by C. R. May
Now that the moment had arrived Numerius was surprised to find that he felt a little anxious at the meeting. He had had little time to reflect on the events of the day since the messenger had arrived from Camillus. Although the man had been quick to assure him that his family were safe and physically unharmed, Numerius was in no doubt that they would have been through a terrifying ordeal, and he was desperate to meet them. He and his family were literally in the power of his political enemy, the one-time all-powerful dictator of Rome, and his gens, the Fabii, had played a large part in the prosecution for embezzlement that had led to the man’s fall and exile from the city.
He had expected to be kept waiting as Camillus wrung every advantage from his temporary return to ascendency, but to his surprise the man himself appeared the moment that they had passed through the vestibulum and into the atrium. ‘Tribune, welcome to my home. Please accept my sympathies for this abomination.’
Numerius inclined his head. ‘General, you have my heartfelt gratitude. May I see my wife?’
Camillus pursed his lips as he nodded his agreement, and Numerius’ experience at judging men told him that the man’s concern was real. They were both successful generals, and he was pleased to see that despite their differences, Camillus appeared to be able to put them aside for the greater good. His regard for the man increased. ‘Of course, Abrax here will lead you to them. I have set aside a wing of my home for the use of your family and yourself. Please feel free to treat it as your home for as long as you wish.’ Numerius had just turned away when his host lowered his tone and spoke again. ‘Perhaps we should talk later?’
Numerius turned back and held his gaze as he attempted to judge the ex-dictator’s motives. His offer seemed genuine and Numerius nodded his acceptance. ‘Yes – I think that we should.’
Camillus moved on to greet Cassius as Numerius was led away. Passing through the building, Numerius was led across the gardens of the peristylium towards a smaller building that appeared to be older than the rest, and he assumed that it was the remains of the domus that had originally stood on the site before Camillus had added to it in far grander style. The dispensator stood to one side, bowing as Numerius entered and crossed the small atrium. Licinia, he knew, would await him and greet him formally within the building. She was, after all, a Roman equestrian and would act accordingly in front of slaves and others, whatever the situation; he, and they, would expect no less. Hurrying along in his wake the man crossed to a door that led off to one side and opened it gracefully before stepping aside.
Numerius passed inside and hesitated as his eyes grew accustomed to the light. The gardens had lain directly in the full glare of the afternoon sun, and although the room was well lit it was some moments before he could see clearly. A familiar voice came from the gloom. ‘Husband.’
His daughters scrambled to their feet and Cassia, the younger of his two girls, was unable to contain her surprise and relief that he had arrived there. ‘Papa!’ The single word did more than any to tell Numerius of the ordeal that his family had just undergone. Cassia had started to call him father several years before as she had begun to grow into maturity; that she had momentarily slipped back into the terms she had used during childhood was telling. Numerius felt a knot of emotion tighten in his throat as the pain that the word revealed threatened to overcome him. Numeria, he saw with pride, was bearing her humiliation far more stoically. At fourteen years of age she was on the cusp of womanhood and, despite the gravity of the moment, Numerius found that his thoughts briefly turned to the need to arrange a suitable husband for her as soon as order was restored and the world returned to its senses. He turned to the slaves that stood discretely nearby and snapped out a command. ‘Leave us!’ They hastened from the room and closed the door with a soft thunk.
Now they were alone Numerius held his arms wide, and the girls came forward and hugged him as he exchanged a look with Licinia. Kissing them both lightly on the crown, he raised their chins as he attempted a reassuring smile. ‘You both look well. You have survived an ordeal, but you are Romans of the house of the Fabii. It will make you stronger.’
Licinia’s voice cut in. It was gentle but firm and would brook no argument. ‘Go to your rooms now girls. We will join you when we have spoken.’
They collected themselves and turned to go, but Cassia suddenly turned back and hugged her father once again. She looked up at his face and Numerius saw that her expression had hardened. ‘You will catch them, father.’ She fixed him with a stare. ‘Make them pay for what they did to us.’ Numerius nodded and stroked her hair as she turned and followed her sister from the room.
The moment they were alone and the doors were closed, Licinia crumpled as she allowed herself to relax her outward show of disciplina for the first time since the barbarians had arrived the previous evening. Numerius held her as she nestled into his shoulder. He clasped her to him and let the tears of relief come until she regained her composure, before leading her across to the long kline, the padded couch that stood along one wall. Pouring wine, he waited patiently for his wife to describe her ordeal. In reality, he was at a loss for words. He was a Roman general, not a longhaired Greek poet – he wanted to ask her if they had been shamed in any way by the barbarians, but even he realised that it would be insensitive. Thankfully his wife was strong and recovered quickly as she sipped from her cup, before moving to lessen his concern. ‘Don’t fret,’ she said. ‘I was stripped and humiliated but not ravaged by them.’
Numerius swallowed uncomfortably. Despite his initial sense of relief he noticed that Licinia had not included his daughters in the declaration, and she caught his look of concern. He had commanded armies and knew what could happen when women and young girls fell into the hands of victorious soldiers. She raised a brow as she read his thoughts. ‘The girls were treated the same way. They are still virgo intacta. I kept them close by, and I assure you that they would pass any examination.’ Numerius allowed himself a pensive smile. The latifundium was of no consequence – that would be rebuilt even grander than before once the Senones were defeated – but his wife and daughters had survived capture by an enemy force with their honour intact. Although he was sure that they had had an unpleasant night things could have been a lot worse. Licinia interrupted his thoughts as she continued. ‘You will be interested to discover that it was your friend Solemis who commanded the barbarians.’
Despite his attempts at showing compassion the Roman was taken aback by the revelation, and it was all he could do to utter a reply. ‘Was he aware of your identity?’
She shook her head. ‘No – I started to give my full name but managed to stop myself just in time. I know of the history between you, but I don’t think that he would have acted any differently had he known. He certainly suspected that I was hiding my identity from him, but I don’t think he cared.’
To Numerius’ surprise the corners of her mouth turned up into a wicked smile. ‘He said that I looked firm for my age,’ she purred. ‘Once I got over the shock, I actually rather enjoyed being naked among so many burly men.’ Her hand reached out to guide his wine cup to her mouth, draining it in one smooth movement. She lowered her voice, and he looked at her incredulously as the tips of her fingers ran along the inside of his thigh. ‘I like to think that I was not the only thing that was firm last night.’
Seven
The night was still, the sky a bejewelled dome of jet as they ducked into the forge. Uxentio looked up from his preparations, crossing the earthen floor to greet them as his son took their belongings away for safekeeping. Soon the hut would become a place of work – of alchemy – as the body of mother earth was transformed into a thing of beauty and death. The only light came from the forge itself, the glow painting the faces of those present the colour of blood as the shadows hardened into darkness.
Ultinos, the metalworker’s son, had met the druids Olindico O Olinoco, Catumanda, and the lad Philippos in the village, and led them here to the forge. Like all smithies, Uxentio�
��s lay at the edge of the settlement. Even the slightest breeze could carry a burning ember a great distance, and Catumanda noticed that the homes nearest to them had pails of water to hand should one successfully make the leap across the divide. The forge itself had been roofed by split stone, and all brush and scrub had been scoured from the surrounding area.
The village they had been led through had looked like any other she had seen. Women sat singly or huddled in small groups before their homes, combing wool, weaving and preparing food. Only the odd furtive glance in her direction gave away their interest in this strange female who had suddenly appeared in their midst. The men sat in groups doing as little as possible; their looks were more open, as judgemental as those of their womenfolk but in different ways. They murmured comments to their friends as they reached their conclusion: yes, or no?
Ultinos had described the process they were about to witness as they walked. Big and broad shouldered with a shaggy mane of blond hair tied at the nape by a thong of red leather, Catumanda had amused her mind as he walked and decided – yes. The young man had spent the previous week in the hills, producing the charcoal that they would use to make her new moon blade, and he had described the process as they walked. As he had enthusiastically described the felling and stacking of the cypress and alder, and the long nights perched upon a one-legged stool, her mind had drifted away. Maybe it was a no after all.
Uxentio grinned broadly and dipped his head as they entered. ‘Welcome back to my forge, Olindico O Olinoco.’ He turned to the woman at his side. ‘And a very great welcome to you Catumanda. It is always a thrill to work for any druid, but one who hails from the Sacred Isle itself!’ He paused and looked at her in awe. ‘That is a special pleasure.’ He ushered them towards the fiery hearth. The heat was intense despite the coolness of the evening, and the smith’s body glistened behind the thick leather apron that protected his torso and legs. He indicated several others that were hanging nearby as he hastened back to the forge itself and pumped the bellows. ‘You will need to wear those if you are to come close enough to witness the birth.’
Ultinos took them down from the pegs, handing the aprons to their guests before hurrying across to relieve his father at the bellows. The leather was hard, thick and stiff with age and grime, and Catumanda winced as it rubbed against her still-tender flesh. The heat was already beginning to worry the weather-ravaged skin of her face, and she dipped into the pouch that Ama had supplied as a parting gift and spread a thick layer of the honeyed balm across her cheeks, nose and forehead. Uxentio was already back at his forge, and he peered inside and gave a grunt of satisfaction. ‘You are just in time – the bloom is almost ready.’ He scooped up an indented clay tablet from the workbench and recrossed to Catumanda as his son slowed the action of the bellows. ‘Druid, may I see your right hand?’
She held it forward and the smith took it in his big, meaty hand. His skin was rough and calloused from a lifetime of work, but to her surprise his touch was delicate as he rolled her fingers in his own and smoothed the palm of her hand with his thumb. His left hand was mirroring the actions on the tablet and Catumanda realised that it was the mould that would produce her new weapon. The smith looked up. ‘That is good work, if I say so myself,’ he smiled. ‘It’s not ideal to work from a drawing, but it’s only for the basic size and shape. The real work takes place after that.’
He let her hand drop and replaced the mould before returning to the forge. The heat was intense, and sweat was already beginning to sting their eyes as Uxentio lifted the beaker containing the molten iron from the depths of the furnace and filled the mould with one quick movement. The bloom cooled, quickly turning from a flaming orange to a dull grey, and soon the smith was upending the mould and tapping out the rough blade onto his workbench. His son maintained the furnace at the correct temperature by pumping the bellows as Uxentio worked the blade into shape with a hammer. As soon as the metal cooled it was thrust back into the kiln, until the smith judged that the colour was right to be removed, worked and reworked.
Again and again Uxentio heated and hammered at the piece, his sweat falling in fat drops to sizzle and smoke on the metal as the blade took shape. Finally satisfied, Uxentio called across to Ultinos to slide the lid back to uncover a pan. The watching druids saw that it contained a bed of charcoal, heated to a white-hot glow, and the smith used his tongs to remove the blade from the forge and transfer it across. Again he hammered at the metal, turning and working both sides until the colour dulled as embers flew in fiery arcs, before quenching the blade in a roar of steam and transferring it back to the main kiln.
After half a dozen workings his hammering had lessened as he teased out the details of the weapon, and Catumanda felt a kick of excitement as she recognised that her moon blade was all but complete. The crescent was still dull and puckered but the form was clear, and she suddenly realised just how much she had missed the comforting feel of the blade against her side. Her old blade had been presented to her by her master, Abaris, in Camulodunum on the day of her initiation into the brotherhood. She had last used it to cut the ropes binding her to the mast of the Alexa as it sank into the depths of the storm-tossed sea, and she hoped that it had found its last resting place alongside the crew of the ship. It would be in the finest company.
Uxentio placed the piece on the bench and indicated to his son that the night’s work was complete with a tired dip of his head. Ultinos covered the charcoal pan and removed the bellows from the kiln as he began to close the furnace down, and the smith slipped the heavy apron from his neck and flashed them a weary smile. ‘I will need a day to file and polish the blade, but you have witnessed its birth.’
The man ducked outside to drink in the cool of the night air, and they replaced their aprons onto the line of pegs and followed on. To their surprise the first glimmers of the dawn were in the east, the pink light blushing the hill tops around them like beacons. The smith said, ‘Will you be staying with me today, druid?’
Olindico wiped the sweat from his brow, and threw Catumanda a knowing look. ‘That is very kind, Uxentio. I would be grateful if Philippos could rest with you until we return.’ Catumanda nodded in agreement as the older druid concluded mysteriously: ‘Our day has only begun. Catumanda has someone important to meet.’
* * *
It was midmorning when they reached the place. Scrambling up the last few feet they paused at the mouth of the cave and turned back. ‘It’s amazing to think that this was once a grassy plain. Men would gather where we now stand and watch the passage of the herds that were their prey, planning the hunt as their children played about them.’
Catumanda was lost in her thoughts as she inhaled the salty air. The foot of the cliff that they had just traversed was a wide rocky platform, scoured clear of any traces of soil by the actions of the higher tides. Beyond that lay the sea, its surface whipped into peaks and troughs as the wind freshened. The next gale of the autumn was building, and she watched as each gust wove a fresh pattern through the long grasses that covered the hillside.
Olindico placed his hand on her shoulder, his usual bubbly mood replaced with one of reverence. ‘They buried their dead on the long shelf there. I will go and prepare for the ceremony.’
Catumanda gave a brief nod and hugged the bag a little tighter. As Olindico picked his way into the dark gash that marked the entrance to the cave, she levered herself up and looked about her. The terrace sat in a natural bowl, open to the front but walled to the rear and sides by the sweep of the hillside. It would have been the perfect place to sit among ancestors, watching the seasons roll away as you shared the latest news of their descendants, and the druid felt herself smile as she recognised the thought and care that had gone into choosing the position. She could feel the spirits gathering around her, and she opened her bag and began to scatter the last of the season’s lavender and the tiny, grass-like orchids that had littered the sheltered valleys. Her respects paid to the spirits of the people who had inhabited the pl
ace long ago, Catumanda retraced her steps back to the entrance to the cave.
A pale glow came from within and the druid passed through the narrow entrance and into the wider space beyond. Olindico was waiting, and he smiled in welcome as he pointed the way towards a smaller passageway that led off to one side. Taking the candle she squeezed through and followed the corridor as it twisted and turned through the rock to emerge in a small round chamber. Although she had been warned what to expect by the older druid Catumanda gasped at the beauty of the room revealed by the flickering light. The domed ceiling had been stained to represent a perfect summer sky, the ball of the sun blazing at its high point. The four directions were indicated on the side walls by the same animal totems that she had been taught during her training in Albion, and she greeted each in turn before clearing a sacred space in which to sit. Choosing the symbol for north, the hibernating bear, in honour of her homeland, Catumanda sat and assumed the position of power. Soon she felt the familiar energy coursing into her body as the vitality of mother earth and father sky mixed within her, and she relaxed and cleared her mind. An oak wood door appeared before her, and she passed through to find herself in a great forest. A pathway lay ahead, and she followed its winding passage until it emerged into a clearing. She recognised it at once as the nemeton of the Trinobantes, its hollow bowl facing east into the rising sun, and gave an involuntary laugh as she recognised the figure who awaited her there. Squat and powerful, the shaman still wore the deerskin cloak and antlered skull of their earlier meeting, his ochre-stained face thrown into sharp relief by the flames of a small hearth. She now knew that she had met her spirit guide before – in Annwn as her body lay trapped and bleeding underground and she thought that she had died. The man looked up, and she could see the amusement in his eyes as he gestured that she join him at the fireside.
