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unhampered. Behind them, and also in front of the chariot, walked his warriors. Closest to him were the four bodyguards and the gigantic champion, bearing helmets and dress shields of polished bronze; but the rest were hardly less brilliant, in tunics like their master’s, axes glimmering and spearheads nodding on high.
    Folk cheered themselves hoarse to see the power of King Niall. Few were so close as to make out the grimness upon his lips, the bitterness in his face.
    The procession turned where a gate stood open in the Great Rath and a bridge had been laid down across the ditch. It went over the lawn within, past the lesser enclosure of the Royal Guesthouse and the embanked mound whereon rose the King’s quarters. A ways farther on, it halted. There the Mound of the Kings lifted itself athwart the outer palisade.
    Niall did not dismount and climb its grassy slopes. Thatwas only done when a new King was taken. Then he would stand on the sacred slab at the top, make his three turns dessiul and widdershins, receive the White Wand, invoke the Gods. On this holy eve, Cathual guided the chariot past the Phallus below, five lichenous feet of standing stone. A fighting man stationed at that menhir swung a bullroarer to proclaim that this was truly the King who came by.
    The procession went on, out of a northern gate, past other stones to which Niall dipped his spear, past the Rath of the Warriors, between the small mounds Dall and Dercha, on to the Feasting Hall. Niall’s Queen, his sons, his counsellors, their chief servants stood waiting. Cathual drew rein and the overlord sprang down. He gave his weapon to the charioteer and first greeting to the druid and the poets, as was seemly. Thereafter he received the salutations of the others according to their status.
    ‘Now we’ve a time to wait,’ he said. ‘Is it a good sign that we are free of rain the while?’
    ‘It is that,’ answered the druid, Nemain maqq Aedo, gravely, ‘but other signs have been such that you will be wise to sacrifice more than is wont tomorrow.’
    Niall scowled. ‘I did so last year, at both Imbolc and Beltene, and meagre gain did we have of it.’
    Some people looked aghast at this defiance of the Powers. Nemain simply raised his hand. He was gaunt, snowy-bearded, his eyes dimmed by years and by peering into mysteries. Unlike everyone else, he wore a plain white robe and blue cloak; but his staff was carved with potent ogamm signs. ‘Speak not rashly, dear heart,’ he said. ‘If you failed to overrun the foe – then, sure it nonetheless is that you brought home alive yourself and most of the men, with not so little plunder. Would it not have been easier, now, for the Mórrigu to let you lie raven-food under the Roman Wall? The signs I have read,in stars and staves and secret pools, are signs of mighty deeds, of a world in travail with a new birth. Give freely, and receive back honour.’
    Flame flickered up through Niall’s sullen mood. ‘Warfare already again this summer?’
    That is as may be. Thus far the red wind only whispers, and I know not from what quarter it is blowing.’
    Niall’s glance flew about, south towards the Lagini, north towards the Ulati, east towards Alba across the water, which the Romans called Britannia. There it lingered.
    Breccan, his eldest son, advanced. ‘Father, dear,’ he cried, ‘you’ll be taking me along, will you not?’
    Niall turned and regarded him. The sun had just set, but light remained in heaven to make the boy shine forth against a world going dun Breccan was tall for his fourteen years but not filled out; his limbs thrust spidery from the garments that covered his slip of a body. The hair tumbled flax-white past huge blue eyes and a face whose beauty was redeemed from girlishness by the down on its upper lip. Yet he moved with a certain coltish grace; few could match him in a race afoot or on horseback; he was fierce in the games that his kind played and in practice with weapons.
    ‘You