A Painted Winter

by H. Barnard

  “Why did you want to leave, anyway?” her mother asked, her voice gentle. “Have they mistreated you? I would have thought you would hold a position amongst the nobles, which is how it was for me before the Romans.”

  “No, they don’t mistreat me. I am, as you say, treated like the Bandruwydds.”

  “Then what?”

  “I missed…” Sorsha lifted her chin up, “home. I missed the baths and my silk sheets.”

  Her mother smiled. “Lucia.”

  “I…” Her throat ached, and her voice cracked as she spoke. “I missed you. And I felt like I squandered our last years together, and I wanted you to know how sorry I am for what I put you through…for refusing the Gift.”

  Her mother kissed her forehead. “You were my quietest firstborn, Lucia, always off riding alone or lurking in dark corners at parties, refusing to speak to the other children. But you were also my fiercest, most headstrong. Of all my firstborns, of you, I was most proud. You are going to achieve great things for the Gods, I’ve always known it. And just look how tall and strong they’ve built you. You remind me of a Healer I once knew who fought with Queen Boudicca against the Romans.”

  “Who? Was it one of your firstborns?”

  “Her name was Morrigan. No, she wasn’t mine. She was much older even than me.” She paused as a man with a wheelbarrow filled with spices trundled past their secluded spot. “Lucia, be strong.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “It is what it is, and you must accept it. Immortality is a long business. You cannot have regrets, you cannot carry grief because you will endure alone and carry those aches for eternity. Believe me when I say that time never feels so slow as when you lose someone you love, when you turn regrets over and over in your mind for hundreds of years.” Her mother squeezed Sorsha’s shoulder and smiled. “Now I must go, Lucia. Be strong, and even if you cannot be happy, you have a purpose, and that will sustain you, trust me.” She placed her hand on Sorsha’s cheek and held it there for a moment and stared into her eyes before she dropped her gaze and turned away.

  “Wait!”

  Her mother stopped and turned slowly.

  “Did you ever…” Sorsha paused, wondering how to phrase it. “Did you ever go looking for your mother? Did you ever have questions?” Sorsha stared at her mother’s face. I want to memorise it forever.

  “Yes. I came looking for my mother.”

  Sorsha’s stomach tightened. “What did she say?”

  “Nothing. She was dead by the time I found her.”

  “You mean, she had gone to the stones? The Gods sent her away?”

  “No… No, the woman in the chamber silenced her screams forever.” Her mother turned and melted into the crowded market.

  Sorsha stood in the forum, in the city she had grown up in, and watched her mother walk away, knowing she would never see her again. People obscured Sorsha’s view, but then her mother would pop up again, an insignificant speck in the crowd. Sorsha waited, her breath catching in her throat, until she could not see her mother at all.

  Twenty-Four

  Spring, 367 C.E., Vortriu

  Waves thundered against the cliffs below the fortress of Caertarwos. The rocky peninsular was made an island by two circular walls of stone, one enclosing land that sat higher than the other. Princes and Princesses of the Blood lived inside the roundhouses of the higher rampart. The largest of these was the hall of the Kings of Vortriu. Inside, the hall seemed to constrict as the men assembled. The Kings and Princes of the Blood met, as was customary when there were matters of importance that may affect future rulers. Kings sat on wooden benches on either side of a long table while their brothers and nephews stood behind them and observed.

  King Talorc brushed a stray lock of fiery hair behind his ear and stood. “Thank you for coming, cousins, we have matters of great importance to discuss. I wish to thank my uncle, King Gartnait of Caledon, for sending his nephews Taran and Brei to bring this plan to me. The plan I wish to discuss with you today.”

  Brei glanced from Gartnait, thin and sweaty, up to Taran, who stood behind him. Taran’s golden Torc rested on his collarbone above his uncovered, tattooed chest. Brei picked at the sleeves of his linen shirt, regretting every thread. He glanced at the snake tattoo on Taran’s arm. The Snake of Caledon. He studied the tattoos of the other men in the hall. Across their chests all wore the crescent and broken arrow that signified they were warriors. But their armbands were different depending on which kingdom they were from. Naoise and Dylan also had the Snake of Caledon tattooed around their biceps. Talorc and Drest had the Kaelpie of Vortriu. King Alpin had the Salmon of Ce, while King Cailtram of Cait had a bear.

  Talorc cleared his throat and continued. “You may have heard the rumours that the position of the southern oppressors beyond the wall has weakened. Their eyes have turned back to Rome. Now is the time to strike. Now is the time for revenge for our people, past and present.”

  A wave of murmuring rippled around the room.

  “How do you know their grip on the south has weakened? How will we get through the Great Wall?” Cailtram, King of Cait, asked. Just older than Talorc, he was tall, strawberry blond, and hungry-eyed.

  Talorc smiled. “My cousins Taran and Brei have spoken to the warriors of Damnnonia in the south who have said that–”

  “Let them speak for themselves then,” yelled Alpin, King of Ce. He was younger than Gartnait, but had the markings across his forehead of his lost youth.

  Taran cleared his throat. “Talorc is right, Brei and I led a scouting party to the south, and while in the Kingdom of Damnnonia they told us the Roman’s grip on Britannia had significantly weakened. The men at the Great Wall are being bribed, and they are letting in raiding parties of the Damnnones.” He paused and glared around the room. “Maybe those of you up north in Cait have not felt for a long time the long arm of the Roman army, but the Caledones remember, we lost our uncle King Uradech and our mother, Princess of the Blood of Vortriu and Caledon, only six summers ago.”

  Talorc looked across the table at Taran. “His vengeance can be ours, cousins, and the glory can be enjoyed by all the Northern Alliance.”

  King Alpin leaned back. “This sounds more like a blood feud for Caledon. Why should Ce join?”

  Taran shook his head. “The Romans have been wolves at our door for hundreds of winters, and though they are now weakened, do not be so naïve as to think they will not return. Now is our chance, not only for revenge but to plunder and cripple them so they will never return. Our united efforts will be the beginning of universal liberty for the north and for our distant cousins in the south. Don’t think you are safe, Alpin of Ce, though you hide in the safety of the mountain fortress of Banntuce. Don’t forget that your lands are surrounded by sea. But even the sea is not a refuge when the Roman fleet lingers. Therefore war, which is always honourable to those who are brave, is surely now the best opportunity, even to those who are ravaged by cowardice?”

  Taran paused and glared at Alpin and Cailtram. “And what of our ancestors? What of all our fathers, grandfathers, and their fathers, who died at the hands of the Roman savages? Did they not put their hopes in us? We are the future they fought for. We must claim the freedom they should have lived in. You think you have nothing to fear, Alpin, and Cailtram, but you have been defended to this day by your remoteness. The mountains, the moors, and the jagged cliffs. All these have kept you safe. But we men of the north are at the edge of the world. There is no kingdom beyond us. There is nothing but waves and rocks. And then there are the Romans, whose arrogance and brutality we cannot escape by submission. For we are all debased by slavery, and they will make slaves of us all. The Romans, these plunderers of the world, after exhausting their lands by their own destructions, their avarice compels them to seek more. Don’t think they won’t regroup. And when they find themselves wanting, they will come for us, as they have before. They will ravage and slaughter in the name of ‘empire’, and when they have made a wasteland of our homeland, th
ey will call it peace.” Taran drew a breath and stared around the silent hall. “Do you want their peace, brothers? Or do you want the freedom our ancestors died to give us the chance for? Revenge or Tirscath!”

  “Revenge or Tirscath!” Talorc roared.

  Alpin and Cailtram stood. “Revenge or Tirscath!”

  The Princes of the Blood joined, and the hall echoed with the war cries of their ancestors.

  “What are the Druwydds saying of the scheme? Have you had them consult the Gods?” King Cailtram asked as the cheers died down.

  Talorc motioned to his brother, Drest, who sprinted from the hall. The room broke out into a rabble of conversations as they waited for Drest to return with the Eldar Druwydd.

  “You got to make your claim, after all,” Brei whispered to Taran.

  Taran turned to him, his face relaxed. “Every day, I make my claim.”

  Drest returned, followed by the Eldar Druwydd, his white robes flowing behind him. Talorc smiled at the white-haired man. “Thank you for coming. We seek your counsel upon communion with the Gods about our plan to seek vengeance and glory in the south.”

  The Eldar Druwydd nodded, his wrinkled face passive. “Tell me your plan, and I will consult the Gods.”

  Talorc cleared his throat. “We are yet to agree on the details, but we plan to bribe the soldiers to allow us to pass through the Great Wall into the south, for vengeance.”

  “I will require a new moon in which to consider it.”

  Talorc’s eyes widened. “That will be two weeks from now!”

  The Eldar Druwydd bowed low. “I will communicate the wishes of the Gods to you the morning after the new moon.” He straightened and glided out of the room.

  Talorc stared after him, a frown cutting into his smooth brow. “Enough talk! Let’s enjoy some wine, the only good thing those Roman bastards have given us!”

  Brei watched the kings and princes mill about, talking. Servants entered the hall carrying silver pitchers and trays laden with chicken, apples, turnips, kale, bread, and cheese, along with wooden barrels of wine and goblets. Brei sat down at the end of the table, and Taran, Naoise, and Dylan joined him. A full pig was brought into the room and placed into the middle of the table.

  “Good, I’m starving,” Naoise said, signalling to one of the serving boys to bring them meat. Dylan reached across his brother to grab a loaf of bread. Jostling boys soon surrounded the carcass, trying to get in to carve pieces of flesh for a king or a prince. Their boy, with a blond mop of hair, hurried over to their end of the table and heaped carved pork onto a glossy red dish in front of them.

  “And wine too, son,” Brei said, patting the boy on his back. He scrambled away as they helped themselves with their hands to pork and bread, and he soon returned with a jug, almost as large as him, and sat it onto the table for them. Naoise picked up the jug and poured wine into silver goblets embossed with vines and sprawling leaves.

  From the middle of the crowded table, Talorc rose and raised his hands. When the hall fell silent, he lifted his goblet high in the air. “Here’s to two weeks of good food and wine!”

  Brei joined the others in cheering before turning to Taran. “I should send a rider to Caercaled to tell them of the delay.”

  Taran nodded, his mouth full.

  “Are you staying, Brei?” Naoise asked.

  “I think we must, seeing as it is our proposal.”

  “I’m certainly not leaving,” Taran said. “This is where all the action is.”

  Naoise laughed. “Well, I wasn’t asking you! You have nothing to go back home for, unlike Brei.”

  “Anwen has her mother, and Gruffydd is maintaining the garrison in our absence,” Brei said and sipped his wine.

  “I hope they get up a celebration tonight, with dancing,” Naoise said as he glanced around the room. “It’s a stag fest in here.”

  Taran swirled his wine in his cup, watching the contents closely. He glanced up at Naoise and smiled. “It’s simpler that way, though, isn’t it?”

  Naoise smirked. “Simpler, maybe. But I wouldn’t mind a dance with Eithne.”

  Taran raised his goblet to Naoise. “Her being my first cousin aside, that would be a pleasant prospect.”

  “Cheers to no rule against second cousins,” Naoise said, and grinned as he clinked Taran’s goblet.

  Twenty-Five

  Spring, 367 C.E., Britannia

  Sorsha lingered in the forum market long after her mother left, frozen in a shaded corner, drawing the scowls of nearby vendors as though she might be a thief. She meandered through the stalls and stepped across the marble foyer and out into the hectic cobbled street. It was not until an unapologetic slave thrust into her shoulder that she decided to visit the temple of Banduiu-Cwrrabon, “Goddess of the River Edge”.

  Turning down a narrow street heading northeast after the forum, she followed the cobblestones until she came to a tall, circular building. In the vast sea of rectangles that formed Corinium, it was a rare sight. The temple was of Roman construction, but it was dedicated to the Ancient Goddess who had watched over the River Cwrr since the dawn of time.

  Inside, the temple was a single, cavernous room made of plain stone. There was a peace in the stark grey tones that could not be produced by sparkling marble. A stone altar stood in the middle of the austere temple, lit by a small arched opening in the wall. Carved roughly into the base of the altar was a relief of three seated women. The middle woman held a child, while the other two held bundles of offerings. On the other side of the altar was a carving depicting the Roman God Mercury, standing next to the Ancient Goddess Cwrr with a cauldron filled with water from the river. The temple was empty, and the air hung with the musk of disuse. Sorsha crept to the altar and fell to her knees in front of the three carved women, who represented the three sides of the Goddess Cwrr.

  “Tell me what to do,” Sorsha whispered to the stern faces of the Goddess. How many of my mother’s people, the Dobunni, have worshipped the Goddess Cwrr? How many Healers have been in this temple? Sorsha pressed a shaking hand against the stone Goddess. “Individuals perish, but the Ancient People survive.”

  The setting sun encircled the arch window with red, as though it were alight. Darkness fell and, through the arch, stars pricked tiny holes in the carpet of dark sky. Sorsha lay awake throughout the night, watching as the stars faded, inky black wavering on grey. When fingers of golden dawn crept into the temple, she decided to go to Aquae Sulis. I want to bathe in the hot springs and visit the shrine to Sulis.

  Wrapping the green cape Taran gave her around her shoulders, she stepped out onto the cobblestones and walked to the edge of town, to the paved road called Fossa. The road was unnaturally straight and connected Aquae Sulis to Corinium Dobunnorum. She followed the road south, taking her past a great stone arena, which had once housed gladiators but now held dog fights, until she reached Aquae Sulis by the afternoon.

  From the road, Aquae Sulis, the “Springs of the Goddess Sulis”, looked like any other town in Britannia. A thick stone wall and ditch encircled the settlement, and a single gate tower on the northern side permitted traffic in and out. Inside the walls was a sacred refuge, a sanctuary for temples to the Gods, both of the Romans and the Ancient People.

  Sorsha walked under the gate arch and along a straight main street, trailing behind a group of female pilgrims dressed in beige raw-spun tunics until she spotted the high, barrel-shaped roofs of the hot spring baths. As Sorsha stood on the threshold to the temple sanctuary, she paused to admire a monumental archway inlaid with a stone relief of two delicate nymphs beside a spring flowing from a rock. Steam billowed from the shadows of the archway that led to the spring of the Ancient Goddess Sulis. Sorsha watched the pilgrims disappear into the steam and wondered if Sulis would be disappointed that she had strayed from the path the Gods had chosen for her.

  Sulphuric vapours filled her lungs as she entered the women’s bathhouse, where Corinthian pillars surrounded a large square pool of cloudy w
ater. Four women reclined in the pool, chatting amongst themselves. Sorsha removed her belt and laid her sword by the edge of the pool. As she did so, she noticed their voices died down and the women seemed to watch her.

  She nodded at them, pulled off her tunic and cape, laying them on the stone floor next to her sword, and stepped into the warm water. Her skin tingled as she submerged. I haven’t had a bath for months. She waded to the corner opposite the group of women and laid her head back against the stone. The high, vaulted ceiling was so beautiful that it almost hurt her to see it again. She closed her eyes and inhaled the pungent fumes drifting off the water.

  “May we join you?” The group of women had waded over to Sorsha’s corner of the pool. “We were wondering where you came from?” asked the closest woman. She had the kind of bronze skin and dark eyes that made Sorsha wonder if she was from Rome itself.

  “Corinium Dobunnorum.”

  A mousy-haired woman with blue eyes glanced at the other woman. “Really? How curious that you carry a sword, then. We assumed you must be from the north, near the Emperor Hadrian’s Wall, perhaps.”

  “I have come from there, yes, but I was born in Corinium Dobunnorum.”

  The bronzed woman smiled, and the rouge on her lips cracked. “Yes, we thought that must be it, how thrilling!” She bit her lip and glanced at her companions before turning back to Sorsha. “Now tell us, have you seen one of the painted men, the barbarians? Are they truly as fearful as they say?”

  Her tone was not at all fearful, and Sorsha was left with the impression that the woman hoped that Sorsha had indeed met one. Sorsha shrugged. “Yes… I’ve spent some time beyond the Great Wall.” She remembered her mother’s words. “But they’re not barbaric…just different.”

  The women exchanged a mixture of glances, Sorsha thought, perhaps excitement, and feigned horror. The mousy-haired woman leaned forwards and whispered. “Is it true that they mark themselves with paint…permanently, like slaves?” The women seemed elated, and they giggled.