"I would have found my way eventually," she impulsively insisted.
"Your way where?"
"To my husband."
He grunted. Mention of Marcus irked him. "Who you barely know."
"He's where my heart lies. Sooner or later, it would lead me to him."
Arden shook his head. "You've yet to feel your heart, I think. Yet to feel love. You're nothing like your husband at all."
"You don't know that!"
"Everyone along the Wall knows that."
"How dare you say such a thing!"
"Everyone knows about the marriage, and his appointment because of it, and the fact that you're three times braver than your husband and five times smarter. The Romans fear you, and the Celts admire you. You've come to a better place, believe me."
She didn't believe him, not for a moment, and yet his comment about the longings of her heart disturbed her. Secretly she suspected there was some tiny truth in his presumptions, and yet he was also maddening. Who was he to say what her heart had felt, or how deeply she'd loved? Still, there was a yearning in her breast that remained unfulfilled, a formality to her marriage that seemed to belie the promises that the seer had made in Londinium. Perhaps deep love would develop, but this brigand had stolen some of her complacency. "I know my husband is looking for me right now, at the head of five hundred armed men," she said.
"And I know he isn't." Arden had seated himself on a log and was ripping off great chunks of bread with his teeth, gulping them down like a wolf. The man was disgusting! And yet there was something compelling about his lack of self-consciousness, his freedom from doubt.
"He'll catch you unawares," she argued doggedly.
"No, he won't."
"Why are you so certain?"
"Because we've already sent him one of the heads of the soldiers we killed, preserved in cedar oil, with a warning that yours will come next if he dares try to rescue you. If he truly loves you, he'll leave you, with me."
"No, you didn't. I saw the four heads in your Great House."
"You saw four of what were five."
Her heart chilled.
"Hool stayed behind for a while to package the head of the man who first tried to save you. We've sent it to the Romans."
"Clodius? You're a monster!"
"I'm a warrior and a realist."
Furious at herself for showing weakness, she began to weep again.
"Oh, come, lady, it's not as bad as all that. Your young soldier died in battle, the best fate of all men, and his head is being honored. It means his soul is still protecting you. I'd be flattered if our fortunes were reversed." He reached in a leather bag. "Here, have some dried fruit." He held up shriveled apple and pear.
She was still hungry enough to want it but instead refused, sitting across the fire to fume. She couldn't believe Marcus wouldn't try rescue. Clodius's poor head would spur him on, not deter him!
Yet where was he?
Perhaps she should just wait for her husband. Wait in the warmth of Arden's fort.
She hated men and their cruelties.
"So," Caratacus went on, "the question is what to do with you in the meantime. Everything I've heard and seen suggests that you're a natural horsewoman, a Morrigan of the Romans."
"Who's Morrigan?"
"How ignorant you Romans are about the island you've conquered! She's the goddess of war and the hunt. Her symbol is the horse."
"I simply like horses. They seem as noble as men are base."
"So we agree on something after all. Will you go riding with me, then?"
"Back to the fort?"
"Yes, on your stolen mare, and we need to go before darkness falls. But beyond that, will you ride with me on a hunt?"
"A hunt?"
"We've got one planned for sport and necessity."
"A woman on a hunt?"
"A woman can do what she wants."
"Not in Rome, she can't."
"You're not in Rome. You're in a place, unlike your country, where a woman can own property and wield a spear and choose who she wants for her bed and who for her marriage. Believe me, they're not always the same person. Come with me. It's exciting."
"You're trying to enlist me."
"I'm trying to calm you."
"Why, after I've escaped? Why don't you lock me in a cage?"
"But you didn't escape, did you? Here you are, still my prisoner. And if you try again, it will only give me an excuse to abduct you once more." He was grinning.
She said nothing, not wanting to give him satisfaction.
"Are you recovered enough to ride at least?"
She nodded glumly.
"Then let's make our way home, then. My home, and temporarily yours."
They rode on faint game trails that Valeria had been too anxious and inexperienced to see, Arden making no effort to tie or restrain her. While he was leading her to what he called his home, his hill fort called Tiranen, it occurred to her that he seemed even more at home here, in this forest. If there were willow gods and dark shrines, he showed no fear.
"How can you find your way so easily?" She needed to talk about something, because she kept thinking about the persistence of his pursuit and abduction. The result was unsettling in ways she didn't want to admit.
"I grew up in this country. But Iola Wood is confusing even to those of us who know it well. It's no embarrassment you were lost."
"One of my husband's soldiers told me that you Celts believe the woods are haunted. That trees like the willow can pull people underground."
"We believe that the woods are inhabited by spirits, or rather that the trees are spirits themselves, but that doesn't mean they're haunted. The willow story is just for children." He turned in his saddle to look at her. "Not that I'd sleep under one, mind you."
"Titus talked about Esus, some woodman's god, who demands a tribute of blood."
"Esus must be placated, it's true. A god should be honored with sacrifice, giving back to her some small portion of what she has given to us. But there's also Dagda, the good god, who walks through these trees as a Roman walks through his garden. The‹ groves of oak are places of both darkness and of light, just like the world as a whole."
"Savia believes there's only one god."
"I've heard this. And the Christians eat their god and drink his blood to be made strong by him, which sounds far more savage to me than sacrificing a captive to Esus. The Christians talk of a father and a son and a spirit as well, and argue among themselves whether the three are one or the one is three. Is this not true? I listened when I soldiered in your world. That's not so different from us Celts. Three is our most sacred number, and our gods are often trinities, like Morrigan, Babd, and Nemhain, separate and yet the same."
"If they are the same, then why three?"
"Three is a sacred number. Three can surround itself, each member flanked by two others. Druids believe that the educated mind requires, first, knowledge, second, nature, and third, truth. All these are the same, and yet they're different as well."
"Perhaps you should become a Christian, then."
"Theirs is a very weak god, a humble man killed so easily that none even remember what he looked like. In our world we worship strength. Besides, how can one god do the work of dozens? How silly to have different people, with different needs, all worship the same god. That defies common sense."
"Christ is the god of civilization. The god, now, of Rome."
"And what good is civilization? Your poor are worked like animals, and your rich become tyrants. In our world men and women alike are more equal, and we share in toil, and we move with the wind and season and allow ourselves to enjoy life. We care nothing for monuments but only for deeds, nothing for power but only for friendship, nothing for death-which is only sweet release-but only for life. We care for the deer and the oak and the brook and the stone. Christians are proud their god walked among them, but our Celtic gods are with us all the time, in everything we see and touch. The Christ
ian god has gone away, but ours speak to us with wind and thunder and sometimes, more softly, in the call of birds."
"And yet it is Rome that rules the world."
"Not this world. Not this warrior." He glanced upward into the trees and pointed. "Let me show you." Reaching up, he grabbed the limb of an oak and swung himself off his horse as easily as an acrobat. Climbing to the topmost bough, he sawed at something with his dagger and then descended, his catlike drop to the ground reminding her of the time he'd surprised the mule pulling her cart. Then he remounted and walked his horse over.
"Here."
It was a branch of polished leaves and white berry, very different from the oak it came from. "What is it?"
"The sacred mistletoe. It's a magic plant that grows at the crown of trees. Wear a sprig in your hair, and it will protect you from evil spirits. Keep it at hand, and it will ward off death and disfigurement. Put it over a cradle, and it will prevent a baby from being abducted by faeries. This is the most powerful plant the gods have put on Earth, and it's free for the taking. It symbolizes the truth of the world, that wood and water give us all we really need."
She looked skeptical. "And yet you barbarians sneak into Roman territory to steal, so you can live as Romans do."
He laughed. "How clever you are! Some do, I don't deny it. But there's more to the magic of this mistletoe." His arm stretched, and he held it near her face, dangling from his hand, and then leaned and kissed her, a kiss as swift and fleeting as one of Brisa's arrows. "There!"
She leaned back in consternation. "Why did you do that?"
"Because the mistletoe is also our plant of friendship and conciliation. Our plant of love. Because you're pretty. Because I felt like doing it."
Her face was aflame. "Well, I did not feel like it, and I'll not let any man take liberties without permission." It reminded her of Galba. "I'll, I'll…" She thought desperately for a threat. "I'll stick you with a brooch again!"
He roared with laughter and backed his horse away. "It's only a Celtic custom, girl! But if you're threatening with your brooch, then I'll throw my charm away." He raised his arm to toss the mistletoe aside.
"No!" she relented. "No, no. Don't kiss me, but I want a sprig for protection like you said. Please give me one."
So he plucked a piece and gave it to her. She put it in her hair.
Then they turned and rode again, finally breaking free of Iola Wood just as the sun broke clear of ragged cloud, setting toward crags in the west. They galloped up a steep ridge to a place from where it seemed they could see the entire world… all of it, perhaps, except the distant wall. Lakes, painted gold by the late fire, lay in every hollow. Mist swirled along the ridge crests like wool combed from the sky. Rainbows arced like portals to the heavens. Rocks glistened from the recent rain, their veins a raiment of diamonds. The raw beauty took her breath away.
"How wondrous the world," she murmured, as much to herself as him. Then, remembering her plight, "Will we get back before dark?"
"There, Tiranen." He pointed, and she saw the cone of his hill and its fort, just two ridges away. "Come, race me there!" Then he cried like an eagle, a wild screech, and rode like the wind without even bothering to look behind, Valeria following as gamely as she could, clinging to her racing mare.
She'd not come very far from the fort at all, she admitted to herself. Yet Arden had made her curious about his world. Maybe she could learn something useful from these strange people. Something important to take back to her Romans. Back to her Marcus.
XVIII
The prospect of a boar hunt filled Valeria with excitement, apprehension, and resolve. It was clearly a test of her fortitude. She'd already endured jests about "escaping" to Iola Wood and becoming lost, but she'd also noticed an undercurrent of respect among the Celts for her courage at running off. She was not quite the Roman kitten she looked, they whispered; perhaps there was some cat to her as well. She felt she was representing not just herself but the empire. So this time she took her own mare, Boudicca, as well as a Roman saddle, leather boots, and woolen trousers.
Savia regarded the mannish garb with mourning, convinced the barbarians represented a particularly corrupting kind of hell. "Your mother would die if she could see you."
Caratacus gave her a more approving eye as the hunting party gathered. "You've dressed smartly this time. Are you ready to risk Attacotti adventure?"
"The risk is yours, barbarian. Take me on enough hunting trips, and sooner or later I'll be able to find my way home."
The other hunters cheered with approval at her boldness.
"I'm wagering that by that time you won't want to leave," Arden countered.
"You're very confident about your charms."
"Not my charms, lady. The charm of wood and fen, moor and meadow."
The chieftain had given the boar the name Erebus, after the Greek station of the underworld: a classical reference again betraying the mystery of her captor's background. Their quarry was described as a bristling, black, monstrous hummock of an animal, all shoulder and hoof, as deadly as a bear and as swift as a bull. It stole out of the forest at night with red eye and yellow tusk, goring and furrowing, and two watchdogs had already been killed. Caratacus had finally directed the clan's hunt master, an old and leathery woodsman named Mael, to track the beast to its hiding place. He had done so.
Now a dozen men and women rode out of Tiranen in high anticipation, heavily armed with spear and bow. A dozen hounds ran with them, loping through high green grass that scraped their bellies. It was early summer, birds flushed as the horses galloped, meadows had erupted with flower, and the morning seemed fresh with promise.
Valeria had neither the experience nor trust to have a real weapon and so was given only a silver dagger. Brisa rode alongside her with bow and quiver. Proud Asa had come too, her long red hair rippling in the morning's breeze and three light javelins holstered on her saddle. Arden had a lance, Hool a shorter and sturdier spear, and Luca a sword. Each of their weapons had names, Valeria had learned, as well as druidic blessings, a complicated history, and intricate decoration. The spear shafts were finely carved, the arrows fletched with feathers of different birds, and the bows studded with silver.
Brisa had adopted the captive Roman like a puppy and had set out to teach her Celtic ways. Valeria had never known a woman so mannish, and yet the barbarian archer commented frequently, favorably, and sometimes lewdly on the attributes of men in the tribe: she cheerfully admitted to frequent lovemaking. Unlike the females of Valeria's class, she seemed in no particular hurry to marry anyone, and didn't seem to have the need of a man for completion. She was also comely enough to draw suggestions, both polite and vulgar, from the single men. She laughed at them unless whim and fancy took her, and then she'd lead one to her bed. This independence of emotion fascinated the Roman, whose society valued careful relationships and formal alliances above all else. She asked Brisa once why she resisted betrothal, and the woman replied simply, "I've yet to find a man who would let me be me. But I will." So she stayed in her parents' hut, dissuading serious suitors and living life as a boy.
As they rode, the Celts boasted of other hunts. An orbiting hawk called to mind some past bit of falconry, the flashing rump of a disappearing deer provoked the memory of a great stag, and the dart of a rabbit recalled the wiles of a fox. Every rock and tree represented some peculiar piece of clan history, and every dale and hillock recalled the wanderings of gods and spirits. Valeria realized that these rough people saw the landscape differently than she did; it was alive to them in a way the Romans had never considered. Behind the visual world was a second universe of vision, legend, and memorized song that was somehow as real to these barbarians as stone, bark, and leaf. Every object had its spirit. Every event had its magic. The waking world was merely a brief dream, and their lusty and violent lives a quick hallucination, before passing through to something more substantial and lasting.
Because of that, their carefree, undisciplined,
war-crazy life was beginning to make a kind of sense to her. She'd explored Tiranen after returning with Arden, and decided they were not the simple, ignorant people she'd assumed. Their round huts were cramped and dim, smelling of smoke and musk, but also cozier and more richly furnished than she had imagined, each occupying family exhibiting a communal unity very different from the stiff hierarchy of an upper-class house in Rome: three generations sharing chores, food, sleeping loft, and the fire. Their chests and furs and woolens were often of fine quality and elaborate, with time and work lavished upon them. Yet there was no concept of duty or discipline. The Celts would start a hundred projects with the enthusiasm of children and abandon them just as swiftly to go riding, wrestle in mock fights, shoot arrows, or make love, their passion audible from the round walls of their houses. The lusty noise intrigued Valeria. What were they doing? What was she missing? The cries of the women were especially loud, but she was too shy to ask about their experiences. These people fought as casually as they made love, and didn't put too much importance on either. They washed together at the heated tubs at night and splashed in cold barrels of rainwater in the morning, howling at the cold with brisk roaring pleasure, and they loved perfumes, fine clothes, bright jewelry, and intricate tattoos: they were as fastidious about their persons as they were oblivious to the rude dirt of their hamlets. Their long hair was ornament, some male warriors stiffening their locks with lye to make it arc upright like the mane of a horse. They took great delight in costume, their ceremonial helmets fitted with wings or horns, and they were as craven about superstition as they were bold in combat, wearing amulets, and as fearful of thunder as they were indifferent to pain.
Nothing ever seemed to get quite done, and yet they were satisfied with the half-doing, and happiest in some reckless venture that promised fresh bruises and cuts. Their children were even wilder, running half naked while they invented mischief that drew only the mildest reprimand. Only in their animals did the Celts expect discipline, the dogs kept in order with the kick of a boot and the horses ridden so constantly and hard that they melded through thigh and fist and heel into the mind of their riders. They galloped across the rough and wooded country with reckless abandon, whooping like loons.
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