“I’d cleverly held them back,” said Labraid, “to use as a final bargaining tool. It worked too, just as I thought it would. The tribe on the north bank of the Liffey had never seen anything like those bowls. They thought they were beautiful.”
“They were beautiful,” mourned Briga. “How could you steal them from me?”
“I didn’t think you’d give them to me if I asked for them,” he replied, unabashed.
It was time to move the conversation on. “So, Labraid, you traded my wife’s bowls for a boat and crew?”
“The bowls, and some other things. You know.” Another vague wave of the hand.
This was not the time to ask what else he had stolen, or from whom. The matter would be dealt with later and restitution made. I could not condone dishonorable behavior; we were Slea Leathan.
“Go on, Labraid. You acquired a boat. What happened next?”
“We set sail for the east.”
“Did you make landfall on Albion?”
“We didn’t need to. We took fresh water aboard at Mona,” said the voice from the bed.
Mona! The name evoked a memory long buried beneath the wreckage of our lives. Menua, my teacher, had trained at the great druidical college on Mona. In my youth I heard him speak of the dark groves of that island, the “sacred gloom” in which extraordinary sacrifices were offered and unparalleled transactions with the Otherworld concluded.
Foolishly, I had never asked Menua the location of the island. I suppose I was too eager to get on with magic of my own. Our lives are shaped by the questions we ask. And even more important, by the questions we fail to ask.
When my clan fled Gaul the sacred island of the druids might have given us refuge, yet by that time I had forgotten about it entirely.
Years of constant anxiety can erode the mind.
“Mona lies to the west of Albion,” Labraid said, “and almost in a direct line from here. It was my idea to go ashore. We obtained enough water to avoid landing on Albion at all. Wasn’t that clever? I’m not just a warrior, Ainvar, I can make plans as well as any—”
I cut across Labraid’s self-congratulatory spate to ask Cormiac if there were still druids on Mona.
Before he could reply, Probus said in Latin, “They are the only permanent inhabitants of the island.”
I was startled to realize the Roman understood my language. “What do you know of Mona?” I asked him in Latin.
“Probus went there to spy on the druids,” intoned the voice from the bed.
My head was concentrating on the ramifications of the Roman’s revelation. If he was familiar with the basic tongue of the Celts I would no longer have to struggle along in my half-forgotten Latin. Using the dialect of the Slea Leathan, I asked, “Can you understand what I’m saying now?”
He nodded assent.
“And were you a spy?”
“I was an officer in the army of Rome,” he replied with dignity, effortlessly switching between languages. His accent was exotic but comprehensible. “Our purpose was to extend the benefits of our civilization to the rest of the world.”
“Pompous ass,” Labraid remarked. He said it with a smile, though, as if this were an old joke between them.
Probus grinned back at him. “Barbarian savage,” he retorted amiably.
Not the least of my surprises that day was the discovery that Labraid had made a friend. Apparently not everyone found him as obnoxious as I did. Of course, the friend was a Roman, and they have no judgment when it comes to a man’s character.
While Briga completed her examination of Cormiac I asked Probus, “How is it that you can speak our language?”
“As I tried to explain before, my father was the magistrate of Genova.”
My head tardily realized that Probus might not be a Roman after all; not a citizen of Rome, that is. But there was no doubt he belonged to the Latin race. As far as I was concerned, they were all Romans and equally guilty. Maggots swarming over the corpse of Gaul.
Probus said, “Growing up in and around a major seaport, I met many foreigners. I had been born with a gift for languages, so by the time I could walk I was chattering away with the barbarian traders. I can understand most of the Gaulish tribes, in fact, though a few sound like stones rattling in my ear.”
This was the second time he had referred to our people as barbarians. Labraid did not seem to mind; in fact, he thought it funny. I was deeply insulted. “Barbarian” is a term the Hellenes apply without prejudice to any who do not speak Greek, but the Romans use the word as a pejorative. I clenched my teeth and remained silent, determined to follow this mystery to its unraveling.
“When I became a man,” Probus continued, “I refused to enter my father’s profession. I was too fond of adventure to sit on a bench all day adjudicating petty quarrels. My father was furious with me, but my mother persuaded him to purchase a commission for me in one of the Roman legions—which conferred automatic Roman citizenship.”
So Probus was a Roman after all.
“I was posted to Gaul,” he said, “where I served under Lieutenant-General Antistius Reginus.”
Sometimes the body reacts before the head. My fingers scrabbled for the knife in my belt. Reginus had led the most brutal of the legions involved in the siege of Alesia.
Probus was indeed a warrior. His sharp eyes observed the gesture before my head was aware of it. “That will not be necessary, Ainvar. I am a deserter from the army of Rome, as your kinsmen will testify.”
“But you were at Alesia!”
“I was, though I regret it now. There is no excuse for what was done at Alesia.”
My ears could not believe what they were hearing. “You regret?”
“Caesar claimed all things are justified in time of war, but I disagree. The prolonged siege of Alesia, the deliberate starvation of all the women and children…in my opinion that was a step too far. No one was meant to survive.”
“My clan survived,” said Cormiac, “thanks to Ainvar. I told you about it, Probus.”
Probus raked my face with his eyes. Realization was dawning in those eyes. “Are you the Ainvar? The man who brought the statue to life?”
“I am Ainvar, yes.”
The Roman’s swarthy skin paled. “Then I knew of you long before I met these two; knew of you by deed if not by name. My cohort was sent to retrieve a band of German cavalry who fled from the battle. They had been so badly frightened they soiled themselves. By the time we caught up with them they had half killed their horses and were almost incoherent. They claimed to have been attacked by a man who breathed fire and a stone god as tall as a tree.”
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. I refused to smile at any Roman. Bared teeth I would offer them, but never a smile. “Breathing fire is not within my gift, Probus. As for the stone figure, it did not come to my shoulder. Neither of us physically attacked anyone.”
“Perhaps not, but you attacked their minds. That is where the damage was done.”
The Roman was smarter than he looked.
A sharp elbow dug into my ribs. “Ask him about Maia.”
“I was just getting around to it,” I assured Briga.
“You were not. You were talking about any and every other thing and coming nowhere near the point. Probus, do you know what happened to my daughter? Please tell me, I can’t stand this any longer.”
“I wish I could help you,” he said. “But I understand she was sold as an infant? Probably through a slave market?”
“She was.” Briga’s soft voice was almost inaudible. “We could never prove it, but everyone knew.”
“Then all I have to offer is my sympathy.” Probus sounded sincerely regretful. “Small children rarely survive that experience.”
I thought of Lakutu, as resilient as the willow tree; but she had been an adult when the Romans captured and enslaved her. Maia had been a tiny little creature with dimpled knees and…I fought back the pain, lest it swallow me.
“Maia died a
long time ago,” announced the voice from the bed. It rang with absolute certainty.
Until that moment I had still nurtured a spark of hope. But a druid recognizes truth when he hears it.
With the extinction of hope came a strange relief. The spark ceased to scorch my heart; shapechanged into tender memories, as rain makes flowers bloom in a desert.
I put both arms around Briga and drew her tight against my chest. “Let Maia go now,” I whispered into my wife’s hair. “Let our little girl go.”
Over her head I met the sloe-black eyes of Probus.
They glittered with tears.
chapter XXVI
“WE ARE NOT ALL AS BAD AS YOU IMAGINE,” PROBUS SAID TO ME later that day. “Frankly, I should be much more frightened of you than you are of me.”
The two of us were walking beside the Liffey. The atmosphere in the lodge had become so foul with the smell of pus and burning herbs that the stinking mudflats along the river were infinitely preferable. The Roman was suffering from an injury to his back, but Briga said the damage was to the muscles rather than the spine. “A little gentle exercise would be good for you,” she had told him. “And for you, too,” she added to Grannus and me.
Grannus left the lodge with us, but as soon as we came to an overturned fishing boat he sat down. Planted his big feet wide, rested his forearms on his thick thighs. “This is as far as I go,” he announced.
So Probus and I sauntered on together.
The winter’s day was overcast; no hint of sunlight in any direction. We might have been walking beneath an overturned gray bowl. The wind was out of the northeast, bringing a sporadic pelting of sleet.
The curse of the Túatha Dé Danann, I said to myself.
I observed that the south bank of the river included a long ridge of stone and gravel, an extension of the outcropping we had passed on our approach. The ridge was mantled with hazel and hemmed by willow scrub. Below the ridge was a natural ford where a causeway had been constructed: Labraid’s “Ford of the Hurdles.” The permeable quality of interwoven rods of hazel and willow allowed water to flow through so the river did not wash the man-made path away, making it safe for beasts and men.
While my eyes examined the ford’s ingenious construction, my head worked out the reasons behind it, predicated upon the nature of the place and the nature of its inhabitants.
From our hosts I had learned there were no horses in Dubh Linn except our own. The natives considered boats the superior form of transportation. This affected their lives in a number of ways. An oak forest lay south of the settlement, but harvesting its timber would require a large number of men to drag heavily laden sledges overland. They chose to build with local materials such as hazel and willow instead.
When Rígan’s people traveled inland they had to walk. They rarely ventured beyond their own territory, however—and why should they? The largest portion of their needs was met by river and sea. In all seasons they feasted on fresh- and saltwater fish, oysters, mussels, cockles, lobsters, prawns, and the meat and eggs of seabirds. Edible seaweeds were boiled, chewed, or used as flavoring. Seals, which provided both skins to wear and oil for lamps, were common in the estuary. In addition to this bounty the people of Dubh Linn raised sheep and a small herd of cattle, and exchanged their surplus with the tribe north of the river for grain. Hence the ford.
The wind was dying down. Probus and I walked slowly, shoulder to shoulder. Talking with him was difficult for me. Conversation between us was bound to be colored by spilled blood.
“I’m not frightened of you in the slightest,” I told the Roman in response to his remark. “But after what Caesar did to us, you can understand my aversion to your race.”
“Sometimes I have an aversion to them myself. In particular but not in general, you understand. Taken all in all, the tribes of Latium are as good and as bad as any other.”
“My senior wife might believe you.”
“Meaning you do not, Ainvar?”
“I’ve had more experience than Briga. She tries to see the best in everyone. She wanted to forgive Crom Daral for stealing our child because he had a sickness in his head.”
The Roman said, “I do not understand how she could ever forgive him.”
“On that at least we are agreed, then. If I’d caught up with the man I would have killed him on the spot. But my Briga is unique.”
“I can well believe you. She knows what I am, yet she is as kind to me as to her own kinsmen.”
I turned to face him. “And what are you, Probus? You called yourself a deserter. Cormiac called you a spy. You admit you’re a citizen of Rome, which means I have no reason to trust you. So what should I call you?”
“How about ‘friend’?”
My harsh laugh sounded more like a dog’s bark. “That’s impossible.” I resumed walking.
Undeterred, he kept pace with me. “Ainvar, I have done my best to be a friend to Labraid and Cormiac. Without me they would not be alive today.”
“What do you mean?”
“It is a long story, and complicated.”
“I have time. And I’m used to complications.”
“Did you ever hear of a Celtic warlord called Commius?”
“Of course I did. Caesar had no legitimate authority in Gaul, but that didn’t stop him from proclaiming Commius king of the Atrebates. King indeed! Commius was a traitor to his race.”
“He was,” Probus agreed. “Caesar installed Commius for one purpose only: to convince other Gaulish leaders of the wisdom of allying themselves with Rome. Commius, whom Caesar made a great show of befriending, was to be his emissary, singing his praises and making the path smoother for him. That was only one element in Caesar’s overall plan, however.
“Accompanied by one legion and his favorite tribune, he made a brief visit to Albion a couple of years before the fall of Alesia. It was to be a reconnaissance rather than an invasion, but things went badly from the beginning. At first Caesar’s troops were mauled by the natives. Ultimately they beat them back, a truce was hastily proclaimed, and Caesar withdrew. He did not intend to leave it at that, though. Not Caesar.”
Here at last was another part of the story. If one is patient enough, most things are revealed in time. “What was there for him in Albion?” I inquired. “Aside from tin, that is.”
“Albion has other resources, but they were not what drew Caesar. He wanted Albion for the same reason he wanted Gaul: as trophies he could brandish in the Roman Senate to consolidate his drive for political power.”
“So hundreds of thousands of people had to be sacrificed to place a laurel wreath on his bald head.” The words were bitter as bile in my mouth.
“Surely, Ainvar, you have lived long enough to know that men who seek power do not see things that way. They invariably claim the most noble reasons. They want to redress injustice or help the common people.” Probus accompanied this last with a sardonic smile.
“The following summer Caesar sailed back to Albion with five legions and two thousand cavalry. A large army spearheaded by the tribe of the Catuvellauni was waiting for them. A summer of battles followed, with victory going sometimes to one side, sometimes to the other. Meanwhile, the situation in Gaul was growing critical, with new revolts breaking out, so in early autumn Caesar left Albion and returned to Gaul. The siege of Alesia followed soon after.
“I had arrived in Gaul as hot to fight as any man. Young blood boils easily.” Probus gave an unexpected chuckle. “Your friend back there would have a hard time in the legions. Sitting down was not an option. Legionaries were primarily infantry, which meant they had to be able to carry all of their equipment and three days’ supplies on their backs while marching double-time for ten miles, then fighting a battle. As an officer I was given a horse but that was the only concession to my rank. I still had to prove myself, and I did. By the siege of Alesia I was inured to the cries of the dying and the stench of bowels opening in death.
“After the fortress fell, Reginus took h
is legion back to Rome to participate in the triumphal celebrations. I did not go with them. Having revealed my familiarity with Gaulish languages, I was seconded to serve as an interpreter in the surrender negotiations with the surviving allies of Vercingetorix. In truth there was little negotiating done. We won; they lost. They lost everything.
“Subsequently I was reassigned to the legion led by Titus Labienus. They were fighting the Bellovaci, the last major tribe holding out against Caesar. Shortly after I arrived Labienus sent me with a band of centurions under the command of Volusenus Quadratus to have a parley with Commius of the Atrebates. With the exception of Volusenus, we did not know that Commius had gone back on his word to Caesar and was actively involved in a conspiracy against him. The parley was a ruse. The real intent was to seize Commius and kill him on the spot. We were not told this ahead of time so that nothing in our demeanor might warn the traitor.
“When Commius and his followers arrived at the arranged meeting place, Volusenus caught him by the hand and shouted at one of the centurions to kill him. Still believing Commius to be a friend of Caesar’s, I thought we must have misunderstood the order and put out my arm to stop the centurion. I quickly realized the mistake was mine and urged the centurion forward again, but by that time the followers of Commius had rushed forward to rescue him. In the skirmish that followed Commius received a severe blow to the head. He gave a great cry and fell to the ground. His eyes rolled back in his head and quantities of blood poured from his ears and mouth. Volusenus believed he had suffered a mortal wound and allowed his followers to carry his body away.”
Volusenus believed, Probus said. Which meant Commius had survived. I was beginning to appreciate the precision with which the Roman chose his words.
“Without the aid of Commius and his Atrebates, the Bellovaci were at last subdued,” Probus continued. “Caesar then divided his forces and ordered the obliteration of any remaining pockets of resistance. I saw cruelty on a scale I had never imagined. Terror was the Roman weapon and they wielded it well.
“For a while I feared there might be a black mark against me because of Commius, so I made every effort to prove myself a second time. I did things I do not want to remember now.” The Roman’s voice was thick in his throat.
The Greener Shore Page 27
