Part 2

“She won’t talk, and we can’t threaten to starve ‘er, ‘cause she won’t eat regardless. Is that barbarian trying to kill herself?” said a legionary, shaking his head.

“Wouldn’t you?” Marcus replied, looking with sad eyes at the tree Suileach was lashed too, fully conscious despite the beating the centurion had given her during the first questioning.

She had thrust out her chin proudly and ignored jeers and other various and sundry comments alike. He was right in guessing that she wouldn’t talk to him. ‘You’re one of them?!’ she’d screamed at him in disbelief, proceeding to empty every insult in her vocabulary upon him, which was considerable, especially for a woman. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

“Me? No.” the legionary said. “I’d tell the tribune everything he wanted to know.”

“I really don’t think there are any more like her around – here, at least.” Marcus said thoughtfully, remembering what Suileach had said the night she danced, that she was all that was left.

“Yeah. It’s hard to believe there are any left at all.”

Marcus snorted and approached Suileach again, crouching in front of her. She briefly eyed him, looking less than her best with a big blue patch around her eye. If he felt he could have stopped her being beaten, he certainly would have, but the most effect that would have was them both getting beaten, and another interpreter brought in, lessening the chances of her escape. Yes, he did plan to get her out, one way or another. She reminded him of the roots he himself should honor. He remembered, ashamed, how his mother had wailed when she found that his purpose was in spying out druids for the Romans.

“Can’t you talk to me?” he asked quietly.

She spit on the ground by his feet, eyes alight, but kept her silence.

Marcus sighed and tried another tactic. It turned out that he wished he hadn’t said what he asked next. “How was Beltane?”

She started screaming at him anew, struggling against her bonds, as if trying to get at him. She wasn’t speaking in Gaelic, or if she was, not any form that he knew, so the names she slung at him were lost on his ears.

“Curse it all!” The centurion yelled at them from a table covered with maps twenty feet away. “If she doesn’t shut up, I’ll cut out her tongue!”

The legionary Marcus had been conversing with stepped forward, pila raised as if to smack her into submission again, but the Gaul stood between the soldier and the woman.

“Don’t do that.” he warned. “It’s not helping.”

The man looked between Marcus and the centurion, who was no longer paying attention, as Suileach had quieted on her own.

The man stepped back to his position, and Marcus knelt by her once more. She didn’t outright glare at him, and so he tried a faint, brief smile. She sniffed, and looked away.

“I’m sorry they hurt you.” he said. “I can’t do anything about that. If you talk, tell the tribune what he wants, then they’ll let you be.”

Suileach rolled her eyes, and finally spoke. “Where have you been, Roman? I’m a druid. They’ll run me through with one of those short swords and then move on.”

While her voice seemed broken, she did not look afraid. Marcus was impressed; were he in her position, he would at least be that. She spoke calmly, almost bored, of her coming death.

“Why are you not afraid?” he asked, intrigued.

She sat up a little straighter as she replied. “Death is just another life.”

“Then why do you hate the Romans?”

She was still and silent, looking him in the eye, contemplating telling him. She remembered the night, seventeen years ago, when she had watched her grove burn, watched the Romans march away without a care for the life they destroyed. A hot tear of helplessness and anger rolled down her cheek as she spoke, quietly with hidden feeling.

“Because they do not care. They bring iron and fire, unnatural fire that will not be quenched by rain. They hunt for sport, kill when they do not have to. They steal, and violate the land itself by the wrongs done to her people. They think they bring civilization, but they bring war and grief, diseases that cannot be fought by magic or nature.”

Her voice trembled. “I will not say that we did not have war, because we did, but our wars were done to set the wrongs right. We did not fight because the son usurped the father, because the general was held by greed.”

She turned her head away again, and Marcus heard his own people’s grief in her words. “But we do now, because the Roman brought greed with him.”

Marcus was quiet, too. He felt he understood the whole Breton culture in her speech. It was so simple a truth, why hadn’t the Emperor, who was supposed to think of these things, been able to see that? Because he didn’t care, likely.

“I’ll tell you this,” she said sharply, narrowing her eyes at him. “To tell your master over there. Thanks to his kind, I’m the only one. Madawc, my uncle, was the last in the south. He died. Now, it’s me.”

And she said no more. Knowing that the Romans could freely kill her, she gave up what they’d beaten her to find out, gathered her tied legs to her chest, laid down her head and was still.

“You’ve been talking for a while.” the tribune said, sounding curious. “Did she say anything important?”

Marcus was almost angry enough to reply something rude. Of course what she said was important! More important than what the big togas back in Rome had to say. For once, using his cleverness, he turned to the man, a fake smile pasted on his face. “No such luck. She’s stupid, this one. That’s why she never rebelled.”

What he said to Suileach, he said, in Gaelic, in a scornful tone, since the listeners would have been suspicious of anything but.

“Wait for me at nightfall.”

Suileach raised her head, silent and staring for a few moments. Then, she lashed out with her bound feet, screeched something along the lines of ‘fine!’ in an angry manner, then shut up just as quickly when the centurion glared daggers at her.

Admittedly, Marcus wasn’t sure how he was going to do this. He couldn’t take on a whole camp of legionaries single-handed, but he could take out one if he had to. Assuming he managed to even release Suileach, they’d have to get away quick. That meant a horse or two, and that meant either stealing from the legion or going back to the village, and he was sure not to be welcome at the latter. Although, Suileach knew the woodlands, and the Romans didn’t. It was possible that she could effectively hide them without the need for escaping on horseback, as that would be risky. Assuming also, of course, that she wouldn’t somehow leave him as bait for her own captors. He was sure that she wasn’t nearly as friendly toward him as she was on Beltane, and she may even still hate him enough to get away at his expense. You’re clever, Calpurnius, but a coward. Do something for the sake of another, for once. His conscious goaded. Well, that decided it. He was a coward, and a selfish one. If he didn’t live through this, well, he’d lived long enough with the blood of innocents on his hands, albeit indirectly.

---

She ached. There was no chant or hymn she knew that would ward the pain. There was the magic in the poppy seeds, but her supplies were back in the village, and the Romans couldn’t understand her, let alone bring her some. She didn’t dare ask Oagan, or whatever his real name was. She was too proud for that, and frankly, she was embarrassed. It had been with him that she enjoyed her first Beltane, given of herself unknowingly to the enemy. For all his kind words to her, he was probably laughing it up with some buddies of his in the ranks. She hated him, and she didn’t hate him. She didn’t love him, and she barely liked him. He was a spy, by Herne! But he wasn’t evil. At least, not in the way the Romans were. She was fairly sure that he was Gaul-born like he’d said, and that counted for something.

Several times over the course of the day, the soldiers came by, mocking her in a coarse and ugly language she knew nothing of. She was scared, though she kept them from knowing. She was terrified of them, but not of the death they brought. She was afraid they’d touch her to the devil-fire they had, or that they would cut her with their iron and damn her soul. She was afraid for the villagers, for Siobrach and Beorc, Dryw and Brom, the innkeeper Caoimhin. Mostly, she was afraid they’d take out their hate on the trees and the animals, that they’d set their devil-fire that never burned out on the meadows and woodlands, killing more than just wildlife.

She didn’t know how long since nightfall it was when the sentry disappeared into the woods at her back to relieve himself, and through her waning senses heard a faint ‘oof.’ She felt hands grapple with the leather bonds that bit into her wrists, and sweet Gaelic floated to her ears.

“It’s just me. Do you know a hiding place nearby?”

So, her Roman Gaul had pulled through. She relaxed against the comforting trunk and closed her eyes while she thought. She did recognize the hills in the distance, and the field beside, and formulated a series of images as suitable as any map in her head. Her own home wasn’t far away, but that was a path visible to any clever tracker. She flipped through more mental images of woodland seeking a better shelter. A copse came into mind, with a pile of heavily moss-covered rocks set in the middle. Sometimes, the best place to hide was in plain sight. The foolish Romans would probably be looking for her – them - in the trees, or in a stream, not an old altar which they probably would not recognize for what it was anyway. And they were close, too.

“A big pile of stones, less than a mile away.” She answered abruptly in a whisper.

“Good.” Oagan said, tearing away the last of the leather. “Can you walk?”

She would have snapped at him for that, but it was probably a viable question. She twisted so that he could get at the leather binding her legs while staying out of sight of whatever late-night stroller should decide to come by. The bonds came off more quickly than those of her wrists, and she grudgingly accepted his help in standing. She gritted her teeth at a new wave of pain while the blood flowed again, but she was happy for it. Pain meant that her legs would work.

“How long do we have?” she whispered, taking steps one at a time into the gloom of the forest.

“Not long, if you keep walking.” He said.

She glowered at him, taking quicker steps. Her legs hurt worse, but she would not be pitied by this man. “I will be able to run soon enough. How much time before they get onto us?”

“If they aren’t expecting this,” he started, his form a dark shape next to her in the cloudy night, “Maybe an hour. If they are, a lot less.”

She saw his head tilt up. “If it rains, that’ll only help.”

She groped for his hand in the darkness, speeding her walk. She found it, and held on tight, but not as a sign of affection. At this point, still bruised, she actually needed him, and did not want him to get lost.

“Breasul pity us,” she murmured, making a sign with her free hand. She only hoped the patron deity of travelers would hear her prayer.

It was hard to find her way in the dark, but she’d walked the wood in night before, and knew where she was when she concentrated. She cursed at every twig that broke beneath their feet, but one of the rains that often graced her fine green land was coming, and would hide the timing of their tracks.

“What’s your name, Roman?” she asked, not wanting to refer to him as Oagan. Him she liked.

“Marcus Lentus Calpurnius.” Her stoic companion answered.

“What is it with you people and long names?!” she growled sourly.

“What’s with you people and only one name? No one can tell anyone else apart.”

She didn’t feel like pointing out to him how the villagers distinguished themselves by their trade, and therefor didn’t just have one name.

“Call me Marcus.” his voice sounded, lonely in the dark.

“Fine.” she replied.

A half-hour’s more stumbling brought them to the clearing with the would-be shelter, the rain soaking them more thoroughly as they ran across the grass to the edifice.

“I don’t see an opening!” Marcus commented, annoyed.

“That’s because you’re Roman, and don’t know how to look.” she answered calmly, almost slyly, like a mother teaching her child better.

She carefully pulled away the tall grass and moss to reveal a small yawning hole in the rock face, flipping her we hair from her eyes.

“You first. I don’t want to get bitten by snakes.”

Giving her a wry look, he slid into the hole, shivering as his tunic slid up his back to let the skin get dirty with mud and grass. After a sufficient amount of time went by, and he didn’t cry out, she slid in beside him, rearranging the foliage as she did so.

The best that could be said for the hole was that it was dry. She knew by rather unfortunate experience that a bear hibernated here in winter, so it was merely sizable. With two humans squeezed in there, it was cramped.

“Ow! You just hit my nose with your elbow.”

“It’s about time you got to be the injured one.”

“It’s not like I was the one who beat you.”

“But you could have at least said something!” Suileach snorted, glaring at him.

“I said I was sorry.” he mumbled. Then a short silence.

“Do you hate me?”

She sighed. “No, I don’t.”

“I’m Roman.”

“What kind of person convinces someone to hate them? Shut up while I still don’t.” she snapped. “And I don’t believe you are.”

Marcus glanced sideways at her. “No?”

She groaned and rubbed her temple again. “I said as much, didn’t I?”

“Thanks.” he said hollowly.

They sat there in the gloom and damp, breathing shallow, waiting for whatever might come, good or bad. A couple times, Suileach thought she heard the bark of a dog, or a shout in that ugly Latin language. She imagined that she was just letting her fears get the better of her.

Then, shortly before dawn, the tramping of feet and rattle of armor could be heard.

“Here they come,” Marcus hissed, scrambling back as far into the hole as he could. Suileach plucked a clover growing just inside the cover of the moss, breathed on it with a prayer sent to Herne, and passed it back to Marcus.

He gave her an ‘are you serious?’ look when she told him to eat it.

“If you want to live, you will.” she said, picking one for herself and repeating the prayer and breath before shoving the bitter four-leaf clover into her mouth.

They talked no more after as voices and footsteps sounded closer.

“Little bitch, making us tramp around this early…” one legionary complained, kicking a bush angrily.

“We’ll make her pay for it when we find her, though.” a second said, chuckling.

The first sniffed. “I don’t want any of that, and you don’t either. She probably sleeps with animals!”

“Naw, they don’t do that!”

Marcus couldn’t believe what he was hearing. What sort of ignorant fool would believe a thing like that? It was best that they were using Latin, and Suileach couldn’t hear then. She’d probably go insane over it.

“You know what the tribune’ll do if we don’t find her?” the second asked, slashing at a branch.

“Besides tan our hides with the whip?” the first offered.

“He’ll use the Greek fire to flush her out or kill her, that’s what. This whole place will be engulfed, and he’ll just watch.”

“Yeah, he’s considerate like that.”

“The fire?” Marcus whispered, ever so slightly.

Suileach gave him a wide-eyed look. There was one word Madawc had taught her of Latin, and that word was fire.

“Half men!” she shrieked, crambling out of the hole and grabbing up two handfuls of mud.

Marcus hurried out after her, drawing the knife at his belt. One surprised legionary managed to draw his gladius before the crazed woman was upon him, knocking him to the ground and smearing mud in his eyes. Marcus, glad there were no others close by, charged the second, caught off-guard when the Gaul swung a powerful right hook at him. He tripped the soldier on his way down, bringing his fist down hard on the back of his victim’s neck. Thankfully, the blow knocked him out cold.

Suileach had some trouble with her opponent. She was a woman, and the legionary was trained full-time for war regardless of how strong her anger was, and she had no luck wrestling the gladius from his fingers. She was trying to keep his arms from wrapping around and crushing her slim form, but his limbs were slowly closing in. Marcus scampered over while she still straddled him, fell to his knees and plunged his knife into the man’s fleshy neck.

He gurgled, forgetting the druid and clawing at his lifeblood draining away. Splattered with the red liquid, Suileach scrambled to her feet, horrified. Marcus watched in relative surprise as she stared between the twitching Roman and his crimson blood streaked across her front. He saw the emotions run across her face as she processed what had just happened. There was anger, triumph, and sadness, though for the life of him he didn’t know why.

“Suileach, we have to go!” he urged, quickly wiping the bone blade clean on the grass and glancing around.

“He’s…” she started to murmur, “Dead!”

“Yes, that’s what happens when you slit someone’s throat.” Marcus said, more callously than he meant.

She turned infuriated eyes upon him, and he was confused. She hated the Romans, so why was she so angry at one’s death?

“He’s dead, Marcus! A living thing!” she looked down at the dead man, eyes shining.

Marcus grabbed her numb arm and pulled her away from the scene, listening for other voices. Thank the gods, he heard none – so far.

“He’s dead!” she repeated, stumbling after him in the early-morning twilight.

“Isn’t that what you wanted?” Marcus asked.

“No! Well…yes, but now that…that I’ve seen someone die…”

Her voice sounded broken, like she was going to cry. Women…

“I thought I did want to see them dead, but they are living things too…”

“But they were going to kill you. Isn’t that reason enough to try to kill them right back?’ he offered.

Suileach, beside him, looked unsure. “Perhaps…”

“Hey, look over there.” Marcus said, pointing to a cave coming up as they ran, snuggled between tree trunks and undergrowth.

“We can’t hide there.” Suileach said, dashing an arm across her eyes. “Too obvious.”

Shouts and the thundering of hooves silenced whatever else she was going to say.

“Nevermind. Keep moving!” Marcus shouted, and they sped up.

Suileach was not in the mood for all this exercise. She’d never run so much without sleep in her whole life. Her legs ached, and her lungs sent spasms through her chest whenever she inhaled. The situation seemed hopeless. The Romans really wanted her dead. It looked like the druids of the south were about to die out for good.

Her sight was suddenly separated into little squares as a net was flung in front of them. Suileach screamed, as much from fright as anger and she fell headlong into the strong twisted hemp. Marcus was in much the same predicament, and before either could untangle themselves, the net was bodily hauled up into the trees. Brown eyes took in brown eyes. Suileach was blinking at a man painted blue with woad.

“What do you fools think you’re doing around here?” said a menacing, albeit surprised voice.

In relief, Suileach rattled off who she was, who her uncle was, and finally that the Gaul with her was Oagan. When she said this, Marcus gave her a subtle sideways glance. She could have very easily told them he was a Roman, at which time they would surely have run him through, despite his illustrious companion. She didn’t hate him after all.

“A Gaul and a druidess!” the voice exclaimed. “We’re catching all sorts of folk today.”

It belonged to a robust man sitting on a branch about five feet from the two. His hair was flecked with gray, but his bulging muscles and sinew told of his strength. The designs on his skin were more intricate than those on the others, insinuating he was the leader.

“The iron-arses are following you, then?” one of the men holding their net asked.

“Sadly.” Suileach said, her voice becoming hard. “Why are you here?”

The man shook his head and held a finger to his lips, and the group of about twenty or so men grew silent.

The sound of hooves grew again, and more angry shouts in Latin. Suileach was surprised at the power of their hate. Even after they’d run away, the legionaries were searching for them in the night, and one was killed because of it. Why did they pursue her so? She had nothing of value on her.

Two horsemen and five infantrymen came into sight under the raiders, unaware of what might be their impending doom. It was then, as she looked around, that she noticed the state of undress the men were in. A few of them were naked as the day they were born, and thankfully most had some cloth covering their loins. This surprised her, them fighting against an armored enemy. In the older days, before the Romans, men fought naked so that the war goddess, the Morrigan, could bless them. Now, blessed or not, more clothing seemed appropriate.

The druid had only seen fighting men once in her life, when Madawc still lived, and had taken her to an Iceni war camp. The men had not been ready for battle then, which was why they had all been clothed at the time. Madawc never really spoke of the subject. For all she knew, it was a clan thing; these were Picts, not Iceni.

One of the men holding the net silently got her attention. He motioned from the end of the net to a sturdy branch, around which he tied the twined rope. On the other tree, Suileach saw the other man doing the same. She tapped Marcus’ shoulder, just to make sure he saw too. Apparently, they were to stay put.

The leader suddenly cried out, leaping from his perch and onto one of the horsemen. The other men quickly followed suit, battle-cries ringing. When the attack started, Suileach and Marcus made their way out of the net as quickly as they could without falling, making for the trees on either side. Marcus reached first, and held out his hand to the druidess. Her dark eyes, for which she was named, took him in solemnly. This was no time for her to be pensive!

“I’m not going to drop you!”

“Won’t you?” she replied enigmatically, body shaking as the wind moved the tree limbs.

Marcus’ hand was insistent. “You could have told them I was Roman. A life between us.”

For the first time, scenes from Beltane flashed through his mind. Her ghostly, beautiful song floated through his mind, as did the curves of her body outlined in the flames when she danced. He remembered, too, the kisses and caresses later on. She had liked him then. He longed for her to like him again.

The net shook violently as a gust tore through the foliage higher up. Suileach’s eyes widened as she lost her balance, and her body tilted to the side.

Marcus cursed and nearly launched himself from the tree grabbing for her arm. He caught her outstretched elbow, his grip sliding until it firmly clasped her forearm. Her fingers, strong and cold, dug into his flesh as her limbs flailed in her fright. He almost felt better, knowing even she wasn’t beyond fear.

“The other!” he yelled, flinching at his uncomfortable position draped over the large tree limb. The battle below had not stopped yet, as more legionaries arrived.

Suileach’s other arm trembled as she swung it up to his reach, and her legs pushed against the tree trunk to gain footing and allow Marcus to regain his own balance.

He pulled her up just when a horseman rode past, swiping at her feet with his gladius. She tumbled into him, still trembling. He couldn’t help himself.

“Scared?”

“Never!” she snapped in a shaky voice, clutching at him.

He wrapped one arm around her, the other stabilizing them against the tree from the agonized screams of the dying beneath them. She was warm, but not soft and cushy like most Romans liked their women. The muscles of a life not easily lived made her form firm under frayed homespun fabric.

“I’m going to leave this place.” She muttered suddenly. “When this is over, I’ll go to the isle of Mona. I hear there are others there. Where will you go?”

She never looked up at him, her head buried in the front of his tunic.

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Back to Gaul, maybe.”

“You can’t. They’ll kill you.” A pause. “There’s room at Mona.”

Marcus chuckled. “Is that an invitation?”

“Maybe.”

He had nothing to add to that. He was content with their silence, even if they could now hear the battle below them. He was unaware of how it was going. He was stroking her damp, raven hair, enjoying her mossy scent.

“I’m glad I met you.” He said, unsure and uncaring of what kind of response he got.

Suileach never did reply.

A pila slew her with hardly a shudder.

---

AN: And it's done. Please tell me what you thought, and how I could make it better. I really want this one to be amazing.

I'm fiddling with the idea of continuing Marcus' travels in further short stories, if I ever get the time or inspiration.

A pila is a Roman spear with a thick wooden shaft, topped by about a two foot long soft head, so that it bends and becomes unusable by the enemy. A gladius is the short sword the Romans used, particularly to combat the broad and long swords of the 'barbarians.'