken it countless times in the silence of her mind in those moments before the first clash of combat when everything and everyone she loved must be put aside and forgotten. The difference now, in the rushing dark by the river, with the chaos of preparation heldtemporarily at bay, was that she had spoken for the first time aloud and had felt the prayer clearly heard. She was beside water, which was Nemain’s, and on the eve of battle, which was Briga’s, and the gods were alive and walking on the mountainside, called in by the scores of dreamers whose ceremonies lit the night sky.
    After nearly four years of despair, she could feel the promise of freedom just within reach if bone and blood and sinew could be pushed hard enough and far enough to make it happen. Knowing a hope greater than any she had felt since the invasion, the Boudica drew back her arm to throw her stone.
    “Mama?”
    “Cunomar!” She turned too fast. The pebble skittered over the water and was lost. A child stood on the river bank above her, tousled from sleep and stumbling uncertainly in the dark.
    She reached up and lifted her son by the waist, bringing him down to the water’s edge where he could stand safely. “My warrior, you should be sleeping, why are you not?”
    Blearily, he rubbed a small fist in his eye. “The drums woke me. Ardacos is calling the she-bears to help him. He’s going to fight the Romans. Can I watch the ceremony?”
    Cunomar was not quite four years old and had only recently begun to grasp the enormity of war. Ardacos was his latest hero, second only to his father and mother in the pantheon of his gods. The small, savage Caledonian was the stuff of childhood idolatry. Ardacos led the band of warriors dedicated to the she-bear; they fought always on foot and largely naked and surpassed all others in the stalking and hunting of the enemy by night. The skull-drums were his, and the chanting that accompanied them.
    Breaca said, “We’re all going to fight the Romans but, no, I think the ceremony is sacred and not for our eyes unless they call us in. When you are older, if the she-bear so grants, you can join with Ardacos in his ceremonies.”
    The boy’s face flushed in the fire glow, suddenly awake. “The she-bear will grant it,” he said. “She must. I’ll join Ardacos and together we will drive the legions into the outer Ocean.”
    He spoke with the conviction of one who has not yet known defeat, nor even considered it possible. Breaca had not the heart to disappoint him. “Then your father and I will be glad to save you some Romans to fight. But in the morning we must kill the ones in the fort beyond the next mountain, and before that Ardacos and two of his warriors must make the land safe for us. It may be he has need of me in a part of his ceremony. If I go to him, you must go to bed first. Will you do that?”
    “Can I sit on the grey battle mare before you go to kill the legions?”
    “Yes, if you’re good. See, your father’s here. He’ll hold you while I go to Ardacos.”
    “How did you know—?” The child’s face was awash with awe. Already he believed his mother part-way to divinity; for her to predict the appearance of his father out of the maelstrom of the night was only another step to godhood.
    Breaca smiled. “I heard his footsteps,” she said. “There’s nothing magical in that.” It was true; more than Cunomar, more than any other living being, she knew the tread of this one step. In the chaos of battle, in the silence of a winter night, she could hear Caradoc walk and know where he was.
    Now, he