Mr Wicker

by Maria Alexander

  Drunos raised himself to see better. A dark swarm of Romani seethed below the pass. Soldiers mingled with lower class Romani and slaves in muddied, unbleached togas as they hitched massive blocks of wood to horse teams. The chaos of disassembly sputtered and lurched as numerous horse teams, carts, and bonfires dispatched stone, plank, and pylon—

  “Great Teutates,” Drunos whispered.

  They’ve razed the bridge.

  The druid cried out to the sky of his great Tara Nis. Bowing forward, he began a terrible chant. The cart shuddered. The wood siding ripped apart, spitting splinters that gored the soldiers’ flesh.

  Although he heard the horse’s hooves, Drunos did not notice the soldier ride up behind him before the sharp sting of darkness felled him.

  VIENNE, GAUL

  Drunos awoke in a wide bed warmed by lush animal skins. On a table at his bedside sat a plate of fruit and olives next to an urn. He sat up, the back of his head still throbbing. Clearly the soldier had meant to render him unconscious—which he did, briefly—and not dead so that they could bind him.

  A hostage would never be treated so roughly, he thought. They must have greatly feared me.

  He sniffed inside the urn and drank the honeyed wine within. A Gallic god face was painted on the side. The work of the Aedui, whose land lay to the west. Drunos lay down again, a heavy anchor of depression crashing deep into his chest. The meaning of the dream unfolded behind his eyes, the ravens tearing at the boat’s bloodied contents. His people would perish.

  Or would they? The Helvetii were superior warriors. Normally they were the ones who took hostages. If Litu made the proper sacrifice—a drowning—they would be certain to win. The dream must have been a warning. If Teutates were not appeased, the Helvetii would suffer a grim defeat. But if Litu had had the dream as well, he would heed it.

  For the rest of that day and into the evening, Drunos was tended by slaves who washed his hands and brought more food—at last, some salted pork. A physician examined his head, applying cooling salves. Later, Quintus paid him a visit. The statesman’s face puckered with worry as slaves placed a chair beside Drunos’ bed.

  “Where am I?” Drunos asked.

  “You’re on the north bank of Vienne,” Quintus replied. “Caesar was alarmed that you were hurt. He ordered the soldier to be punished.”

  “He should have rewarded that soldier,” Drunos replied. “Those men would have been dead in another moment.”

  Quintus laughed. “Most certainly.”

  “You don’t believe me. Did you see the wounds on those soldiers?”

  An awkward moment of silence. “Caesar believes in the power of the gods of Rome, yet just as much in the intellect of man. He would consider anything else...superstitio.”

  “Superstitio?” Drunos repeated the Roman word carefully.

  “It means to worship false gods.”

  The next day, Drunos had bathed and dressed before Quintus arrived to take him to the forum, where he instructed Drunos on the glories of Vienne being a Roman province. “The architects are now developing an aqueduct for the city.” He rubbed his hands together as he relayed the project details—how they would build an underground network of tunnels that followed the sides of the hills. Drunos half-listened as Quintus laid bare the mammoth design of the numerous conduits that would first bring water to the public and then to private houses. Little more than a busy village, Vienne meandered to the west, stooping at the edge of the Rhône. Already the Romans were building districts on the embankments on both sides. No doubt the temple that shaded them in the forum would soon be dedicated to Caesar “Son of the Divine” instead of to Lugus of the Long Arm, the Shining One, Chief Lord of the Tuatha De Danaan.

  Quintus caught him staring at the temple in misery. “You are worried for your people.”

  “My gods will break your gods, Quintus, and my people will kill you. If luck is with you, they will drown you in the Rhône. And, if luck is not with you, they will feed you to the wicker man.”

  “You seem certain of your people’s victory,” Quintus laughed.

  “Caesar’s treachery will be for naught,” Drunos replied. “We once defeated the Romani. We will do so again.”

  The next day, Quintus retrieved Drunos and tutored him on Roman law, philosophy, gods, and circuses as they strolled through the concourses teeming with Allobrogians in commerce with neighbors and foreigners alike. Winding into the more pedestrian district in the southwest, Drunos noted that they conducted business out of the front room of their houses. The drafty avenues of the district seemed almost exclusively civilian; few soldiers, or even Romani for that matter, patrolled this suburban part of the city. Quintus explained how some of the wealthiest merchants had hired Roman architects to install a heating system under the floors of their homes.

  “I suspect the tax collectors were the first to acquire such luxuries,” Drunos replied dryly.

  “Taxes, Drunos, allow us to develop many civic projects and maintain a standing army.”

  “Which is why we will defeat you. Our men and women fight because they love their tribe, not because they are paid or forced by a king to defend it.”

  “You did not defend your land, Drunos. You left it to Ariovistus, did you not?”

  Morose, Drunos would not speak again until the evening, when Quintus brought him to dine with the Allobrogians, former nobility that were now Roman administrators. The diners pulled dripping joints of boiled pork from massive pots. Drunos sat with his distant kinsman, who shied from talking to him directly as they spoke, yet they seemed to defer to him in discussions.

  “Where are your druids?” Drunos asked when Quintus excused himself to use the lavatorium. “Your priests? Who hears your oaths? And what of your bardos and weledâ?”

  “Druids, seers and singers we have no longer,” the biggest Allobrogian explained. His was the bushiest beard and mustache, while the others trimmed their facial hair more like the Romani. “They will soon be forgotten altogether.”

  “Vienne is a Roman province now,” a frailer Allobrogian offered. “When the rebellion failed three years ago, Caesar reinforced his hold over us.”

  Another Allobrogian interjected. “I, for one, am glad you came here, Drunos, for you will be spared.”

  “Spared?”

  The big Allobrogian wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “He intends to extinguish the Helvetii if he must to set an example to the other tribes and get revenge for what happened to Lucius Cassius.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Caesar has recruited several more legions.” He leaned closer to Drunos, eyes scanning for Quintus as he spoke. “And they will meet your people at the bridge.” He clasped his hand with Drunos’. “Believe me, there are many who despise the Romani. We cannot offer you oak and scythe because our gods have been proscribed, but we can give you our faith and ask that you remember us when you purify and bless others at moon time.”

  Moved by the man’s oath, Drunos plucked a cluster of grape stems from an empty plate and dipped them into the perfumed water. The man closed his eyes, his forehead wrinkling in pious reception. Chanting under his breath, Drunos sprinkled the man’s brow. The others did the same and Drunos purified them, droplets beading on their lashes and beards. He then blessed each man, drawing the symbol of an oak on the forehead with his thumb.

  Other Allobrogians gathered about his table. “Bless us, too, Drûis,” they asked in whispers. “Cleanse us and make us right with the earth and sky.”

  Then the first man Drunos had blessed spoke, his voice rising dramatically. “How will you ever learn Latin if you do not speak it, Drûis?” His eyes flickered like fish in a pond, indicating the approach of Quintus. Everyone scattered.

  Quintus approached the low table and held his toga in place as he reclined beside them. “I have not tried to teach him Latin, Correos.” Plunging hands into the silver bowl, he cleaned himself thoroughly before reaching into the pot once again. “And I suspect he would not
have my lessons.”

  Learning the language might bring him occasion to hear news about his people that he might not otherwise. For a short while he might even be able to eavesdrop on conversations until everyone knew he spoke the language.

  “I would learn,” Drunos said, idly fingering an olive in his bowl. His appetite had fled at the news of the legions, and to see his cousins spiritually starved almost drove him mad. “Why do you wait?”

  “Good,” Quintus said between bites. “Then we begin tomorrow morning.”

  The next day, they began a lesson in Latin in the terrarium of the house. Infinitely more relaxed, Quintus started by explaining that he knew quite well that Drunos’ tribe used Greek letters to record merchant transactions—that writing itself was not entirely forbidden. Drunos admitted that was the case. “Would you suffer learning Latin letters?” Quintus asked.

  “Perhaps,” Drunos responded. “But I will not write.”

  The druid learned Latin as a fish learns to swim, drawing Quintus into digressions about the battle at Genava whenever he could. Quintus assured him he would give him news when it came. But, for now, would a discussion of mathematics interest the druid? Quintus was an excellent mathematician, but he was a better Latin teacher and expressed amazement that Drunos could so quickly memorize the inflections, conjugations and declensions. Drunos used the mnemonic devices he had learned on the Isle to memorize vast chants and stories to acquire a workable vocabulary in a short period of time. The Latin vocabulary was not that wide, it seemed, yet the nuances of how words were used varied.

  “So, one can manipulate the order of the words in the sentence, yet it means the same,” Drunos realized almost at once. “How convenient to emphasize some ideas over others...or to delay delivering the truth.”

  Quintus smiled. “Who is the barbarian here?”

  Each day they studied from first hour until sixth, when Quintus would visit the makeshift baths and let Drunos explore the market and forum. He attempted to talk with some of the Allobrogians to get news of the battle at the Lake, but no one knew anything yet and many had not even heard that the bridge had been dismantled. A handful of the Allobrogians from the dinner recognized Drunos, but he politely refused their requests to conduct ritual in the forests or at the shore of the Rhône. The hills that surrounded the city were forbidden and well patrolled by Roman soldiers.

  After three weeks of tutoring, Quintus seemed anxious to show off his protégé at the next feast of delegates. However, with each passing night Drunos grew more despondent over separation from both his tribe and the forests where he should observe the next moon. The morning after the twenty-first night, Drunos refused to leave his room. A fever shook him in the coldest hours and he sweated into the skins. Quintus entered with slaves carrying food, wine, and new bedding. “Today is a great day, Drunos. We have important visitors from Rome. My wife is with them. It would benefit you to greet everyone.”

  Drunos sat with his back to him on the floor, sweat beading his scalp. His chin bristled with thick blond strands as it began to sculpt itself into the bushy Gaulish cascade that would soon brush his chest. One of the slaves brought him a razor, mirror, and bowl, which he shoved violently to the floor. “What of my people, Quintus? What happened at Genava?”

  The young administrator pressed his lips together and the hand at his waist clenched into a fist. “You would believe me?”

  “I believe you would honor us both with the truth.”

  Quintus ordered the slaves to leave and sat in the carved chair near the door, sighing. “They were turned back at the bridge.”

  “How many lost in battle?”

  “There was no battle, Drunos. They were at a disadvantage and they retreated.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “They are invading the Aedui.” The Roman paused, as if trying to build an argument before it started. “They’re overrunning them to commandeer passage over the Rhône.”

  “We have invaded the lands of your allies, which means...” Drunos said, prodding Quintus.

  “We had no choice. The Aedui asked for our help.”

  Drunos said nothing.

  Quintus left Drunos to consider what was happening. His people had kept their bargain, but now they chose a route that the council never considered at all. Why overrun the Aedui? Why not send ambassadors and work out a trade? Of course it was not always the Helvetian way to negotiate. The Sequani, who were on good terms with the Helvetii, hated the Aedui. Cornered by the Romans and unaware of the strength of their allegiance to the Aedui, the tribes perhaps felt that they could persuade the Sequani to squash the Aedui if they objected to their occupation.

  As his temples buzzed with pain, he dropped his forehead to rest on his knees. If he could somehow flush this anxiety with prayer and ritual, he would have the strength to deal with the Romani. He did not want to appear weak, but neither did he want to appear insolent. Although it was Ariovistus who was notorious for threatening to torture his hostages, Drunos did not want to antagonize the Romani.

  Drunos ate a bit and went back to bed, where he slept off feverish dreams. In his visions, his beloved Sirona lay beside him like she did that morning when she dreamt of the flaming wheel of Tara Nis, the skins thrown from her bare skin in her sleep. Her hands were pulled up in front of her face as if fending off an attack. He grasped her hand and kissed the back of it, crushed lavender perfuming her fingertips from a ritual the night before. He would never forget that scent, nor how the distress beaded on her neck as she whispered the dire prophecy of her dream. Drunos had to return to his people, who were suffering. He was to play a sacred role in the dreadful days to come. Anxiety yielded to desire as they made love in the hazy light of early morning. She swore she would never tell the Arch Druid, who would certainly send him back to the Helvetii. Although everyone revered Sirona’s dreams, Drunos fought the prophecy. He didn’t want to leave. His studies weren’t half over. And his heart was here. Here, with his redheaded witch. Here, where the gods lived.

  For days afterward Sirona remained silent but haggard. At last, the Arch Druid called her to him and she betrayed Drunos by relaying her dream. A careful judgment of the stars by the Chief Astrologer bore out the dream message. Sirona’s wailing cleaved through the canopy of the grove as she followed the company that led him to initiation—his formal release from the college—and then off the Isle. She cursed herself and begged Drunos to forgive her for his expulsion. Enraged at her betrayal, he never looked back at her and hoped he would never see her again in any lifetime.

  Yet, in this fever sleep he blessed her for her honesty. He would love her for eternity.

  When he awoke, he dressed and made himself presentable to the delegates at dinner. Quintus received him coolly in the private feasting hall wherein slaves skirred in every direction as they prepared the tables for the arriving guests.

  The elaborate dinner commenced when an ox-bellied, grossly dimpled man with arms plucked smooth of hair arrived with two lovely young men of undetermined status and relation. Quintus introduced him as the censor, Marcus Licinius Crassus. Thereafter entered Metella, the impeccably coifed wife of Quintus. A thousand auburn ringlets snaked over her round head; fine jewelry covered her ample chest, strong arms, and graceful neck. Her long tunic was fastened at the shoulders with golden and garnet-encrusted fibula. A faint dusting of freckles spread over her cheekbones like constellations. Drunos stared at her as he slowly realized that Quintus had married an Allobrogian.

  Quintus introduced her to Drunos, whom he described as a formal hostage of Caesar. Her eyes widened. “Drûis?” she asked.

  “Really, Drunos. We must dress you like a Roman,” Quintus sighed.

  “I’d like to see you try,” Drunos threatened with a smile.

  Unlike a noble woman at a Gaulish feast who would have offered both conversation and argument, Metella sat wordlessly beside Quintus as Crassus the Ox droned on about a great many subjects that Drunos followed in part. He gathered
that Crassus was very wealthy and had considerable military victories, albeit he no longer had the physique for such valor. The druid languished as he considered the dire implications of Roman men marrying Celtic women until Crassus addressed Drunos directly. He could not understand what the censor said except something about death and men. Quintus interceded.

  “Censor wishes to know your beliefs about death, Drunos,” Quintus explained in Gaulish. “In Latin, please.”

  Drunos shifted on the pillows as he struggled to string the words together. “We believe not in death. We believe the soul of man passes to the body of a babe when he dies. Perhaps even a tree or an animal.”

  Crassus sucked at the bird bones. “An interesting man, Quintus. You say he knows mathematics, astronomy, and religion. Perhaps this is the reason we find no druids in Gallic government matters. They are the most civilized of all the gallia comata.”

  “Gallia comata?” Drunos asked Quintus. “What does that mean?”

  “It means...long-haired Gaul,” Quintus replied. Drunos detected faint traces of moisture budding at the neck of Quintus’ tunic. The two beautiful young men snickered as Crassus noisily licked his fingers.

  “You think we are barbarians?” Drunos narrowed his eyes at Crassus. “You who sleeps with men?”

  Crassus snarled at Drunos, his crowded bottom teeth jutting from his lip like a boar. “Quintus could have you killed for what your people are doing! But he won’t because of Caesar’s clementia.”

  Drunos glanced at Metella, who ate daintily at her husband’s side, eyes cast downward. Her resignation crippled Drunos’ faith in another Allobrogian revolt. They had been crushed during the last attempt and Caesar now splinted their broken souls with his version of civilization.