Druids (22 page)

DRUIDS 133

I lay down to sleep she came into my arms like a gift, and I was glad.

The act of sex did not leave me sleepy and dulled. Even without magic it burnished me. Afterward my thoughts ran clear and strong.

As we neared the pass that would take us from the Province back into free Gaul, a troop of Roman cavalry intercepted us.

“Where are you going with that woman?” the captain demanded.

“She is a slave I purchased,” I answered honestly.

“Is she? Or are you trying to steal her? Let’s see your docu-ments.”

“I, ah, bumed them,” I admitted, feeling my ears redden.

The Roman sneered—an expression that is twice as ugly on a shaven face. “You burned your proof of ownership? Isn’t that a pity. We’ll have to confiscate this obviously stolen property, then, and I think you had better come along too, they’ll be wanting to talk to you about—”

“I think not,” said Vercingetorix.

He spoke in the Arvemian tongue, but his meaning was clear enough. The Roman officer swung round on his horse to look at him.

Vercingetorix grinned.

Swifter than my eye could follow, he thrust a hand into the pack on the mule, behind Lakutu. Then, as nimbly as if dancing a pattern, he darted among the cavalry. Wherever there was an

opening he slid through, and I caught the flash of sunlight on the jeweled hilt of his father’s sword.

Men screamed and tumbled from their horses.

With an oath, the captain lashed his own horse forward and tried to intercept Rix, only to have one of his legs half-severed above the knee by a terrible downward stroke of the Arvemian’s blade. The man fell, spouting blood. His warriors tried valiantly to continue the fight, but Rix was too agile and their efforts were hampered by their own horses; one turned left and another turned right and a third reared, blocking the way.

With a cry of glee, Tarvos sprang forward to join the attack. The mule was braying, Hanesa and Baroc were shouting, and I longed for a weapon to wield myself. But there was no need. Appalled by the unexpected ferocity of the barbarians, the surviving horsemen fled.

There had been twelve of them. Seven were now cooling meat.

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Rix was scarcely breathing hard. Tarvos was aglow. “Good fight!” he told me.

Rix did not put his sword back in the pack on die mule. With an air of satisfaction he thrust it through his belt and kept it there.

Sometimes action is more productive than thought-And battle can be an art.

We hurried northward, through the mountains, hoping to out-distance pursuit once the remainder of the cavalry raised the alarm. I hardly allowed our band to stop for rest before I had them mov-ing again; I could feel hot Roman breath on the back of my neck. Day and night blurred.

Rix was unconcerned, I think he hoped they would catch up with us.

A cold wind sang through the passes, promising winter in the midst of autumn. Huny, my head urged my feet. Hurry home.

By the time we reached the edge of free Gaul, bad weather was brewing. We were still in the hills when a savage storm attacked us with lashing rain-We struggled northward through deepening mud. Traversing me mountains had been relatively easy, thanks to the Roman roads, but in free Gaul there was no Roman road. Our pace slowed to a crawl.

Lakutu was terrified of the storm. She cowered atop the mule like a beaten dog, shielding her head with folded aims and moaning to herself. We were picking our way down a steep incline when lightning crackled too close for comfort, singeing the air.

Lakutu gave a shriek of mortal terror. The mule bolted, tearing me lead rope from Baroc’s hand. We all joined him in pursuit as me animal careered off down the hillside, bucking and snorting, with Lakutu clinging to the pack straps and screaming every jump

of the way.

Taranis the thunder god roared and bellowed in the sky; angri-est of all the faces of the Source.

WE FOLLOWED LAKUTU by her screaming, which at least told us she was still alive. We slipped and slid and fell in mud and swore at woman and mule impartially. At last we found ourselves on a grassy plateau where the mule had come to a halt and stood regarding our approach with the cynical expression common to its tribe. Then it lowered its head and began to graze as if nothing had happened.

At once Lakutu gave a final, piercing shriek, released her hold on the pack straps, and fell off.

Though she was quite unhurt, nothing would induce her to remount. For its part the mule would not let her anywhere near it again. There was nothing for it but she must walk with us, sodden and shivering, and we would have to adjust our pace to hers.

“At least she isn’t screaming anymore,’* Hanesa said thankfully.

I would spare no time for visiting in druid groves. As we passed through increasingly familiar countryside, we paused to sample local hospitality, but only briefly; for the most part we hurried on at the best speed we could manage.

Baroc complained, of course. Hanesa kept us entertained with reminiscences of a Province he had obviously seen, but which the rest of us did not remember at all,

Rix needed no urging. As we neared the land of the Arvemi, me call of home grew stronger in him, even though he had no idea what sort of welcome he would receive.

Potomarus might still want him dead.

“Don’t take a chance on going into Gergovia until you know me situation,” I said. “You are welcome to come all the way home with me, for that matter. I know Menua would be glad to see you.”

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“Gergovia is my home. I*ve been away too long already.”

“I know, but…”

Rix set his jaw. “It’s time to face whatever awaits me,” he said. “I won’t run.” He held out his big hands and flexed them deliberately, calling my attention to the webs of scar tissue and the asymmetrical muscle development of his sword hand. “I’m a warrior,” he said simply.

Now he was stone; there was no use arguing with him. I was disappointed that he would not go on with me. Perhaps I had let myself make too much of our friendship, I thought. I wanted Rix to be attached to me. Something in me longed to tame the hawk.

And that same something would not value any hawk that let itself be tamed.

So we construct the impossibilities that torture us.

“Then let us come into Gergovia with you so you have allies at your side as you arrive,” I urged.

Rix grinned. “Tarvos already suggested it. He itches for another battle at my side, I think.”

‘“farvos takes a lot on himself.”

“Don’t be angry with him for that, Ainvar.”

I shook my head ruefully. “I’m not. I never can be, really.”

Rix gave me one of those penetrating looks that went to the center of a person, “Friendship isn’t conditional with you, is it?”

He was more than a warrior, Vercingetorix was an excellent reader of men. “No,” I told him.

“Most people give their affection conditionally, except mothers, perhaps. They just don’t admit it.”

“And you?”

He lifted his chin and stared past me, into his own center. “I don’t know,” he admitted.

“You’re honest, at least.”

“Yes,” murmured Rix, still musing. “I am that.” He made it sound like a failing.

We accompanied him to the gates of Gergovia, where a surprised sentry admitted us after a few moments’ hesitation and a brief conference with his superior officer. My companions and I—with the exception ofLakutu—were once more dressed in Celtic clothing, and I had the gold triskele prominently displayed on my breast. We were travelwom and sunburned, however, and Lakutu forming part of our group was enough to attract considerable attention. Those who did not stare at the returning Vercingetorix stared at her.

Rix had set aside his disguise as my bodyguard and entered a

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few paces ahead of us, proud head held high. I had Tarvos walk at his shoulder, spear at the ready, and though I did not know if I would remember how to use it, I held Tarvos’s shortsword in my own hand. If there was an attempt made on Rix, his life would cost dearly.

“Everyone’s watching us,” I heard Hanesa say under his breath.

“Ignore them. Look as if you belong here.”

“I do, I was bom here. But… (he air feels different now.”

I knew what he meant. We waded through tension as if through water.

Gergovia was more massive and more impressive than Cenabum, but my recent travels had made me less easy to impress. I noted, with admiration, the walls and banks, the numerous spacious lodges, the planked walkways like bridges over the ubiquitous autumn mud. The smell of adzed timber was familiar, the colorful clothing of the inhabitants warmed my eyes. But fresh from the Province, I could appreciate the difference between Ro-man style and that of free Gaul. We were stronger, rougher, more vivid.

More alive.

“Barbarians,” I whispered to myself with satisfaction.

A brown-bearded man who obviously knew Rix came trotting up to him. “We are glad to welcome the son of Celtillus!” he cried, seizing my friend and hugging him.

Rix held himself aloof. ‘ ‘Do you speak for Potomarus?”

The other man hesitated. “He’s not here now, he’s skirmishing with the Lemovices.”

Rix smiled his half-smile. “So you’re my friend, Geron, as long as the king isn’t around?”

Geron was indignant- “I am always your friend,” he said stoutly.

“I don’t recall your speaking up when Celtillus was murdered.*’

Geron had bright eyes and the face of an earnest water rat. “Ah, Vercingetorix, don’t biame me. What can one man do?”

“Yes, What can one man do?” Rix walked past him and the rest of us followed.

Geron fell in behind us. Another man joined him, then another. Soon Vercingetorix was leading a crowd.

He halted before a lodge where a bedraggled banner of yellow and blue sagged on a pole. * “This was my father’s lodge, Ainvar.” He fingered the weather-frayed fabric. “This was his standard.”

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“No one has lived here since his death,” someone said from the crowd.

Rix turned to face them. “How could they? It is mine now.”

He swung open the door, ducked his head beneath the lintel, and entered as if he had never been away.

That night the lodge was so packed with people we needed no fire for warmth, but the women of Rix’s clan built one anyway and brought us food. Warriors who had admired Celdllus came crowding in to greet his son—and to complain about Potomarus, who was proving to be a weak king-

“He loses more battles than he wins,” they claimed. “We’ve taken no plunder from our neighbors all season. The only reason he’s gone to attack me Lemovices is because anyone can defeat them.’*

“Why aren’t you with him?” I wanted to know.

A warrior, who looked as if he had lost an ear to a sword, replied, “We’re princes and free men, we follow whom we please.”

“I understand, but these are dangerous times to have divisions in the tribe,” I said, thinking of the Aedui.

At that moment Rix began speaking as if his words came on the breath I had drawn. He took over from me so smoothly I was hardly aware of the transition myself. “Let me tell you what I learned in the Province,” he said, leaning forward on his bench by the firepit and gathering his listeners with his eyes. Then he launched into a thorough and detailed explanation of Caesar’s plan as I had told it to him during our journey homeward.

Nothing I had said to him had been lost. It was all carved in his memory and repeated almost word for word. I heard the thoughts of my mind from the lips of Vercingetorix.

He put flesh and fire into my theory; he infected his audience with fear and passion. “We are free men!” he told them. “No Roman can creep into our land by cunning and subterfuge and steal it from us, not if we stand together against him. We must not be deceived by Caesar and his tricks, but know him for the enemy he is.”

He gave me no credit but I did not expect it. I was nothing to these men, merely an apprentice druid from another, and sometimes enemy, tribe. But Rix was one of their own, and if he won their respect they would be his from now on.

I caught the eye of Hanesa, who was sitting across the fire from me, and knew what he was thinking. He was as proud of Rix as I was-An angry, grieving boy had left with us, but a man had

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returned, a persuasive man with natural leadership and the voice of authority. He took what I had painstakingly pieced together as if he had every right to take and use it for his own purposes. And I surrendered it to him gladly, proud to be part of what was being

born in Gergovia that night.

The meeting lasted until we heard, beyond the walls of the lodge, the Arvemian druids singing the song for the sun.

I was so embarrassed at missing me sacred moment mat I ran from the lodge. In my haste I did not listen to the final words being spoken, but my memory stored them and repeated them to me when the sunrise ritual was over.

Rix had been telling the others, “The Germans are better friends to us than the Romans.”

I went back to him, intent on an explanation for those words. The others had gone. Hanesa was snoring in a carved bedbox, and Tarvos and Baroc lay wrapped in their cloaks on the floor, also sleeping.

Rix was still awake. His face was flushed, his eyes gleamed. “They listened to everything I said, Ainvar. They were impressed, could you tell? They told me I had a grasp on the situation that Potomarus did not. They will be back and bring others to hear me, and by the time Potomarus returns I ‘11 have half the tribe won away from him, convinced that he’s a dangerous fool and I am wise beyond my years. He wont dare throw me out then. If he’s as weak as I think, he’ll start courting my favor.”

Seeing him aglow in the firelight, with his strength around him like a mantle of goid, I knew me Arvemians would flock to him. He was young and gorgeous and full of confidence; he would draw them as honey draws bears-

“Rix, what did you mean by saying me Germans were your friends?”

He was momentarily caught off stride, but he recovered so swiftly only a druid would have recognized the uncertain shimmer in the air around him. “Just talk, Ainvar. Just talk.”