The Fox (35 page)

“Boy, I need to gather some things to use after we get you out.”

He did not seem to understand. “I am going up the hill.” I pointed first to me and then the hill. He shook his head rapidly. Although I did not know the language, I could tell he was scared and thought I would leave him. Tears poured freely down his thin cheeks.

“I will be back, boy. Shhh. I am going up here to find the best branches from this bush.” He calmed and did not cry as much. He seemed to understand I would help him.

I walked over to him. “Stand here,” I motioned, “just out of the way of the boulder. I do not want it to roll over you and create new wounds.” He whimpered as he moved but bravely scooted as much as his trapped arm would let him.

“Yes. That is perfect. Do not move.” I moved around the stone to the spot I had picked to push against the boulder that pinned him.

When his arm was freed, he fell unconscious again. I placed the branches on either side of his arm and wrapped the strips I had torn from my shirt around them. His arm was secure and would not move. If he were lucky, the bone would mend and he would still have use of his hand.

When he awoke, I gave him more water. We were near a bag that I assumed was his. I looked inside, and it contained a small amount of hard, black bread. “Boy, you have some food in here. Would you like something to eat?” I put my hand to my mouth as if eating and he nodded. He had some rough bread so I tore off a small piece and gave it to him. He drank a bit more and then fell back to sleep.

I captured a sheep and brought it near us. I tied it to the bush and nicked its neck with my dirk. I used the bread the boy had to soak up as much blood as it would hold. The sheep’s wound closed, and I carried the bread to the boy. He woke again.

“Eat. It will give you energy.” The bread was softer from the blood, and he chewed and swallowed almost all of it before he fell back to sleep. I sat until it grew cold and knew we should find a place to rest for the night.

I put his pack in mine, gathered him into my arms, and carried him to a copse of trees. We had shelter and I layered dry leaves to help keep away the damp cold. He sat on my lap, both of us wrapped in my cloak. I did not risk a fire, but we were warm. I thanked the gods it was not raining. We slept uneasily until daylight broke over the hills. His skin was hot, a sign the spirits in his body were fighting. I carried him toward my enemy.

At mid-day, I reached the top of a hill. Below us were tents. A Roman warrior camp. The air was filled with dust and noise. My breath stopped and my heart rose to my throat. I turned to go down the backside of the hill, but a man stood behind me. His glare and the sword in his hand caused me to stop.

The gods wanted me to meet the Romans now, no matter what my heart thought. With threatening motions and harsh sounding words, he ushered me to the camp.

C
HAPTER
19

LOVERN

82 AD F
EBRUARY
, M
ARCH

The Roman’s sword prodded me in the shoulder and guided me to the edge of the encampment as I carried the unconscious boy. The soldier’s words were the same sounds I had heard long ago but did not understand.

He pushed me into a tent that smelled of blood, smoke, and healing herbs. Relieved, I nodded my head in recognition as I tripped into the dark space. The Roman yelled something at me and then left. The sun let in through the open tent flap sent a quick shaft of light past me. Then, as it fell back into place, I stood in darkness holding the boy. I knew better than to try to leave.

In a breath’s time, the tent flap was lifted again and a small, fat man peered in. Not a warrior, he wore a long, dirt-striped grey cloth I had heard called a toga. Before he came completely in, he reached up on his toes and fastened the tent flap up on both sides so sunlight penetrated the smoky room. In front of me, in the middle of the space, was a waist high table. Three low cots hugged the edge. A water bucket and a lit blazer were near the back of the tent. Tools used to treat wounds were laid out on the table in two rows. I recognized the iron needle used to pull the gut threads to close a wound.

The small man limped to the table and said something to me in the Roman language. When I did not react, he threw his arms up into the air, said a few words to himself, and pointed to the large table. He motioned me to lay the boy down.

I took him to be the Roman’s healer, so I gently laid the boy on the blood-stained table and backed up until my knees were against a cot. I became a mouse and squatted just out of the man’s sight.

To examine the boy’s wounds, he undressed him and gently, but confidently, probed the thin body. The boy woke and cried. The bald man was able to quiet him and asked him questions. The boy spoke and pointed to me. The man turned and looked at me for a moment. He walked over to the bucket, lifted a mug of water from it, and opened a small chest. He lifted out a jar, poured a drop of liquid into the mug, and handed it to the boy. He motioned him to drink. The boy took a sip and spit it out, earning some harsh words. He looked at the healer, who stood with his hands on his hips, a stern look balanced on his long-nosed face, and swallowed. His face pinched from the bitterness of the liquid.

The man continued to inspect the splint I put on the boy’s arm. He asked the boy questions. The boy answered a few but was soon quiet.
The medicine he drank must aid sleep,
I thought. The man took off the splint and examined the boy’s arm. From where I sat, I could see the broken bone, a bump in the boy’s skinny arm. I was not going to speak until I knew I could trust the healer.

“Did you make this splint?”

Startled, I fell off my heels onto my bottom. In this humbled position, I stared at the short man. If I had been standing, the top of his head would come to my mouth, but now I looked up. He spoke in words I could understand!

I pushed myself up off the ground.

“I asked you, did you splint this arm?”

“Yes,” I said with caution.

“How do you know to do this? There are men who have been in many battles who do not know to do this.”

“I am an observant man.”

“Observant? Observant means you must have been around someone who knows this treatment. Do you also know how to set the arm so it will heal straight?”

If I answered, I would be admitting to being a healer. I had to find out if I would be safe telling the man who I was.

“How do you know my language? You speak it like one who lived in my village,” I asked.

“I had a life before the Romans,” he said. “I was a healer near the mines. I watched the sunrise every morning as a boy over the hills of my home south of here. I have traveled and learned the language of the Romans since Queen Boudiccea killed herself. I pray she is sitting at the tables of the kings.”

I answered, “May she live in our minds and the memories of her daughters flow through our blood forever.” I was relieved he was from my land, but still did not know if I could trust him. “Yes, I know how to set bones. I was in training when my home was raided. I escaped. I am a healer where I live now. I have set many broken bones on children and adults.”

“Then come finish the treatment, while the boy sleeps.”

We set the boy’s arm, then padded and re-splinted it.

“Who was your teacher? I know of some healers who are now like me, living with the Romans,” he said.

“You must swear that only the gods will hear my answer.” I did not want to give names as they could place my home. If he swore, he spoke a sacred promise. If he lied, he would not be able to cross the river of death to be with his family in eternity.

“I speak with our gods daily,” he said and leaned over the boy to see if he was still sleeping.

“My first teacher was Conyn,” I said. “He sent me to Kinsey. I learned my bone setting from him. Have you heard of them?” I asked.

“Yes. It is said only the gods are better at healing than Kinsey.” He looked into my eyes. “Now, I must ask, do you speak with the gods?”

“Yes,” I said, swearing the same promise.

“Kinsey is required to be with the Roman general and treats him and his personal guard. We have a way to pass words to each other, and I have heard Kinsey is moving as much as I am. Always north. It seems that the Romans want even more land. Wait. Let me check the boy.”

We had been sitting on one of the cots. He got up and looked at the boy who had begun stirring. The cup still had a bit of the mixture in it, and he had the boy swallow more.

“It will be good to have him sleep for the rest of today. Tomorrow, the spirits in his body may be uneasy, bringing him heat and illness. Sleep is good for him.” He stepped back to the cot and sat down. “I am called Ofydd.”

“I am called Lovern. The boy is fortunate to have you so close to where he had his accident.”

“It is not a coincidence. He is the shepherd for this camp. He belongs to one of the soldiers. He warms the soldier’s bed and watches the sheep. The Romans killed his family when he was very small and he has been with this soldier since. He had taken the sheep and goats out to get some fresh grass and greens between storms. He has been gone for three days. They were ready to send some men out to look for him. I am sure his owner will be here soon. We must make sure you are in the background when he comes.”

“This boy is a slave?” I asked.

“Yes. Of course. The Romans bring only slave children on these assignments. Their own families are in their villas in the south or across the sea. This boy speaks only the Roman language. He has lost the touch of the gods. If he prays, it is to the Roman gods. We lose our land and our children to the Romans. We are becoming a lost people.”

“Ofydd! Ofydd! Is that my boy you have in there?”

A soldier, in full wardress, sweaty from the practice field, came rushing into the tent. Ofydd indicated I should go the dark back corner of the tent and stay quiet.

“Yes, Centurion Candidus. He is here. He is sleeping, see?”

The man was not as tall as I. I could not see his full face in the shade of his helmet, but his nose was well beyond the size of any nose I remembered seeing before. He wore a grey cloak over his armor. The smell of his sweat filled the tent. Ofydd led the Roman to the table, staying between the centurion and me.

“Is he hurt badly? We move in two days. Will he be able to travel with us?”

“Tonight and tomorrow will be the telling time. He has many bruises on his body and was trapped for a day without water. If you let him sleep here tonight, I will watch him. I will do my best for him, Centurion.”

“Tillius came to me and told me he had found a man carrying him? He said he guided the man to you. Who brought the boy in?”

“It was a local man, Centurion, not anyone important,” said Ofydd. He did not lie; he did not know who I was or where I came from.

“Hmm. You must be wary of the local men. They may have more than the care of the boy on their minds,” the warrior said. “All right, I agree. The boy should stay the night here. I have much work tomorrow getting ready for our move. We are going to the place where we build the fort in two days. The scouts have found a good hill that will be easy to defend from these savages. I will look in on the boy at sunrise.”

The centurion’s cloak swung in a large arc and his sword hit the table as he turned and left.

“Does the boy have a name?” I asked when it was safe to come out.

“Only ‘the boy.’ If he lives and grows he may earn a name, but one of the ways the Romans keep our children servile is by not letting them have any personalities.”

I thought of Crisi and Logan. How could they live without names?
Our names are in our souls. They are as much a part of us as our animal spirits.

“How do you stand this? How can you live in this way and watch this?” I needed to know how he lived with himself.

“If I did not, I would be dead. In this way, at least I am healing my people when I can. Yes, I treat the Roman soldiers. But, as with him,” he pointed to the sleeping boy on the table, “I give him a chance at life. It may not be the life he would have had with his father and mother, but it is life! We cannot ask for more here. Overtaken and overcome by the Romans, we only exist now.”

I heard his speech and my stomach began to sicken. I thought of all the people I knew in my clan and the other clans around us. All the druids I had met and worked with. I covered my face with my hands and remembered Jahna and Crisi. Their faces ran through my mind’s eye.

“Oh, Goddess Morrigna, protect us. Do not let this come to us,” I prayed.

“Quiet!” Ofydd said in a loud whisper. “Do not ever say those words out loud here! You will be slain in a heartbeat. It is blasphemy here to pray to her. Where do you come from that you do not know this? What is your story? Your words are the same as mine when I was a child. Why are you here?”

I told him pieces of my life. He heard about the attack on my village and my escape.

“I live in the north,” I said. “We see a change happening. The traders who normally come have not for two seasons. We hear the Romans are coming north. I came to find out what I can. We do not want to be a lost people. We will stop the Romans. Our king decided to fight, and we will win. Then we can come down here and free the slaves of the mines and the villas. We can become a whole people again. I must tell my King that the Roman advance is real so we may prepare.”