Dreaming the Serpent Spear by Manda Scott

Author:Manda Scott [Scott, Manda]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Historical, _rt_yes, _NB_fixed, onlib
ISBN: 9780307365811
Google: qa96fwxAca4C
Amazon: B004MPRIVI
Publisher: Seal Books
Published: 2011-02-04T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 24

THE DEAD MAN LAY FACE DOWN IN THE WATER. HIS HAIR was spread out round his head like the fronds of a sea anemone, pulsing a little with the rock of the waves. It was a dirty yellow, the colour of old straw, which was no help at all in identifying him; he could as easily have been Siluran, a friend whose body should be retrieved and given cleanly to Briga, or one of the Batavian cavalrymen who should perhaps be taken care of with more respect for Corvus’ sake if nothing else, as one of the straw-headed Romans who littered the XXth legion, a product of their time in northern lands. If he were that, then there was no reason he could not be left slowly to sink and feed Manannan’s creatures in thanks for help in the battle.

Graine sat on the end of Mona’s jetty with her feet dangling just above the lap of the water and watched him bump gently against the oak pillar. He wore no armour, but that said nothing; half the legionaries had abandoned their armour on the outward crossing when they saw the anger of the gods’ sea. For men who lived and died by the sword, death by drowning was something to be feared almost as much as death by fire; better to face warriors unarmoured than fall into the hungry water and sink while still living.

An upturned barge nudged at the dead man, as a cow herds her calf, pushing him farther out to sea. The body spun a little, limbs outspread like a starfish. The right arm was missing from the elbow down. Blood leaked out in lazy threads to stain the barnacles and the green-grey weed. There was a tattoo that curled up towards his armpit. It tugged at old memories but not clearly. Nothing came clearly; the horror of battle had brought the workings of her mind to a halt and she had not found a way to start them again. She stared at the water and tried at least to pray. She failed at that, too.

“He’s Batavian. I heard him fall.” Bellos came to sit beside her. He had a staff, which was a new thing; long and twisted and painted. She thought it might be hawthorn but could not be sure. It looked like Luain mac Calma’s work: a gift from before the battle, perhaps. She borrowed it and reached down into the water and used the ram’s horn handle at the end of it to hook the man’s shoulder and turn him over so that his face could be seen. His mouth fell open. His teeth were white and very even. He could still have been Siluran.

Graine said, “How do you know who he was when you can’t see him?”

There was a small gap, time enough for her to realize she had been rude, and that he did not mind, but was concerned about how he should answer. At length, he said, “His ghost is still near.

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