The Warrior and the Druidess

by Cornelia Amiri

  That was why each Pict longed to stab a sword into the cold, hard hearts of the brutes of the 9th Hispania. Finally, now, the Romans would pay. And it was Tanwen who made this possible.

  His heart throbbed as he recalled the warmth of her skin and the feel of her soft flesh in his arms, but his mind ached with a torrent of thoughts, tugging him this way and that. Women looked at him with heat in their eyes and many sought him out for love making because they burned for him. He should marry a woman like that. Tanwen came to him because her ancestor told her to. A man should have a woman devoted to him alone, as a druid she would serve and dote on the entire tribe. It was unwise to marry her, but he wanted to. When he lay with her he knew her body burned for him. She desired him as much as he wanted her, and it wasn’t because her ancestor commanded it. When Brude held her in his arms, he knew her mind focused on him alone. Tanwen showed more devotion to him and his tribe than any woman he’d ever known. He could no longer deny that he’d fallen in love with Tanwen. He had to have her, in marriage and all.

  Soon the forest was covered in darkness. Brude stood at his father’s side as he ordered his best spearmen to key positions to halt any fleeing legionnaires. Once the men were in place, Calach and Brude chose the strongest warriors to advance and kill the guards.

  “The sentries should be in deep slumber.” Brude gazed into the eyes of his chosen men. “Yet, keep sword and shield ready, for their gods may have empowered them to resist Tanwen’s spell.”

  They flew through the woods to their task and Brude, Calach, and the other men waited in silence. The chosen warriors let out caws like ravens as they each slew a sentry. Brude's heart raced. This was the moment he had been waiting for. He would kill many Romans this eve. Brude unsheathed his long sword and brandished the naked blade. He pushed his muscled legs into a hard run. He rushed into the fort with Calach at his side and the confederated army of northern tribes at his back.

  With their mouths open wide, the naked Picts let out blood-hurdling war cries, which reverberated in the air. With no further warning, Brude’s men filtered through the dense growth of trees, poured out of the woods and attacked the fort.

  Chapter Six

  Amber flames rose against the ebony sky, gaining strength by feeding on the wooden gate of the Roman fort. Sweating from the heat of the fire, with the smell of smoke and burning wood assailing him, Brude stormed the fort, blaring the Caledonii war cry. The Pict warriors brandished barbed spears and sharp swords in their muscular hands. Free of the restraints of clothing, their long legs, tattooed with Pict symbols, leapt into the air. Calach charged from the rear. The united Pict army poured into the fort in the thousands, all ready to die rather than be ruled by Rome.

  Awakened from sleep, the Romans were bare of armor and weapons as armed Picts struck with strong shields, sharpened swords and deadly spears.

  Legionnaires scattered like ants in a stomped hill. Many dropped to their knees and begged Brude for their lives. A few Romans were able to grab armor, but most could barely pick up a sword, as they were all asleep when the fort was lit a fire by Caledonii torches. The Picts in bare skin and the Romans in red tunics, metal clanged against metal as they clashed hand to hand.

  Brude swung his long sword. The blade locked with a legionnaire’s. They circled, then stepped back. Brude whacked the legionnaire again. The Roman sidestepped and then thrust his short sword. Brude leapt clear. He swung again, and metal clashed. Calach snuck up behind the Roman and rammed his blade into the soldier’s back. He dropped dead.

  Brude vowed to live as a free Celt or die battling Romans. He blocked the next legionnaire with his round shield and rammed forward. Romans jabbed spears and thrust short swords at him. He charged forward, thwarting the blows with his shield and whacking Roman heads with his sword.

  Bodies fell. The sweet yet acrid stench of blood hung in the air. Scarlet dripped off blades, shields and limbs, both whole and severed. Men jabbed spears back and forth. The Picts used a warrior trick, staring at one man when they were really targeting the man at his side. At the moment of attack, they shifted their gaze and struck in one fluid movement, taking the legionnaires off guard. The Romans’ jaws dropped in surprise as they were struck dead.

  The air pulsed with the din of swords clanging against spears and wooden shields banging metal blades. The Caledonii spearmen attacked in pairs. With their two-against-one advantage, the Calidonii slew the Romans swiftly. Amidst the heat of the blazing fire and dark smoke, the ear-piercing screams of the dying and the haunting war cries of the Picts, men fell.

  A Pict warrior fighting beside Brude, with hair spiked like a badger’s mane and with woad paste like Brude’s, shoved a Roman to his knees with his shield. He grabbed him by his hair, yanked his head up and chopped it off.

  The severed head fell in front of Brude’s feet. He stepped over it. Breathing heavily from fatigue, he drove onward. He would win or die. He would never be captured or enslaved. He leapt into the air and came down with his blade impaling a Roman. He swung the heavy long sword left and right, pushing on. Roman blood soaked the ground. His life or theirs: whack, swing, thrust.

  For freedom, for the tribe and for the future of his children to be, he moved his shield with his blade in the rhythm of battle. Swords swung on all sides of him. Men yelled in death throes. His face felt sweaty and bloody.

  He ran toward a solider, and, with all his might, he hacked the blade into the Roman’s neck. The soldier gasped as blood poured from his throat. He tumbled to the ground. The more Romans Brude killed, the more came at him, but he didn’t hesitate. He plunged forward.

  His father’s voice interrupted the height of his battle lust. Calach yelled, “Their reinforcements have arrived. Agricola just rode in.”

  Brude glanced at the influx of Roman soldiers. “We face two forces.” He raised his voice to a reverberating bellow. “Retreat!”

  * * * * *

  Tanwen sat on the grass of the sacred hill, resting her back against the firm long stone. She was in the middle of a trance when her body became tight and her breath shallow. She was overcome with the sense of dread. It was like a weight pushing inside her. The visage of a man formed in her mind— tall for a Roman, standing straight as a spear, the red plume on his gleaming bronze helmet added a foot to his height. His nose and chin were well defined, yet proportioned to his face, which featured dark, hard eyes. She gasped. Gnaeus Julius Agricola. She knew him on sight. Her chest squeezed painfully. Tanwen’s heart hammered as if it could beat its way out of her body.

  This was the man who had wiped out her entire tribe. He had murdered her mother, father, brother and aunt. He now rode into a battle with Brude and her new tribe. She shivered, overcome with an icy chill. “Brude, run. Retreat,” she yelled aloud.

  A short distance from the fort, Tanwen saw Agricola leap off his horse. In his hobnail sandal boots with straps wrapping his muscular calves, he spread his feet and gazed at the fort. Boudica fought this man on the battlefield on the final day of her life. Younger and less regal then, he’d served under Governor Suetonius. Now, with his chest contained in heavy Roman plate armor, his white tunic hitting his legs at the top of his knees, and a scarlet cloak draping his broad shoulders, he looked the part of a governor.

  Tanwen searched the vision in her head for Brude, but the rage throbbing inside her burst and threw her out of the trance. She clutched her forehead while fighting to push away the pain of the past in order to cope with the present. She drew in slow breaths and reassured herself that Brude and his men had survived. They had to be alive.

  Tanwen tried to scry for Brude and his warriors, but her pain blocked the vision. She turned to Lossio, who had watched over her while she was in the trance. “The connection broke when I saw Agricola.”

  “Gods, he is there?”

  “Yes, somehow. I have to know if Brude —if the Caledonii —are safe.”

  “Someone made it through our line to report to him.” Lossio paused. “Let me scry
to find what has befallen them.”

  “My thanks.” Be brave, she told herself. Brude is a great warrior. He will make it.

  Tanwen rubbed her upper teeth against her lower lip. Her gaze locked on Lossio as he positioned his skinny, aged limbs in the meditation stance of a druid. He stood on one leg, with the other tucked in at his side in an imitation of a crane and he stretched his arms out with palms upward to the sky.

  “I’m sucking breath in slowly, through some type of thin reed. My eyes are shut. I’m coated in something gooey and wet.” He shook his head. “Someone’s speaking. My men are near, scurrying up tree trunks. They are like squirrels skimming up trees, blending in and hiding.”

  “They have shape-shifted to squirrels and what …worms in mud…crabs in the sand? Tanwen rubbed her forehead. “Gooey and wet.”

  “No. They are only hiding as if they were worms or squirrels.”

  “What say you?” She took a deep breath, trying to calm down.

  “It is what I feel.”

  “You are too vague, Lossio. I do not understand.”

  She heard a sharp intake of breath. Lossio’s eyes sparkled. “I ken it now.” His toothless smile filled his face. “Until now, our men have only battled with other Caledonian tribes. They are trained when hiding from foes to block their thoughts so the enemy’s druids will not scry their position.”

  “They are hiding in trees and in water. Surely, even Romans will know to look there. They’ll be captured.” Tanwen’s heart hammered, her head ached as if an axe split her skull in two.

  “Not in water, in bogs. Submerged, breathing through reeds. It is an ancient Caledonii trick. The Romans will not find them, they never do.”

  Tanwen rubbed her forehead. “So, they are alive, in hiding, unseen. How many?”

  “A large number. These men are not filled with despair. In truth, they seemed pleased.” Lossio smiled.

  “They are submerged in bogs, but they are happy. The battle must have gone well.”

  “I think so, from the little I can scry. Some hide in trees, on high branches, concealed by leaves.”

  “And Brude?” She held her breath as she awaited Lossio’s answer.

  “I cannot see these men’s faces. They are blocking their thoughts. I only get vague images from the emotions they cannot hold back.”

  Tanwen heard the tension in her neck crack. Brude lives. And Calach too. If any harm had come to them, Lossio would feel sadness from the warriors rather than joy. She clutched her chest. “I ken he is unharmed.”

  “As do I.” He placed both feet back on the ground. “Brude must be alive.”

  She reached out her arms for a comforting hug from her fellow druid. “Lossio, you remind me so much of my foster father, the Druid Rhys.”

  “I am honored. He was known as a great teacher at the learning center before the Romans destroyed it for a second and final time. But the Romans will not destroy the Caledonii.”

  “It is so. We will not allow it.” Tanwen forced a smile. She would see Brude again soon.

  “Let us drink to the good news of our brave Caledonii warriors.” Lossio pulled out a skin of ale and passed it to her.

  She drank her fill and handed the leather bag back to Lossio. As he drank, she sat by his side, thinking of the moment Brude would return and how she would welcome him home.

  Chapter Seven

  Brude hid from Roman eyes, burrowed in the bog. Covered in dark, muddy water, he drew in a trickle of air from a hollow read. His chest felt squeezed. He craved a big gulp of air. Though he felt starved for air, the minimal breaths he sucked in through the reed allowed him to live. The gluey mud squeaked when he moved. He grabbed a fistful of weeds at the slimy bottom to anchor him in place.

  He had to hide long enough for the Romans to search the area, and then he’d return home to Tanwen. Her image filled his mind. Her features were so firm yet delicate, her soft body was so slender yet curving in all the right places. While he was buried in this muck, knowing he would be with her soon kept him from going in mad. Breaking through the surface, he rose to his feet and stood up in the bog. The mud squeaked as he strained against the hard mire. He’d laid a branch near the bog before he in ducked in it. He leaned and levered his chest on the limb, struggling with all his might. He wrestled free of the muck, breaking loose at last. He lugged his heavy, mud caked feet onto dry ground at the bog's edge. Hungrily, he filled his lungs, drawing in generous gasps of breath. He stunk as bad as the buckets of cow and pig manure used in daub to make wheelhouses.

  He yanked out a handful of weeds to wipe the mud from his eyes as he walked home. He swiped off the mire clinging to his arms and legs with leaves he grabbed along the way. At the sound of hooves galloping toward him, Brude ducked behind the trunk of a large tree.

  A wave of relief washed over him. It was two of his men. He leapt out. “I am glad to see you.”

  The men rode up to him with wide grins on their faces.

  Drest, the spearman, swung off his mount. “Brude.” He slapped him on the shoulder in a warm greeting. “Bless the gods we found you.”

  Talorcan dismounted and grinned broadly. “When your horse trotted into the village alone, Calach ordered us to search for you."

  “All have been awaiting your fate, but none feared for the worst. If any man could make it alive out of a Roman fort, it would be you,” Drest said.

  Brude chuckled and patted the spearman on the back “In truth, I am unharmed. I am glad my horse made it back. But best of all, you say my sire is alive and well.”

  “Everyone is.”

  “We did not lose a man,” Talorcan added.

  “No losses.” Brude gasped with joy.

  “None.” Drest grinned.

  “You were the only one unaccounted for.” Talorcan’s eyes glittered with humor.

  “Are you unharmed? I cannot tell. You are caked with mud, like a hog that wallowed all day,” Drest quipped.

  “Yes, I am.” Brude laughed. “I have been in a peat bog, for …well, too long.”

  “But they didn’t find you,” Talorcan said.

  “No and not a single loss of man. This is good news.” A warm glow filled Brude. “And we killed a lot of Romans.”

  “It was a fine battle.” Drest’s smile grew brighter.

  Talorcan pointed to his black stallion. “Take my horse and hasten to the village. The tribe awaits you. I will ride pillion with Drest. But first, shake yourself off like pigs do. I will not have you muddying my steed. I just washed him this morn.”

  “Do it Brude,” Drest quipped. “I want to see if your ears flap like the hogs’ do when they shake mud off their faces.”

  “Oink, oink. Talorcan, I have yet to see you or this horse of yours truly clean. And Drest, if anyone’s ears flap it would be the oversize ones you have; they’re as big as your head.”

  “Well, I can say one thing.” Talorcan held up one finger. “With all that time in the bog, I bet your belly is growling, so now you can eat like a pig.”

  “That, I can. There had better be a whole hog boiling in a cauldron as we speak. I am going to eat every meaty joint, and I will not share a single bite with the two of you.” Brude vaulted onto Talorcan’s black horse.

  His men raced their horse beside his, and Talorcan yelled out, “The druidess halted the Lughnassa rites and has kept to the hill, secluded in prayer to the gods until you return.”

  “She will be glad to see,” Drest added.

  “All the maidens in the village will be glad to see you.” Talorcan grinned.

  Brude grinned. Tanwen had kept him safe. Though as a warrior, he did not fully understand the ways of the gods, he knew their success, including having no losses was due to the rites and rituals Tanwen performed.

  As they rode into the village, the entire tribe poured out of their wheelhouses, roaring with cheers at Brude’s return. He eased off the horse, and Calach announced that a feast had been prepared to celebrate his victory.

  “Fir
st, I must bathe the bog off of me.” He eased off Talorcan’s horse. Caked with mud, he sprinted to the river bordering the village. Wading into the chilly water of the Tay, he quivered as he dunked his head and scrubbed his skin hard. “I forgot the soap,” he said to himself.

  He stood and turned to go back for the soap, and then he gasped. He stood nude in the river, his eyes fixed on Tanwen. She was wading to him, her skirt knotted above her knees and water splashing her red tunic.

  * * * * *

  With her eyes, she devoured his manly face, his smooth, taut skin, and his full mouth. His hair no longer shined, as it was still coated with mud. She laughed. Racking her eyes down to his groin, she moaned softly. The river was like ice, but fire surged through her body. She wanted him. The chill water rose to her hips as she neared him.

  She halted, her gaze still locked on his, standing a breath span away. “Did I hear you say you forgot the soap?" In her open hand, Tanwen held out a lump of soap Huctia had made from sheep fat.

  “My thanks.” He didn’t lower his eyes to the soap, but instead locked his gaze with hers. His eyes burned into her, smoldering with fire.

  “I thought you might need it. That is why I came.” She laid the cake of soap on his palm, and, as her fingers brushed against his hand, a frisson of heat shot through her.

  She covered the soap with her hand over his. Wrapping her arm around his shoulder, she rose on her tip toes. The soap slipped into the river. “Thank the gods you have returned.” She covered his full lips with hers.

  He wrapped his arms around her, crushing her to him. He returned the kiss with fierce abandon. He savored her warm sweetness, feeding from her soft, trembling lips. When his lips left hers, an amused smile filled her face as she gazed at his hair. She slipped her arms from his shoulders and she reached up to pinch a clump of mud between her fingers and slid it down the strands of his hair. She flicked the mud from her fingers. “Brude you must bathe before you lay with me.”