by Sheila Finch
“He wishes to die at your hands,” Breca’s aunt said suddenly.
“But why?”
“Tarvos is a minor princeling, second son of a second son,” Adraste said. “He’ll never gain power in the tribe. But he is a zealot, and a follower of the old ways. All that is left to give his people is his blood to water the seeds of war. And then he will pass through the veil of shadows into the spirit world, a hero.”
Breca laid her spindle aside. “You have enemies among the Romans. You’ll never be fully accepted as one of them, hard as you may try.”
He gazed at her, the much-loved face showing new lines that only added to her beauty in his eyes. He said humbly, “What shall I do?”
“If Tarvos is a devout man – devout enough to lay down his life for his people,” Arto said, “maybe there is a way.”
The conversation stopped while Catuarus came in with logs for the fire, the dog at his heels. Soon the flames were leaping high again, the scent of burning pine wood filled the house, and his son sat leaning against his mother on the other side. Last year at this time, he remembered, his sons had been eagerly planning their part in the family’s Yule celebrations in this very house. In his mind, he saw them dancing around the flaming log, laughing, their shoulders decked with oak leaves and holly berries. Now Amminus was far away. This year, the darkest day in the year would be echoed by the darkest day in his heart.
“You must celebrate Yuletide in the old way,” the Druid said.
“I hadn’t planned to!”
“Listen to my uncle’s words, Togi,” Breca said.
Her use of her pet name for him gave him hope. “I’ll listen, my heart.”
“You must celebrate Yule,” Arto said. “If Tarvos is a guest in your house at that time, he can do you no harm, nor you him. That’s the old way. Remember, he cannot refuse any gift the host gives him under the sacred mistletoe, including his pardon. In return, he must give you his oath of peace.”
“Whatever happens after that,” Adraste added, “his blood won’t be on your hands.”
He hadn’t followed the old traditions for many years, content to have them slowly fade away. But there was wisdom here; Tarvos was a traditional Celt, and this was a solution that might work. He wouldn’t be forced to kill the man and thus make mortal enemies of the Belgae, and at the same time Tarvos would be bound by his oath not to make further war against the Romans. The thought of more war and bloodshed chilled him. Could he remember enough of the old customs to make this work? It wouldn’t matter if he believed in them; it would be enough if Tarvos did.
“Rome doesn’t care to interfere in Druid matters,” Arto said.
“For now,” Adraste added.
He stared at the old woman, wishing he could see what she saw of the future. Even he knew that Roman tolerance for the old ways wouldn’t last for ever. That made his work even more crucial to the tribe that still hadn’t fully accepted him as their king.
“Will you burn a Yule log?” Catuarus asked, his voice bubbling with excitement. “We’ll come, won’t we, Mother?”
Breca turned her eyes away and he knew not to push her. He might solve the problem of Tarvos that the centurion had set for him, but he couldn’t solve the problem of Breca’s estrangement until Amminus was safely home again.
His heart lifted a little when she rose to walk out with him. They stood by Stormfellow, stroking the horse to avoid looking at each other. The awkwardness of the moment felt like a wall between them. She sighed.
“You’re doing what you think right, Togi. I understand that. Perhaps I’m wrong. Perhaps it’s just my pride that stands in the way –”
“No, my heart, don’t say that. You can never be wrong. It’s just that I gave my word to the emperor to take care of Antonia. He gave his to take care of Amminus.”
“And you trust this emperor?”
“I have no choice. I shouldn’t have taken the boy to Rome. I thought –”
She put her hands on his cheeks and drew his face towards her and kissed him. He held her close to his chest for a moment, breathing in her familiar scent. All would be well as long as he had Breca’s love.
“You’re a good man, Togi,” she said, releasing him. “But even good men make poor decisions.”
“Breca, I beg you to reconsider. Come back with me. We’ll find a way. This other marriage – I hate to even say the word!– doesn’t matter. It can’t replace our vows.”
“It comes from being raised by Druids.” He heard the sadness in her voice. “But my honor doesn’t permit me.”
“I will never take the Roman girl to bed! I give you my oath.” He was aware how desperate he must sound.
She smiled and stroked his cheek. “Do you think I doubted that?”
“Seven more months, my heart. Amminus will come home. I’ll send the girl and her child away whether Nero wants them or not.”
“We can be patient that long,” she said.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Antonia was surprised when Tiberius told her they were going to celebrate a Druid festival for the end of the year. Yule, he called it. He was always so eager to appear Roman! But whatever the day meant to him it would be a grand excuse to entertain. Tiberius didn’t seem to want to discuss it further with her. Fine. She’d do her own planning without him and his long-faced doubts and hesitations. In the middle of this dark and depressing winter, it would be good to prepare a feast, call in musicians and invite friends. She started planning immediately. He hadn’t given her much time.
She made two lists, one of household preparations that she’d give to the servants – Tiberius would need to persuade his servants to come back. Why couldn’t he just order them to return? – and a second list of the guests. She walked along the colonnade to Tiberius’s private room to find writing materials. He wouldn’t be there. He’d gone up to Noviomagus again to watch them lay the foundations of the temple he was building before snow stopped the work. Just as well. She wasn’t ready to discuss her plans with him yet; they would be her secret. Perhaps it would make him happy?
The first people she’d invite were Gracila and Marcus and their children.
The thought of Marcus in this house turned her bones to water.
Of course she’d do nothing to take him away from Gracila! But they weren’t married – the law forbade a centurion from marrying. What harm would it do if she danced with him?
She had no idea how a Druid mid-winter festival was celebrated. Surely there’d be dancing? If not, she’d introduce the concept. What kind of musicians would she find among the barbarians? It was a pity she couldn’t include Tiberius in her planning, but she’d make do without him. Besides, she appreciated that he was keeping his pact with her and treated her courteously. So many problems, but it was a joy to solve them.
Coming out of Tiberius’s room, she glanced through the narrow pillars of the colonnade and saw Niko crossing the inadequate garden. It was still so cold this morning that frost sparkled on the grass in the pale sunlight.
“How can you bear to be outside without a cloak?” she asked when he came toward her. “Greece is even warmer than Rome at this time of year, isn’t it?”
“Not by much. But I’m getting used to this climate.”
“I certainly am not. Where’s Lucia? Isn’t she at her lessons?”
“She worked for two hours at her reading. Now she’s sleeping. Young children need their sleep.”
She glanced at him, suspicious he was belittling her knowledge of child-raising in his subtle way, but his expression remained neutral. “Come inside. You’re the scholar. I want you to tell me all you know about this Druid celebration called Yule.”
He followed her into the house. “It’s a mid-winter festival marking the solstice – the dying of the old year and the old god, and the birth of the new one with its new god.”
“Two gods? Or two faces of one god? Like Janus.”
“It’s a mistake to use one religion to explain the practices of another.”
/> She stared at him. “What a pedant you are sometimes!”
“Have you discussed this with your husband?”
“I’m going to surprise him.”
“As you wish. Someone needs to go into the woods to collect certain plants that are traditional for a Yule celebration. Holly, ivy, mistletoe –”
“Ugh! Even I know that’s a parasite and poisonous.”
“Mistletoe is important. But it’s not difficult to find.”
“Just don’t use a kitchen knife to cut it! We could all be sickened.”
He ignored her. “It grows on the apple trees in the orchard.”
“How do you know all this?”
“I talk to the servants. Most of them speak some Latin. Druid practices aren’t written down, but they remember them. Some Druids include a blood sacrifice in their observance –”
“Stop!” She covered her ears. “I don’t want to hear it!”
“The difficulty will be where to burn the Yule log. It’s supposed to burn for twelve days to bring luck to the household. But unlike the houses of the Britanni, your house doesn’t have a fire pit.”
“That shall be your task, Niko. I have invitations to write.”
* * *
Days of planning and preparation flew by. The women who came reluctantly to work in the kitchen baked till the house was scented with nutmeg and cloves, and others cleaned and polished till all the wood glowed. She hurried from one room to another, scolding, instructing, despairing it would all get done in time. Tiberius stayed away, apparently not noticing anything, leaving household matters to her. She wondered if he even cared.
On the day of the Yule festival itself, she waited in the house’s doorway, ready to welcome her guests. The sky was overcast, the air cold, the sun hadn’t shone all day. She wore a new tunic, woven with a blue and yellow pattern around the hem. Unlike Roman fashion, this tunic had long, loose sleeves, Britanni style. Under it, she wore another, plain tunic; she was grateful for their combined warmth, but she couldn’t seem to get really warm today, no matter what she wore. She had a moment of envy for the Regni who had no hesitation in wearing woolen trousers under their tunics and fur-collared cloaks. She’d put on a new gold necklace and rings, and bracelets made of red and blue glass beads threaded with silver, treasures Niko had found for her in the market in Noviomagus. An hour spent with a bronze mirror and Gracila’s cosmetics had finally satisfied her. But her head ached and her stomach felt as if it were full of tiny birds all panicking and fluttering their wings.
She couldn’t stop her hands from plucking anxiously at her new tunic, smoothing it over her hips. How foolish to be nervous about a barbarian celebration! The house was ready for guests, the kitchen prepared. She’d had to tell Tiberius what she’d planned as the time came closer. He hadn’t been pleased, but he’d surely change his opinion once the celebration began. The aroma of roasting meat and baked apples drifted from the kitchen. The feast wouldn’t be as grand as those her mother set out for guests at the Saturnalia in the old days before they lost the villa, but she’d seen to it that it would be a bright Roman light in this dark Britanni winter.
How fine those old days had been! How wonderful her family’s celebration of the Saturnalia at the end of the year! In her memory they shone as if they’d been etched on gold. The house filled with the scent of flowers and fragrant foods, roast suckling pig, sausages, fish in garlic sauce, figs and sweet dried plums! Her mouth watered at the memory. Pater distributing gifts to every guest who crossed their threshold; Mater, dismissing the slaves and combing Antonia’s hair with her own hand.
“When will they be here, Ma?” Lucia danced with excitement. She had on a new white tunic with a blue sash, matching blue ribbons holding back her curls.
The glowing images were from the early days. Towards the end, there’d been no money for gifts or suckling pigs; the slaves were sold or freed like Niko. There was no going home again because there was no home to go to.
“Caelius!” Lucia cried, clapping her hands. “Perhaps he’ll bring his pony. And Catuarus! He’ll bring Beech – I just know!”
She glanced at the child. When she’d been that age, life had been one grand celebration after another. Poor child, to be excited about so little. Sometimes she resented Lucia, seeing the girl as robbing her of her own childhood, as if she were responsible! The day would come when they’d return to Rome, and she’d try to make amends.
Right now, she must attend to the arrangements for this celebration, in spite of the fact that she was starting to feel a little unwell. Excitement, no doubt. It would pass. She’d taken pains with the invitations not to over-emphasize the Druid aspect of the celebration while not ignoring them. Not that Romans were averse to celebrating the end of one year and the beginning of another, but she’d thought it best not to remind her Roman guests of the pagan roots of the feast she invited them to share. First on that list were Marcus and Gracila, but she’d made up a list of other Romans living in Noviomagus, as well as several leaders and officials among the Britanni. She wondered again if Tiberius’s native wife would come – surely not! Lucia expected her son. If they should come, she would be cool and gracious, But she’d save her conversation for her Roman guests.
Tiberius and Gallus had gone out that morning to find just the right log to burn in the firepit that had been dug just beyond the colonnade. They’d returned dragging a sizable bough from an oak, and Tiberius had instructed Lucia in how to decorate it with pine cones and ivy strands. Niko had draped mistletoe on the bare branches of a young tree near the house. Snowflakes began to drift down, softening the contours of the winter landscape.
Tiberius set fire to the log. The flames rushed up, glittering on the Roman short sword he’d belted over his tunic. She stared at it; its presence made her uneasy. He wore no cloak or toga, impervious to the cold.
“Oh, when will they be here?” Firelight lit the dark evening, flickering on her daughter’s face.
She laid a hand on Lucia’s shoulder, quieting her and watched the road for her guests. She shivered with cold in spite of the fire’s warmth. Niko noticed and fetched cloaks for both of them. They waited.
The first guest came through the snow on foot, long braids sparkling as the firelight reached them.
“Pudens Pudentinus,” Tiberius said in greeting.
“A good Yule to you, my friend.” Pudens bowed to Antonia. “Lady.”
A servant led the man inside where hot wine waited for the guests..
The garden filled up with snow, and the hills in the blue distance turned white. The shortest day of the year was dying fast. It was past the time for her guests to arrive. Now she could also smell the mulled wine being prepared in the kitchen. For a moment, her stomach turned uneasily at the thick, spicy odor; her throat too closed on the very thought of swallowing. In spite of the cold, she was starting to feel too warm in the cloak. She loosened it around her neck where the sweat had appeared.
A small group, five in all, men and women who farmed Tiberius’s land, emerged out of the snow. Another man, a minor official from Noviomagus, with his fat wife. The servant led them inside to take wine.
“Look!”
She gazed through the falling whiteness to where Lucia pointed. A lone figure on horseback approached. Her heart hammered in her breast. The stableboy ran out to grab the horse’s reins. The rider dismounted and strode towards them
It wasn’t Marcus Favonius.
Tiberius stepped forward to welcome a man she’d seen once before, the centurion’s second-in-command, the tribune Didius Something-or-other. They stood together at the edge of the firelight talking. Darkness swallowed the garden beyond the fire’s reach.
She drew Lucia under the protection of the colonnade’s roof. The child leaned against her, silent now as if she too guessed the truth. No one else was coming. Her head hurt and she was close to tears.
The snow came down faster now, and Gallus had trouble keeping the log aflame. It hissed and spat
as the white flakes struck it. What had happened to the merry party she’d planned? Shame brought heat to her face.
The tribune brushed snow out of his hair. “I could use a mug of that hot wine I’m smelling.”
“Let me lead you to it, Tribune,” Gallus said. “I could use some myself!”
“Wait.” Tiberius held up his hand. “I invited you here to witness a ceremony, Tribune – a Celtic tradition. Gallus, bring the prisoner.”
Her husband’s voice struck her as cold as the snow on her cheeks. Didius stared at him, but Tiberius offered no explanation. She’d learned days ago of the prisoner’s presence in the storage room by the stable, but not the reason for it. Obviously, it was very important to Tiberius. Now she thought of what Niko had said about Druids and blood sacrifice and wondered if he were mad enough to use his sword on the prisoner.
“Lucia, go inside!” She turned her daughter away from the fire.
“But I want –”
“Now!”
Niko took the child’s hand and led her into the house.
Gallus came back from the stable, leading a short man of middle years, chained, with unkempt dark hair and beard. They stood near the sputtering fire. Tiberius bent to the little tree and took the mistletoe.
“What’s this?” the tribune asked.
“Celts have a custom,” Tiberius said. He stepped closer to the man and Gallus released his chains. Tiberius held up the sprig of mistletoe in his left hand. “Friendships made and enmities forgiven under the mistletoe are sacred. Oaths taken this one time a year under the mistletoe are not broken. The worst of deeds may be pardoned under the mistletoe. Am I not right, Tarvos?”
The prisoner scowled at him, firelight playing over his dirty face. “I don’t want your mercy!”
“I’m not offering mercy. I seek peace.”
The snow came down in thick, wet flakes. She shivered and pulled the cloak tighter under her chin, her breath like a knife blade in her chest. Her throat hurt and she longed to go inside and go to bed, but that was impossible for the moment. She was afraid to watch but more afraid not to.
