A Painted Winter

by H. Barnard

  “You know, I’ve been thinking about last night,” Brei whispered. “Is Sorsha really a Healer?”

  Taran scraped his chair back and stood up. “You know, I think I will dance with the Princess of Cait, after all.”

  As Taran walked out of the hall, he snatched the jug of wine from the serving boy’s hand and disappeared. Brei leaned back and continued to sip his wine until, by nightfall, he felt drunk enough to venture outside.

  The sun had only just set when fresh sea air misted against Brei’s face. Across the horizon the clouds were lit up blood-red, and the flames from the bonfire were so large that they almost surpassed the hall’s height. As Brei listened to the intense rhythmic drumming, he saw the dancers bending and contorting their bodies to the music.

  Brei scanned the scene for familiar faces. Naoise is making a fool of himself dancing with Eithne, who, to be fair, is behaving just as foolishly, running her hands over his bare chest like that.

  Talorc was deep in conversation with King Alpin, King Cailtram, and King Gartnait. He was sharing a very animated story and, after a minute, they erupted into a chorus of loud laughter. Brei looked around and saw Taran sitting on the fortified wall by the sea. He was accompanied by Drest and a jug of wine. Brei wandered towards them.

  “Nice of you to surface, Brei,” Taran yelled.

  “We’ve just been taking bets on which farmer’s daughter had detained you this time,” Drest smirked as he passed him the jug of wine.

  Brei rolled his eyes and accepted the jug from him. He brought the jug up to his mouth and tipped it up. “It’s fucking empty!”

  Taran and Drest heaved in silent laughter. “Oh, be a lamb and fetch us another, won’t you, Brei-Brei?” Taran said.

  Brei lunged for him, and Taran sprung from his spot on the wall. Brei caught him by the waist and tackled him to the ground, laughing.

  Twenty-Seven

  Spring, 367 C.E., Britannia

  Sorsha spent the night sleeping on a feather mattress under cool silk sheets. But all the softness and luxury in the world could not shield her from the dark passageways and green eyes that haunted her. When she was not sweating through her nightmares, she lay awake, looking at the whitewashed roof. How long can this slow, sleepless torture endure?

  When she awoke the next morning, she was greeted by the handmaiden with bright red hair. The maid wore a metal collar around her neck, the mark of a slave. I wonder if she came from Caledon.

  “Hello,” Sorsha whispered in the Ancient Tongue.

  The girl almost dropped the brush that she was handing to Sorsha. “Hello,” she whispered.

  “Where do you come from?” Sorsha asked.

  “Caermhead, Kingdom of the Maetae. Where do you come from? Your accent is so strange.” She blushed.

  “Yes, it is,” Sorsha smiled. “I am from here, from Corinium Dobunnorum, but I have lived in Caercaled, in the Kingdom of Caledon.” She lifted the sleeve of her tunic and showed the girl her tattoo. The girl opened her mouth and crept closer to inspect it. Her finger hovered, tracing the design in the air without touching her. “You are a Bandruwydd?”

  “Sort of.”

  She gazed into Sorsha’s eyes. “Your eyes are so green. My grandma used to tell me stories about the Gallar, with eyes like yours.”

  “Have you ever seen a Healer before?”

  “No, but my grandma said she had. But it was such a long time ago. My grandmother saw her when she was a child and then one day the Healer was found dead in the circle of stone.”

  Should I tell her? What’s the harm? “I am a Healer.”

  The girl’s hand slid as she untied Sorsha’s braid. “Really?”

  “Yes. Are you happy here? Are you treated well?” she asked the girl as she brushed out Sorsha’s long black hair. The girl stopped what she was doing, and Sorsha turned to look at her. “It’s okay, I won’t say anything.”

  The girl stared at her feet and then back up again. “They don’t beat me or anything, so I am lucky because not every slave can say that. But no, I don’t think I, or anyone taken from their families, could be happy. How could we ever?”

  Sorsha remembered the slaves who had served her growing up. “Were you taken six years ago? Six summers?”

  “Yes, I think that’s right.”

  “With others?”

  “Yes, there were many women, taken to a city far from here, where we were sold. I was in a lot with some other girls. The provost bid for us to serve his wife…for the most part.” She blushed again.

  Sorsha took the girl’s hand in hers. “I’m sorry this happened to you. What is your name?”

  “Nyfain.”

  “Nyfain… That’s a lovely name.”

  “What is yours?”

  “Sorsha.”

  Nyfain frowned. “Where is that name from?”

  “Ulster, I think. It was the only name I’d heard that wasn’t Roman, and I panicked when I had to choose a name.”

  “You got to choose your name?”

  “When I first became a Healer, I was sort of reborn but as an adult. And when I met the Caledones, I had to think of a name.”

  “And ‘Sorsha’ was the best name?”

  Sorsha smiled. “They already suspected me of being a Roman spy, so the name didn’t help things, no.”

  “In my kingdom, princes from Ulster often marry Princesses of the Blood, so maybe it’s not such a strange name,” Nyfain said as she pulled Sorsha’s hair tight into a fresh braid. “Will you go back?”

  Sorsha shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “I’d love to see the north again, even if my family are all gone.”

  Sorsha watched Nyfain as she packed away the brush and walked out of the room. I wonder how much a slave costs.

  Corinthian pillars rose from the marble floor, high up to the vaulted roof of the steaming baths below. Sorsha and Cecily were assisted back into their tunics and wrapped in flowing pallas by Nyfain and Cecily’s slave, Fortunata. Sorsha’s baths had become so frequent that a sulphuric tang clung to her skin. Displaying her wealth through her slaves, Cecily allowed Nyfain and Fortunata to wear voluminous tunics in pale shades of blue and yellow, and gold armbands. Nyfain’s fiery red hair was curled and piled high on her head, in the style of her mistress.

  Spring was withering into a scorching summer with so little rain that there was already apprehension, even in the sacred city of Aquae Sulis, that there would be a bad harvest. Throughout the weeks she had spent in Cecily and Marcus’s luxurious apartments, Sorsha had thought more about Nyfain and the other slaves taken from the north. She wondered at how blindly and easily she had accepted it, just because society told her they were different. I wonder whether Taran’s mother survived. He thought she had been taken to be a slave. I wonder if Cecily would know how I could find out.

  Sorsha followed Cecily along a stone corridor surrounding the bath complex and out onto the narrow path leading to the nymphs’ grand archway. Through the archway, they entered a courtyard within which there stood a tall, white, rectangular building with decorated pillars supporting a vaulted, triangular roof. Sorsha and Cecily climbed the marble steps and joined Marcus in prayer at the temple to Sulis Minerva.

  Inside the temple was a great stone altar, with reliefs of the Gods carved into it. Earthy frankincense and fruity myrrh filled the air, covering the sulphuric scent of the baths. On the wall high above the altar was a geometric border surrounding a large male head with wavy hair, like serpents. It was the Gorgon that the Goddess Minerva wore on her armour. In front of the altar was a towering bronze statue of the Goddess Sulis, a woman with almond eyes and a thick crown of curly hair.

  Sorsha bent to her knees before the altar while Marcus and Cecily roamed the cavernous temple in silence. Sulis Minerva, forgive me. Help me. Ask the Gallar that I be given a new mission. Tears squeezed past her closed eyes and rolled down her cheeks. Don’t make me go back. She pleaded with the bronze face of the Goddess as she had done countless times in
her former life. Help me, Sulis. The Goddess’ vacant eyes stared back at her, and Sorsha swallowed down the crushing disappointment of yet another unsuccessful morning spent praying to a Goddess who was not sympathetic to her plight.

  Sorsha got to her feet and rejoined Marcus and Cecily, who waited by the decorated entrance pillars. As they walked out of the magnificent temple and into the whitewashed courtyard that backed onto the bathing complex, Sorsha turned to Cecily. “Would it be possible to find a slave if I knew her name and where she was taken from?”

  Cecily raised her preened eyebrows and turned to her husband, who mirrored her surprise.

  “There was a woman taken from the family who helped me. I don’t know if she is dead but if she is alive, then she would be a slave, and I would like to buy her and take her home. As a thank you, you see, for her family saving me?” Sorsha felt her cheeks flush.

  Cecily nodded, but she did not smile. “That would be very difficult to work out, but the slave market is in Londinium, so you would have to go there and check the records.”

  Marcus smiled. “Such a noble idea, Lucia, and yet, sadly, I fear it will be wasted on those not civilised enough to appreciate altruism.”

  “Even so, I would like to try. Would she have been taken to the Great Wall or to Londinium?”

  “Oh, Londinium, for sure, if they wanted a good price,” Marcus replied, as though they were talking grain.

  “Do you know someone there?”

  “Flavius, he runs the slave market. He will have all the records. He speaks a fair bit of barbarian too by now, of course. And you do too, don’t you, dear?”

  “Yes, many of us can still speak the Ancient Tongue.”

  Cecily laughed. “I don’t know why they waste their time teaching their children a dead language.”

  “I suppose nothing is truly dead until there is no one left to remember it,” Marcus said, smiling at Sorsha.

  “But let us talk of fun things,” Cecily grinned. “There are to be gladiators at the amphitheatre in Corinium Dobunnorum five days from now. Real gladiators, not just the usual bull-baiting. I even heard there might be a bear. Shall we go, Lucia? Marc must attend on official duties, so we can sit in the stands, away from the commoners. How would you like that?”

  “I never really went to the arena. I saw bull-baiting once, but I didn’t see the fun in it.”

  Cecily clutched her hand. “When its real men, it’s so much more thrilling than animals. Trust me. You’ll love it! And we have such lovely apartments in Corinium Dobunnorum, near the governor’s residence. We know the Governor of Britannia Prima personally.”

  Twenty-Eight

  Spring, 367 C.E., Vortriu

  The new moon plunged Caertarwos into darkness as a procession of chanting Druwydds cloaked in white glided into the city through the stone passage carved with bulls. A crisp, salty breeze blew up the cliffs and the Druwydds’ torches shuddered, splashing orange light across their billowing robes and bare feet. Brei, Taran, Dylan, and Naoise stood on the wall of the upper rampart and watched the Druwydds meander between the roundhouses of the lower rampart. Eithne climbed up onto the wall next to Naoise and was joined by her brother, Drest.

  “Where are they going?” Naoise whispered to Eithne.

  “To the temple of the Goddesses. But only the Bandruwydds will enter. There is a staircase that dips down under that hill, and below is a stone chamber with a pool of fresh water. It is a beautiful room, painted with scenes of the Goddesses. Few have seen it. Only the Bandruwydds, Healers, and Princesses of the Blood may enter.”

  “Not even Queens?” Taran asked.

  “Only women of the royal bloodline may enter,” she smiled at Naoise. “Though I suppose if a Princess of the Blood married her cousin who was a King, then she may enter as Queen.”

  “What do they do in there?” Brei asked.

  “I’m not sure exactly, but I think they use the water to consult with the Goddesses. I went down there one time, and one of the Healers, Morrigan, was staring into the pool, talking, but she was alone.”

  Brei shivered. The Druwydds’ chanting grew louder, humming behind the hill until black-clad Bandruwydds emerged from the subterranean chamber. The procession moved further away towards the cliffs until only pricks of light from their torches hovered in the distance. Eventually, the rolling hiss and thud of waves hitting the rocks drowned out the chanting.

  Taran jumped off the rampart and sat on the ground, leaning his back against the stonework.

  “Go get us some ale, Dylan,” Naoise said, pushing his brother off the wall.

  Brei slid to the cold ground next to Taran. It’s going to be a long night.

  Someone was shaking him.

  “Soldiers are attacking.”

  Brei opened his eyes. His father, Rhys, stood over him as he lay in his bed in Caercaled.

  Brei yawned. “What’s wrong?”

  Rhys strode to the other side of the room where Taran lay in his cot bed, a mop of short blond hair covering his sleeping eyes. Rhys leant over the boy and shook his shoulders. “Taran, get up, son. Roman soldiers are attacking Caercaled.”

  Brei sat upright. His vision blurred from the sudden movement. “Where have they attacked?”

  Taran opened his eyes and squinted up at their father.

  “The farmsteads are on fire, and they’ve slaughtered the garrison at the Western Gate,” Rhys replied.

  Brei leapt out of the bed and grabbed his pants, which were hanging over a chair. “Are there survivors from the farmsteads?”

  “I don’t know, Brei. Gruffydd just rode up to the tower to sound the alarm. Taran, get dressed now. We need to defend the city.”

  Brei could hear screaming from the rooms below. In the stairwell his uncle, King Uradech, was speaking with someone. “Stay here with Derelei. Don’t leave the tower. You’ll be safe here.”

  Brei jammed his feet into his boots and grabbed his sword and shield from under his bed. His fingers trembled as he secured the leather scabbard belt around his waist.

  King Uradech walked into the room with his brother Gartnait, and Gartnait’s son, Elfinn.

  “Are you taking the boys with you?” Uradech asked.

  Rhys nodded. “We need everyone if we are to save the city.”

  Uradech grasped Rhys on the shoulder. “Good man. We’ll try to push the Romans out of the city, but Gruffydd says they’re fanning out and burning houses. This is going to be difficult.”

  “Who will remain here to guard the women and children?”

  Uradech shook his head. “I can spare no one. Derelei is armed, of course, but that’s the best we can do. Naoise and Dylan are too young and will remain with the women, but I have left them with daggers.” Uradech turned to Taran with a strained smile. “Ready, lad?”

  Taran nodded. He had barely seen fourteen winters, and yet his face was set with the confidence of a man who had seen thirty. They left the tower and stepped into the moonlight. In the warm summer air Gruffydd and the king’s guard waited for them with torches. King Uradech took a torch from the hands of a warrior and held it above his head.

  “Defend our homes, brothers, or we will meet again in Tirscath!” Uradech yelled, and he ran towards the outer ramparts and into the Sacred Forest.

  The nauseating scream of women in pain echoed in the dark. Brei’s mind lurched to Anwen, and his mouth turned dry. They followed King Uradech through the trees and into the city, where flames glowed against the dark horizon. At least a hundred Roman soldiers were fighting Caledon warriors in the centre circle. The market stalls were ablaze, as were all the roundhouses near the Western Gate.

  “Head to the centre circle!” Uradech yelled as they sprinted towards the flames. Crowds of screaming women and children clogged the lanes as they descended through the city.

  “Shelter in the tower!” Uradech yelled to villagers scrambling up the hill away from the soldiers. A woman fell in their path, and Brei skirted around her. He looked over his shoulder as
he kept running and saw Taran had stopped to help her stand. Brei clenched his jaw and kept pushing through the fleeing villagers.

  The heat from the fires increased as he drew closer, and the scraping of metal echoed over the screams. Warriors, men he saw every day, were slashing at the Roman soldiers. Metal covered the soldiers’ chests and heads, and they carried large round shields. King Uradech charged through the crush of men and cracked his sword into the helmet of a Roman. The soldier fell, and Uradech stabbed into his neck. The warriors roared and pushed forwards against the soldiers.

  Brei stayed close to his father and Taran as they moved forwards to engage. The space was so crowded it was difficult for the warriors to swing their swords. Covered in armour, the Romans pierced through the warriors’ uncovered chests with ease. A Roman blade plunged through the stomach of a warrior in front of Brei, and out through the warrior’s spine. The warrior fell to his knees, screaming as blood streamed down his back.

  The soldier glared at Brei, his eyes glinting in the fires’ light. Brei raised his sword, as best he could in the crush, and swung at the Roman. The soldier stepped back and knocked Brei’s sword away with his shield. As Brei tried to swing again, the soldier lunged at his abdomen. From the corner of Brei’s eye, he saw someone jump towards the soldier and stab him in the exposed part of his neck with a dagger. The soldier collapsed as Taran looked up at Brei. Taran grasped Brei by the shoulder. “Courage, Brei,” he yelled and ran through the gap in the Roman line, swinging at a soldier with a strength unnatural for a boy of his size.

  Brei ran after Taran in the mêlée and faced a tall Roman. The Roman raised his sword and lunged for Brei’s head. Brei swerved to the right and plunged his sword into the gusset gap underneath the soldier’s armpit. The Roman fell to his knees as Brei pulled his bloodied sword from the soldier’s side and stabbed it through the man’s throat. Blood sprayed from the Roman’s mouth, his eyes locked on Brei’s. But Brei had no time to enjoy his victory as another soldier was upon him. Brei pulled the sword from the dead man’s neck and lunged at his next opponent, ducking as a spear was hurled at his head.