Myths of the Modern Man (11 page)

Cailte let out a scream in unison with the royal women, and tried to rush through to help them, but he was grabbed by three Roman legionnaires otherwise unoccupied, who playfully carried him outside and tied his leg to the accouterments of a horse. They beat the horse to make it bolt, dragging Cailte out of the compound and out of sight, his face buried in the trail of his long hair, manure, dust, and Celtic cursing.

My turn. Helping Boudicca was impossible, also not as necessary. History already declared that she survived her torture and led the ensuing rebellion. I must let her suffer.

I charged the rapists instead, and took the sword of one of them. I hit anything I could, which was just enough to make the ones holding the girls down in the dirt release them. It was just enough to make the rapists pull away, disoriented, searching for weapons, while I shouted that they were no better than filthy dogs.

Somehow shouting “Canis sordidus!” did not sound as vile as I intended. The Latin language had a burnished edge to it, like the shining metal of a fine sword. Even at its most unpleasant, it was a dazzling thing to hear.

One of them slashed at my leg, and left a deep gash in my thigh. I stood up, looked the bugger in the face and shouted more. I shouted clichés from a schoolboy copybook in Latin.

“
Cur Romani socios suos timent?” Why do Romans fear their allies?

“
Gladios tuos non timebimus!” We shall not fear your swords. “Dei arma sua etiam habent!” The gods also have their own weapons.

Some of these men, the lowest of their class and not all of them Romans, rather from Roman-governed dominions, did not speak Latin well, but they recognized it. They stopped. It was as good as coin of the empire for authenticity and value.

I lifted the girls, one in each arm, and walked them away, still shouting threats, insults, and calling on their gods for rebuke. Especially Mars. I knew all about Mars. God, my leg hurt.

They were pulling back. They had had their fun. I was bleeding rivers. The girls were holding me up.

***

I remember nothing after that, and grew conscious again only to pain. I opened my eyes to the dark tent skin overhead, to the hands of Taliesin working his willow bark magic into my leg. Opposite me lay Boudicca, conscious also, brooding through spent tears into the firelight. She lay on her stomach, while a woman druid pasted the raw skin of her torn, bloody back with oil and herbs. Her daughters entered. They had changed into clean tunics for their mother, to cover their hurt and humiliation, thereby lessening hers. They knelt before her, wondering where to touch without causing their mother more pain, and settled on stroking her hair, kissing her face, as the three of them cried and consoled each other.

I smelled smoke, and realized much of the village must have been put to flames. I wondered about Cailte’s servants. I looked up at Taliesin and whispered, “Cailte?”

He turned a dark glance at the queen and her daughters briefly and leaned down to whisper in my ear.

“
Outside. Not as harmed as you, only his dignity.”

I was relieved, but his dark expression made me feel as if I shouldn’t be.

Her daughters then came to me, gently touched my shoulders and mutter soft words of gratitude. When they left, Boudicca’s face was turned towards me, resting on her crossed arms. Her beautiful cinnamon eyes reflected her pain.

“
You are mine,” she murmured, meaning, I hope, that she would pay her indebtedness to me by taking responsibility for my welfare. Nothing more. Celtic syntax was easier to understand then Celtic intent.

“
I am, indeed.” I answered, “I will follow you.”

“
You know not where,” she warned.

The hell, I don’t.

A man entered the tent, the huge, barrel-chested chieftain, Dubh. He looked down on her silently a moment.

“
You see the worth of Prasutagus’ plans,” he growled.

“
You will honor me by taking my daughters into your home.”

“
I will take them.”

He came over to me, looked at my leg.

“
You still have a leg. You still have your daughters. Only the kingdom is lost.”

“
It is not lost. I am taking it back. You may join me, if you can do more than sputter,” she replied.

“
A battle against the Romans?”

“
As many battles as it takes.”

He smiled at last.

He went to spread the word among the other chieftains.

“
That is Dubh,” she said a moment later, “My only brother. Clan chieftain. The Romans took his land, burned it. It was my home, too, before I wed Prasutagas. Dubh escaped with his wife and children. They are in the hills now, safe.”

“
Your brother?”

“
Yes. My brother Dubh. He is the younger.”

“
He is enthusiastic.”

She smiled ruefully. “Yes. He has spirit. He was always thus. As a boy he thought he was a man. As a man, he thinks life is his plaything.”

“
What do you think of life?”

“
I think it is a test of courage.”

She shifted her position again. Her wincing squinting eyes looked suspicion at me.

“
You speak the Roman language.”

“
Yes. I learned it as a slave.”

“
What did you say to those Romans?”

“
I called them insults. I called for revenge from the gods.”

“
Whose gods?”

Damn, she was smart.

“
Any that would listen to me.” She seemed to consider this a moment.

“
Bring Cailte,” she muttered over her bare shoulder to Taliesin.

Taliesin nodded, and left the tent. Boudicca turned her face towards me again.

“
Tomorrow you must draw for me again the picture you made on the ground before me.”

“
Yes.” Now look what I started.

“
In this way you will be of use.”

“
Yes. Still, I will follow you.”

“
If you can.”

Taliesin returned with Cailte, who was nearly breathless with anticipation. He had cuts all over his face. He looked a mess.

“
Give us songs and stories,” she said.

Cailte’s face fell. Perhaps he expected to be recognized, thanked for his attempt to help. Instead, he was called upon to entertain. He did not expect to have to entertain me. Entertaining me was beneath him.

The bard’s first duty was to inspire. Normally he would have been up to it, for Cailte’s gift was truly inspirational. But his thoughts, our thoughts, were indeed elsewhere.

He sang a bitter song of loss. Then, looking at the queen, who looked at me through drowsy eyes, he restlessly began a story.

“
King Mark ruled Cornwall, looking over the Irish Sea from his castle fort at Tintagel. Tristan was a warrior in the king’s service, and he charmed the court with the sad and lonely music from his harp.”

Cailte’s version of Tristan and Isolt was a little less thunderous than Wagner’s. He was telling the old story from a different viewpoint tonight, I think. His own viewpoint, perhaps.

“
Tristan was a favorite of King Mark, making others at the court jealous. They contrived to find a wife for their king, so that a child born to him might inherit the kingdom, and give new purpose to the king’s loyalties and affections.

“
The daughter of a rival king was promised to King Mark, and Tristan offered to brave the journey over treacherous seas to retrieve her. The wild sea was churned by Manannan the sea god, and the ship which bore Tristan was tossed like a toy in his mighty hands, yet the water was calm when he arrived in the far away land, because Manannan relented, admiring his courage.

“
The rival king and queen met Tristan on the shore with their daughter Isolt. She was the most lovely young woman ever seen. The queen handed to Isolt’s maidservant a love potion, and told her to slip half into King Mark’s drink and half into Isolt’s on their wedding night, that it might bind the two strangers together.”

Cailte’s voice was hoarse. He spoke slowly. I waited for the other shoe to drop, while Boudicca closed her eyes. Cailte’s own sad, gray eyes were pinned on the far tent flap.

“
When the ship set sail to return to Cornwall, Isolt called to her maidservant to fetch her a drink. She shared the drink with Tristan. They drank from the same bowl. Mistakenly, the maidservant had brought them the love potion. His hands held over hers, each grasping the bowl, passion came upon them. Suddenly, stunningly, their desire made the night a living, breathing thing around them as they made love in the darkness.”

It was his own version, a personal message.

“
They at last arrived in Tintagel, and King Mark was well pleased with Isolt. Their marriage, alas, did not end the desires of Tristan and the king’s bride. They felt much guilt over their passion, for both felt great affection for King Mark, but their love was too strong for them to control. They must be with each other some way.

“
A tryst was planned when the king was out boar hunting. Tristan and Isolt met in the orchard, lit by the moon, scented by the flowers.

“
With the dawn they arose from their bed of flowers, and were blinded by the sun’s gleam on the hilt of a sword, which had been driven into the ground at their feet.

They realized, with shame and remorse, that it was the sword of King Mark, as a sign to them that he could not allow their love, but neither would he condemn them….”

Boudicca slept. Cailte, distracted by her deep, easy breathing, and loud whistling snore, broke off his story, long before it was finished.

Except I think he would rather it finished there. I think he was Tristan.

Our eyes met briefly, and he turned, and left the tent.

Who was Isolt? Not Boudicca?

***

The next afternoon she held court on her stomach. Dubh ranted his dissatisfaction at plans that were too slow in coming. Nemain proclaimed the need for a proper and worthy sacrifice in order to make this next step. I hoped he didn’t mean a human sacrifice and I hoped he didn’t mean me.

“
Is this Roman slave to hear all our counsel?” Dubh asked her in frustration, fingering his knife every time he paced around my bed.

“
He is no longer a slave,” Boudicca mumbled, trying to shift position with the help of her servant. No good. She was in pain no matter what she did. “Have the clans harvest from the fields what they can, for the Romans will surely destroy the rest. Take my daughters and half the household, and as many as will go of those who cannot fight and take them to the hill village.”

“
And what of the priests and priestesses?” Nemain asked.

“
You will come with me, Nemain,” Boudicca said, “And take who you need to serve you. The rest to the hill village.”

I don’t think he wanted to come, but sure as anything if he had to go, he was making Taliesin go, too.

“
Dubh,” she said, “have the clans ready their tents, their horses, their weapons. The time for offerings to the gods is now, for afterwards there will be no time for praying.”

Dubh nodded, and left.

Nemain considered her last remark. He had just made summer to happen. Could he follow that up with a victory over the Romans? I wondered how much power he really thought he had. A druid trains twenty years and more to gain all the knowledge and skills needed to become a priest. That is lot of time for learning, and a lot of time to really think about the power of such learning, and of power itself.

He bowed, and left.

How much power did Boudicca think she had? The power to say who goes to war and who does not, and perhaps the power to entreat female gods that a warrior queen was a more worthy recipient of their favor than legions of Roman men?

Her servant poked his head inside the tent flap and spoke a few soft words to the tent pole by her head.

“
Let him come himself,” she answered him.

The servant straightened, looked briefly appalled, and then stepped outside. In a moment Bouchal entered the tent. He was scared, and he carried a lump of clothing in his hands, which he twisted nervously.

“
Do what you came to do.” Boudicca muttered to him over her arm, watching him with stern amusement.

He stumbled over to me and handed me my trousers and tunic. They had been washed, and the sword slash on the trouser leg was patched.

He kept his gaze on the floor, and stepped backward away from me.

“
Bouchal, did the woman, A chara, do this for me?” I asked.

He nodded.

“
Then you are all well? Was your master’s hut burned?”

He nodded.

“
How do you live with no hut?”

“
The animals’ shelter remains. My master has a tent for himself.”

“
How is the man and the woman?”

He swallowed, glancing at Boudicca.

“
The man is gone. The woman remains.”

“
Tell her of my gratitude.”

He nodded, relieved to be let go at last. He ran out of the tent.