Druids (39 page)

“A victory for nature over paving stones,” I commented. Cotuatus looked baffled. One could wish he had a better head, but : at least he was born of a kingly line and was smart enough not to mistake me Romans for friends.

He crouched beside us until I had filled my eyes with the winter ^ camp, then we slithered back down the hill together and my group ,.; went to join his in the distant woodland. ^ I told him of my conversation with Tasgetius, and he told me

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what he had learned of the Romans. “They threw up this camp in an incredibly short time, even working through the night by torchlight. They have their own ditchers, surveyors, smiths, carpenters—fighting men who are also trained to do all necessary construction work. They can build anything wherever they need it. They’re like tortoises who carry everything they need with them, Ainvar. Every legionary has, in addition to his weapons, a saw, an ax, a sickle, a chain, rope, a spade, and a basket. And a straw mattress, though they don’t do much sleeping. They’re up at first light, drilling. Their drills are like bloodless battles.”

Rix, who had made a point of observing Roman drills in the more pacified Province, had told me the same thing. In these drills there was none of the spontaneity of Celtic warfare that encouraged individual acts of bravery and style, there was only regi-mentation and repetition, wearing deep grooves of behavior into the men of the legions so they would behave the same way every time, in every circumstance.

Therein might lie a weakness. I must remember to suggest this to Rix.

That night we held a cold conference beneath the winter stars. We did not light a. fire for fear of alerting the Romans, but we were safe enough among me trees. As we sat, huddled and shivering, while the wind sang, Cotuatus remarked, “I wish I had one of those hardy women who was willing to bathe in the river today to keep me warm tonight.” He turned to his cousin with a chuckle. “You have no wife, Conco; why don’t we take one of them back with us to Cenabum?”

Conconnetodumnus replied, “They’re daughters of a farming clan. I’d rather have a warrior woman, a wife suitable for a prince.”

“Any woman who can bathe in an icy cold river in the dead of winter is suitable for a prince,” Cotuatus argued. He was beginning to take the matter seriously, I saw that once he fixed onto something he held on. ‘ ‘We could circle the Roman camp and go down to them in the morning, then—”

“You may not be able to go back to Cenabum yourselves,” I interjected, “never mind taking a wife with you for Conco.”

There was startled silence in the darkness. Then Cotuatus said, “Why shouldn’t we go back to Cenabum? The Romans haven’t seen us. We’ve learned what we want to know about mem but they know nothing of us.”

“I approve the idea of spying on the invaders,” I said, “but Tasgetius won’t. He’s begun calling Caesar ‘friend.’ If he learns

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what you’ve done it’s within his authority—and his character—to bar the gates of Cenabum to you. *’

Conco cleared his throat with a sound like mud gurgling among pebbles. “How could he find out? We left the town very quietly before dawn, bringing only a few men with us, and we told no one what we intended.”

“No one but your own men,” I contradicted. Reluctantly, I explained about Crom Daral. Where he was involved I felt both responsibility and guilt. Crom Daral always infected me with guilt, that most corrosive and unnatural of emotions. Neither fems nor foxes know guilt. Crom spun a web of guilt, the stuff that trapped those who most wanted to like him, ultimately making affection impossible.

Cotuatus was angry. “If the man is that small-spirited I should have been warned. Ainvar, why didn’t you tell me this would happen?”

“I didn’t know; I certainly didn’t anticipate this particular situation.”

“You should have. You’re a druid.”

I gathered myself into myself. “Are you questioning me, Cotuatus?”

He hesitated, fumbling among memories of pain. “I … ah … no.”

“Good. Now listen to me. When we return to Cenabum— without a woman for you, Conco, we can’t afford to be burdened right now—we’ll make camp some distance away and send my Tarvos to the town to find out what’s happened. How many supporters have you within the walls?”

In the gloom I saw the two princes turn toward each other. “Between us,” Cotuatus spoke, “at least half the population of Cenabum. Perhaps more.”

“An uprising against the king must come from the people, from a maJority of the people,” I stressed, “and not from the Order. If you go to earth outside of Cenabum and send word, have you enough followers to take care of Tasgetius?”

“You think we’ll find the gates barred to us, don’t you?”

“It might be the ideal opportunity,” I said. “An act on the part of Tasgetius that would bring about a natural, and from our point of view desirable, result. Without meaning to, Crom Daral may have given us Just what we need. I assume your followers would be very upset at any barring order against you?”

Conco laughed. “I promise you that!”

Before the sun rose, we were on our way back to Cenabum. I

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waited until we were far from die Roman camp before singing the song for the sun, but then I sang it full-throated and the warriors joined in as we rode.

We made a hidden camp some distance from the stronghold and sent Tarvos in alone. For all his size and strength, the Bull could appear innocuous. He had a gift, as I had observed before, of being able to saunter through any crowd without being noticed simply because he seemed so casual, so uninvolved.

He returned to us with sparkling eyes. “Crom Daral told, all right. Tasgetius was furious. Cenabum is officially forbidden to the princes Cotuatus and Conconnetodumnus.”

“How are the people responding?”

Tarvos grinned. “With a buzz, like a disturbed nest of hornets. The traders take the king’s side, of course, and accuse Cotuatus and Conco of every sort of villainy. Though Tasgetius has barred them from the town, he has not explained the reason why, so I, ah, did that myself. I visited several people I know and informed mem of me Roman camp set up in our own territory, and told them these two brave princes here had gone to spy on the treacherous invaders. The invaders the king had made welcome.”

I clapped the Bull on the shoulder. “Tarvos, you’re a treasure!”

Embarrassed, he ducked his bead and scuffed his toe in the

dirt. “That uprising you wanted is under way, Ainvar,” he muttered. * ‘I had litde to do with it. Tasgetius brought it on himself.”

“We all had something to do with it, Tarvos. Even Crom Daral. Most important, Crom Daral-” I could not help laughing.

I gave Cotuatus his instructions. “You will remain here for now, and I shall go back to the grove to be as far from events as possible, so no one will accuse the Order of being involved. Send word to your followers that you support an uprising against Tasgetius and are just waiting for them to overcome him and open the gates of Cenabum to you again.

“When that happens, of course, it will mean Tasgetius is no longer king. Shout the word, summon me elders. I shall convene me Order and we will prepare to elect a new king, one who will not give away our land.”

We had hidden in a woodland. I walked a little distance away from the others and stood silently for a time, feeling me trees around me. Exulting. My patience had been rewarded. With me unlikely Crom Daral as its hub, the wheel of events had turned until the right set of circumstances occurred. Soon I would be able to inform Rut that the heartland of Gaul was securely behind him.

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Before any human agency could inform me, I would know. The wind would cany the message; the earth would tell me when Tasgetius was no longer king. As man shouts from valley to valley, me trees shout silently to one another, even over great distances. In the sacred grove I would hear; I would know when the deed was done.

Druids know.

Leaving Cotuatus and Conco waiting tensely for news from Cenabum, my bodyguard and I rode for the Fort of the Grove—

Along the way a prickling began at the base of my spine. I began urging my horse faster, feeling apprehension building. We did not stop for rest, but destroyed a second set of horses by riding furiously; yet even then we were too late.

As we entered the open gates of the fort, and my people ran forward to greet us, I scanned their faces and saw that too many were missing. Briga, Lakutu, Damona … most of the women.

I turned my horse and rode back to me watchtower. “Where are the women?” I shouted up at the sentry.

He scanned the horizon. “They should be back by now… .”

“Where are they?”

“They went with Grannus to sing a song to the vines, to protect mem from the frost spirit.”

“Did they take guards with them?”

He looked down at me with a puzzled frown. “Why should they? They were only going to the vineyard down me river, no great distance.”

The vineyard!

We had come to love our vines. Their spraddling, awkward shapes were beautiful to us, because we had trained them to those shapes to enable the sun to reach every cluster of fruit. Stems that were gnarted and twisted but obedient to our design delighted our eyes. Green and new. their leaves were touchingly tender. In their harvest colors of gold and yellow and almost red, they were like

jewels.

Our first harvest of the immature vines had taken place following a wet summer, which had caused the soil to be too acid and produced sour fruit and wine that was hardly drinkable. We learned from our mistakes. The droids made all the necessary sacrifices to assure that the next summer would be hot and dry. The grapes we harvested then were as sweet as honey, and the wine was superb.

Breathing the air at grape harvest, with its heavy scent of ripe fruit, was like breathing wine. People paused in their labors to

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exchange glances, sniff, smile. From sandy and grudging soil they were taking a powerful magic.

The grapes were harvested now. The wine was pressed and waiting. But tending the vines did not cease; they must be given all the love we could bestow to protect them as they slept and prepare them to produce again. And again.

Because they were best at caring, women tended the vines.

You had to boast to Tasgetius about the vines, my head accused me. And he has had enough time to …

“Come on!” I yelled at Tarvos. Wheeling my weary horse, I kicked him and galloped out the gale, calling to the sentry as I passed, “Summon every man you can to follow me! And hurry!”

Tarvos never questioned, never hesitated. Even as the startled sentry was shouting orders and the members of my bodyguard, who had begun dismounting, were trying to hold their horses still long enough to allow diem to scramble on again, Tarvos was galloping at my side.

Skirting the ridge where the grove stood, we followed die river. A vineyard had been established on the far bank of the Autura, where a sheltered bend trapped and held the sun’s wannth. As we approached, the view was obscured by me trees snuggling near me water on our side of the river, but then the Autura made her turning and the scene opened out before us.

Someone—perhaps Tarvos, perhaps I—gave a shout of rage.

The Romans were there.

A century of warriors led by a mounted centurion had invaded our young vines. Theirs was no simple scouting party. Most of them were legionaries, cleariy identified by meir uniforms. They wore identical bronze helmets with snug leather skullcaps beneath to cushion the head from blows, and upper-body armor of metal plates fastened together with learner straps to give mobility of arm and shoulder. They were armed with thrusting swords, daggers, and two spears each, and carried round, iron-rimmed shields of wood covered with learner.

Accompanying these professional killers were auxiliaries armed with deadly leather slings and bags of stones. The whole mass was sweeping through our vineyard with implacable purpose, driving our women ahead of them and trampling and destroying the young vines.

“Lakutu!” Tarvos screamed, catching sight of her.

The Romans heard him. The centurion reined in his horse, turned toward us, raised his arm in a signal. The auxiliaries, who were in front as was customary, immediately began firing stones

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from their slings, some toward us and some toward the hapless women in front of them. The missiles hurled at us fell short, falling harmlessly into the water, but I saw several women throw up their hands and fall. One stone hit a giri’s head with such force that blood spurted from her nose and ears.

The kicking I had given my horse before was nothing compared to now. He plunged into the river with a frantic bound, sending up a terrific splash. Tarvos was right behind me. The rest of my bodyguard was only a few strides farther away.

We must have looked laughable, a dozen men attacking a Ro-man century. But we were not just men, we were Celts.

And those were Celtic women trying futilely to find some shelter among the bare rows of vines. When they saw us coming to their aid, they stopped running and crouching and stood tall, yelling their own war cries. They seized stones and dirt and even ripped up grapestakes to hurl at the foreigners. Their spirited assault was as unexpected as our own, and between us we took Caesar’s century by surprise.

The auxiliaries, who were neither as trained nor as disciplined as the legionaries, hesitated. The centurion on his horse bellowed an angry command, but the men with slings could not decide whether to continue shooting stones at us and at the women, or to fall back before our advance. As a result, they tightened into a confused knot, causing a perceptible loss of Roman momentum.

I dared glance over my shoulder. Tarvos was still right behind me, galloping through the water which was, because of the sea-son, no deeper than our horses’ knees. Behind him a few paces were the other members of my bodyguard, and in the distance I

could see a dark moving clot, which must be warriors from the fort hurrying to our rescue. If we could survive until they arrived, we had a chance.