“What do you do with him all day?” wondered Turl, letting the slight to his cousin go unheeded.
“We talk. He teaches me things.”
“What sort of things?”
“All sorts of things.”
“Druid things?”
Taliesin was not sure what his friend meant by that. “Maybe,” he allowed. “Birds and plants and trees, medicine, how to read stars, things like that. Useful things.”
“Teach me something,” taunted Turl.
“Well,” Taliesin replied slowly, looking about, “you see that bird down there?” He pointed to a white seabird skimming the waves Below them. “That one is called a blackcap.”
“Anybody knows that!” laughed Turl.
“It only eats insects,” continued Taliesin. “It scoops them off the water.” The bird’s head swung down and its beak sliced a v-shaped ripple in the tidepool Below. “Like that- did you see?”
Turl smiled broadly. “Coo! I never knew that.”
“Hafgan knows more than that-he knows everything.”
“Could I come and learn with you?”
“What about your uncle?”
Turl offered no reply; so they sat together, flaking the yellow lichen from the rock, until Taliesin jumped to his feet. “What is it?” asked Turl.
“Come on!” cried Taliesin, already running over the rocks toward the woodland trail on the far side of the dell. “They are coming!”
“I don’t see anyone!”
“They are coming!”
Turl hurried after Taliesin and soon caught up with him. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know?”
“I know,” replied Taliesin as they ran along.
They ran across the grassy hollow of the dell and up the knoll on the other side. Taliesin reached the knoll first and stared at the place where the bare dirt track crested the hill beyond. “I don’t see them,” said Turl.
“Wait.” Taliesin shaded his eyes with a hand and squinted hard at the road as if he would make them appear by force of will. Then they heard it-a light jingling sound, followed by the deeper drumming of horses’ hooves.
A moment later they saw a prickly forest of gleaming lance-heads sprout from the crown of the hill. The forest grew and men appeared beneath the shining arc of their weapons, and then the horses were sweeping down the near side of the hill and the boys were racing down to meet them, yelling, arms outspread as if they would fly straight into their fathers’ arms. “Da! Da!” they cried.
The leader of the warband turned toward them and nudged the man riding next to him. He raised his hand and the column cantered to a stop as the boys came running toward them. Taliesin stared; his father wore the short red cloak of a centurion and the stiff leather breastplate. At his side was the broad-bladed gladius. He looked every inch a Roman commander-except for the fact that his cloak was fastened at his shoulder by a great silver wolf’s-head brooch with ruby eyes and his trousers were bright blue. “We have been watching for you all day! I knew you would come before sunset,” said Taliesin.
Elphin took one look at Taliesin’s face and declared, “Was there ever a better welcome home?”
“No, lord,” replied Cuall, “never was.” He beamed down at his own son and gave the lad a sharp salute.
“Climb up here, Taliesin; we shall ride in together.” Elphin put down his hand and pulled the boy up into the saddle with him. “Forward!” he called, and the troop moved on.
By the time they reached the outer gates, the whole village had turned out to meet them. Wives, mothers, fathers, children-all waving, calling glad greeting to their sons and husbands and fathers. Elphin led the band to the center of the caer and dismounted them. They stood at attention beside their horses for a moment and then Elphin shouted, “Dismissed!”
The men let out a whoop and the caer erupted in noisy welcome. Elphin surveyed the scene, grinning, happy to be home at last, happy to have delivered his band safely yet another year.
“Were you born in that saddle?”
Ehonwyn, her red-gold hair brushed and glowing in the late afternoon light, stood with a hand on the horse’s bridle. She wore a new orange gown with a woven girdle of blue and green stripes; her arms were bare, displaying gold armlets inset with a serpentine of emeralds, and at her throat a slim tore of twisted gold.
“Look, Taliesin, a goddess has addressed us,” said Elphin, drinking in the sight of her.
“Come down from there and I will show you whether I am a goddess or no.”
Elphin handed the reins to his son and slid from the saddle.
“Take care of Brechan, Taliesin. Give him an extra measure tonight.” He slapped the horse on the rump and the animal trotted away, a beaming boy on his broad back. Then his arms were around his wife and her lips were on his.
“I have missed you, husband,” she whispered between kisses.
“No more than I have missed you,” Elphin answered. “Oh, how I have missed you.”
“Come home with me. There is supper hot and ready for you.”
Elphin bent and nibbled her neck. “I would welcome a bite.”
“Stop, you. What will your men think?”
“Why, lady, they will think me the luckiest man alive!”
Rhonwyn hugged him again and took him by the hand and led him away. “You must be tired. Did you ride far today?”
“Far enough. I am more thirsty than tired.”
“There is a jar on the board. I have had the jug in the well all day.”
“You knew we would come today?”
“Taliesin did. He was certain of it. I tried to tell him not to count too much on it, that you might be late. But he would not hear it. He knew you would be home before sunset. He told everyone.”
They reached the door of the house, embraced again quickly, then stooped under the oxhide in the doorway. The fire crackled on the hearth where a joint roasted on a spit. A young girl, one of Rhonwyn’s cousins who had joined the household that spring following Eithne’s death, tended the spit, turning it slowly and basting the meat from time to time. She smiled when Elphin came in, then ducked her head shyly.
Gwyddno Garanhir, grayer and rounder of shoulder, stood before the fire, one foot on an andiron. “So you have returned! Aye, look at you-hard as the steel at your Belt.”
“Father!” Elphin and Gwyddno hugged each other. “It is good to see you.”
“You smell like a horse, my boy.”
“And you have been drinking all my beer!”
“Not a drop, sob.” Gwyddno winked. “I brought my own!”
“Sit down, Father, sit down. We will eat together.”
“No, no, I will go along. Your mother will have cooked something up for my supper.”
“I will not hear it.” Elphin turned and called to the girl. “Shelagh, run and fetch Medhir. We will all eat at my table tonight. I want my family together. Run, girl, get her. Whatever she has cooked, fetch it along as well.”
“I would have ordered a feast if I thought you wanted it,” said Gwyddno. “There should be a feast when the warband returns.”
“We will celebrate the warband’s return later. Tonight a man wants to be with his own.” Elphin pulled Rhonwyn to him and gave her a squeeze and a peck on the cheek. She handed him a silver-rimmed horn filled with beer and pushed him toward the table. He sipped while she took the red cloak from his shoulder and unbuckled the stiff leather breastplate.
Taliesin burst into the room just then and flew straight to his father. “Tell me everything you did!” he shouted. “Everything! I want to hear it all!”
Elphin laughed and scooped the boy up. “I will talk until your ears fall off then, shall I?”
“Not until after you have all eaten,” put in Rhonwyn.
“Your mother is right,” said Elphin. “Talking can wait-there is eating to be done.”
Shelagh returned with Medhir on her heels, both of them bearing platters of food: braised potatoes, spiced po
rk in heavy broth, and fresh-baked barley cakes. Medhir put her platter on the table and turned to her son, hugging him as he held Taliesin. “You are home and sound, Elphin. I am glad of that. It seems a year at least since I have seen you.”
“I am glad to be back in one piece, Mother. Is that spiced pork I smell?”
“You know it is. Sit down and let me fill your bowl.”
Elphin, Taliesin, and Gwyddno sat down together, Elphin at the head of the table, Taliesin beside him. The women hovered around them and when the men were well supplied, they filled their own bowls and sat down too.
“Ah, it is so good! On my life, a woman’s touch with a pot is sorely missed north of the Wall.” Elphin lifted his bowl and drained the last of the broth, then tore off a hunk of bread, put it in his bowl, dipped more meat out of the pot, and ladled broth over all. He smacked his lips and tucked in again.
They ate and drank and talked of the events of the village over the summer. When they had finished, the women cleared the dishes and refilled the jars. Taliesin, who had endured the idle chatter as long as he could, fairly writhed in agony and said, “Now will you tell us what happened? Did you fight the Picti? Did you kill any? Did the Romans ride with you?”
“Yes, yes,” said Elphin lightly. “I promised to tell all and I will. Let me get settled here.” He took a sip from his horn, wiped foam from his mustache. “Much better,” he said and began.
“Well now, we joined the legion at Caer Seiont, like we always do. This time, however, I was shocked to learn that the garrison is down to three hundred men-and most of them foot soldiers with no idea which end of a horse gets the oats. Avitus is gone, ordered to Gaul, and Maximus has been made tribune.
“Maximus-now there is a leader for you! He can do more with his three hundred than that sloven Ulpius can do with all two thousand of his!”
“The legion from Eboracum joined you then?” asked Gwyddno.
“They sent fifty. That was all the horses they could spare-so they said.”
“Three hundred.” Gwyddno shook his head in dismay. “A governor’s bodyguard, never a legion!”
“I spoke to Maximus about it. He says there is nothing to be done. He has even written to Imperator Constantius but expects no relief. It is the same elsewhere: Caer Legionis, Virulamium, Londinium… Luguvallium on the Wall itself is down to four hundred, and only seventy cavalry.”
“But why?” wondered Rhonwyn. “It makes no sense. The Picti take more every year and the Romans empty our garrisons.”
“The Picti are not as bad as the Saecsen from what I hear,” answered Elphin. “And it’s the Saecsen making all the trouble in Gaul. Maximus says that if we do not fight them there, we will have to fight them here.”
“Better there than here,” remarked Gwyddno.
“What about the fighting?” demanded Taliesin. “I want to hear about the fighting.”
“Yes, my bloodthirsty lad. I am getting to the fighting. Well, we assembled at Luguvallium and rode north. Like last year, I took only one centurion with me-Longinus, the Thra-cian; he was part of Augustus’ ala and rides like he is part horse himself. Anyway, our third day out we encountered a band of Picti, a hundred strong they were. Took them by surprise in a gorse dingle west of the Celyddon Forest. They did not have time to organize an attack and most of them ran. We surrounded the rest before they could even notch their accursed arrows and took their leaders almost without struggle.”
“And then what happened?”
“We let them go.”
“Let them go!” Taliesin spun on his father’s lap. “Why?”
“Because we wanted them to go back and tell their people that it was useless to fight against us, that they Belonged north of the Wall and would not be harmed as long as they stayed on that side.”
“Do you think they understood?” asked Rhonwyn.
“They understood that we did not kill them and easily could have. My guess is that they will return to their camps in disgrace and their own people will kill them.”
Medhir sucked in her breath. “Beasts they are.”
“For the Picti, death is nothing. They welcome it. When they die, their spirits are loosed to fly away like birds, which is what they want anyway, that freedom. Better to die than live even a moment in disgrace. When one of their chiefs falls in battle, his men turn their knives on themselves rather than return home without him.”
“The woman is right-they are animals,” muttered Gwyddno. “Nothing but thieving animals.”
“Oh, aye, they are natural thieves-easy as breathing to them,” agreed Elphin. “But they do not think of it as stealing. They keep no property or goods themselves and have no idea of owning anything. Whatever one has, Belongs to all- wives, children, horses, dogs-everything. They laugh at us for planting fields and growing grain.”
“They are quick enough to steal it though,” put in Medhir.
“Only because they cannot get it any other way.”
“Let them grow their own grain and raise their own cattle!” Medhir cried. “They can plant and harvest like we do.”
“They hold no land, Mother. Besides, planting would mean staying in one place and they could never bear that. They roam; they follow the wind. It means more than life to them.”
“Strange men they are then,” muttered Medhir.
“What of their women?” wondered Rhonwyn. “Are they as bad?”
“As bad or worse. A woman will take as many husbands as she pleases. They reckon no parentage; children Belong to the clan. And if she has no children to care for, she paints herself with woad and goes into battle with the men. You can hear their wild screams from one end of those lonely hills to the other.”
Elphin took another long draught of his beer and replaced the horn. “Still and all,” he continued, “we met only the one band all summer. There are a few Novantae villages on the coast up there and the people say they have been seeing the Picti on the hill tracks, traveling north, always north.”
“Maybe they have given up at last,” said Rhonwyn.
“Not likely,” remarked Gwyddno.
“I cannot say.” Elphin shook his head slowly. “My gut says no.” He brightened and announced. “Anyway, we will not ride next year. I told Maximus, and he agrees, the Picti seem to have withdrawn, so there is little point in running the hooves off our horses all summer. We will stay home and tend to our own affairs.”
“Wonderful!” cried Rhonwyn, jumping up and throwing her arms around Elphin’s neck. “To have you here… Oh, but what will I do with you underfoot a whole year?”
“We will think of something, lady wife.” He pulled her close and kissed her.
“Good to have you home, son,” said Gwyddno, rising slowly. “But I am for my bed. Come on, woman,” he told Medhir, “I am tired.” They shuffled out together.
Elphin contemplated the boy snuggled in his arms. “Here is another one for bed.”
Shelagh, who had been listening from her corner at the hearth, approached, and Elphin stood and handed her the sleeping Taliesin; he bent and kissed the golden head. “Sleep well, my son.”
Rhonwyn slipped her arm around Elphin’s waist. “Come, husband,” she whispered, “let us to bed as well.”
CHAPTER THREE
The dawn held all the promise of the day’s heat although the sun had not yet risen. The wind was out of the north, dry, bearing the woody smell of arid land. Charis awoke and knew at once what kind of day it would be. By the time the stadium doors opened and the throngs began pushing their way to their seats the sun would be a hot, white flame in an eggshell sky. The sand of the ring would burn underfoot; the bulls would be edgy and unpredictable, the crowd ill-tempered, hard to please.
It was a day that welcomed disaster.
Therefore, Charis would make certain the Gulls were ready. They would breakfast well on figs and honey, flatbread and smoked fish, sliced meat, milk, nuts, dates, porridge, and tea, and no one would be allowed to leave the table until all had
eaten heartily and well. They would don practice clothes and troop into the empty stadium to stretch their muscles and rehearse.
When all were limber, Charis would call them together and they would begin planning the day’s dance. She already had them paired in her mind: Joet and Galai would take the first bull; their solid performance would settle the younger dancers. Kalili, Junoi, and Peronn would dance next-Junoi would benefit from her partners’ experience and would be less at risk. Belissa and Marophon could be depended upon to turn in a spirited performance under any circumstance, but she would choose a bull for them that would not give them trouble, a steady grandsire of the ring-Yellowhorn perhaps, or Broadhump.
For herself? Galai would join her, and then Belissa. The three of them would perform the routine they had prepared for the Temple Festival last season-an inspired dance that had not been performed since. It drove the crowd mad with delight.
And then?
Charis would take the last bull alone. The routine? There would be none set. Today she would dance for the god, for Bel alone. The movements would come to her as she danced, she would follow her instincts, she would dance her heart and soul. She would dance her last. They all would.
The others would not know this, could not know until it was over. Then she would tell them. Not before. They would not understand and the news would unsettle them; their rhythm would suffer and maybe so would they. Life in the ring hung by the slenderest of threads. The blink of an eye, a misplaced hand, a fleeting lapse of concentration and the thread was severed. These thoughts filled her mind as she rose and pulled on a light shift, washed, and went to the dancer’s lodgings.
Morning was but a rumor in the east as Charis walked across the square of green that separated her lodgings from those of the others. Her dancers were still asleep. Charis went to the pump that stood beside the path. The pump was shaped like a dolphin; she took the creature’s tail in hand and worked it up and down until water came sloshing up sweet and cold to pour into the brass basin which stood on a tripod beneath its snout.
That done, she turned to the first door, knocked gently, and pushed the door open. “Galai,” she whispered, shaking the young woman gently by the shoulder, “wake up.”
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