The Greener Shore (38 page)

“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

“W
E 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 his 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.

My imagination threatened to show me what he might have done. Shuddering, I fought back the impulse.

By this time the two of us had reached what was, obviously, the Black Pool: a large pond formed by the convergence of two smaller rivers flowing from the south and west into the Liffey. The pool was a major resource for Rígan’s people, providing not only fresh drinking water—the tidal Liffey was salt by this point, and undrinkable—but also a secure mooring for boats in need of repair. The Black Pool took its name from the mud on which it was bedded, a clay so dark it denied light to the water. Oddly, the pond did not stink like the mudflats elsewhere. The water here had a clean, sweet smell.