"And I know he isn't." Arden had seated himself on a log and was ripping off great chunks of bread with his teeth, gulping them down like a wolf. The man was disgusting! And yet there was something compelling about his lack of self-consciousness, his freedom from doubt.
"He'll catch you unawares," she argued doggedly.
"No, he won't."
"Why are you so certain?"
"Because we've already sent him one of the heads of the soldiers we killed, preserved in cedar oil, with a warning that yours will come next if he dares try to rescue you. If he truly loves you, he'll leave you, with me."
"No, you didn't. I saw the four heads in your Great House."
"You saw four of what were five."
Her heart chilled.
"Hool stayed behind for a while to package the head of the man who first tried to save you. We've sent it to the Romans."
"Clodius? You're a monster!"
"I'm a warrior and a realist."
Furious at herself for showing weakness, she began to weep again.
"Oh, come, lady, it's not as bad as all that. Your young soldier died in battle, the best fate of all men, and his head is being honored. It means his soul is still protecting you. I'd be flattered if our fortunes were reversed." He reached in a leather bag. "Here, have some dried fruit." He held up shriveled apple and pear.
She was still hungry enough to want it but instead refused, sitting across the fire to fume. She couldn't believe Marcus wouldn't try rescue. Clodius's poor head would spur him on, not deter him!
Yet where was he?
Perhaps she should just wait for her husband. Wait in the warmth of Arden's fort.
She hated men and their cruelties.
"So," Caratacus went on, "the question is what to do with you in the meantime. Everything I've heard and seen suggests that you're a natural horsewoman, a Morrigan of the Romans."
"Who's Morrigan?"
"How ignorant you Romans are about the island you've conquered! She's the goddess of war and the hunt. Her symbol is the horse."
"I simply like horses. They seem as noble as men are base."
"So we agree on something after all. Will you go riding with me, then?"
"Back to the fort?"
"Yes, on your stolen mare, and we need to go before darkness falls. But beyond that, will you ride with me on a hunt?"
"A hunt?"
"We've got one planned for sport and necessity."
"A woman on a hunt?"
"A woman can do what she wants."
"Not in Rome, she can't."
"You're not in Rome. You're in a place, unlike your country, where a woman can own property and wield a spear and choose who she wants for her bed and who for her marriage. Believe me, they're not always the same person. Come with me. It's exciting."
"You're trying to enlist me."
"I'm trying to calm you."
"Why, after I've escaped? Why don't you lock me in a cage?"
"But you didn't escape, did you? Here you are, still my prisoner. And if you try again, it will only give me an excuse to abduct you once more." He was grinning.
She said nothing, not wanting to give him satisfaction.
"Are you recovered enough to ride at least?"
She nodded glumly.
"Then let's make our way home, then. My home, and temporarily yours."
They rode on faint game trails that Valeria had been too anxious and inexperienced to see, Arden making no effort to tie or restrain her. While he was leading her to what he called his home, his hill fort called Tiranen, it occurred to her that he seemed even more at home here, in this forest. If there were willow gods and dark shrines, he showed no fear.
"How can you find your way so easily?" She needed to talk about something, because she kept thinking about the persistence of his pursuit and abduction. The result was unsettling in ways she didn't want to admit.
"I grew up in this country. But Iola Wood is confusing even to those of us who know it well. It's no embarrassment you were lost."
"One of my husband's soldiers told me that you Celts believe the woods are haunted. That trees like the willow can pull people underground."
"We believe that the woods are inhabited by spirits, or rather that the trees are spirits themselves, but that doesn't mean they're haunted. The willow story is just for children." He turned in his saddle to look at her. "Not that I'd sleep under one, mind you."
"Titus talked about Esus, some woodman's god, who demands a tribute of blood."
"Esus must be placated, it's true. A god should be honored with sacrifice, giving back to her some small portion of what she has given to us. But there's also Dagda, the good god, who walks through these trees as a Roman walks through his garden. The‹ groves of oak are places of both darkness and of light, just like the world as a whole."
"Savia believes there's only one god."
"I've heard this. And the Christians eat their god and drink his blood to be made strong by him, which sounds far more savage to me than sacrificing a captive to Esus. The Christians talk of a father and a son and a spirit as well, and argue among themselves whether the three are one or the one is three. Is this not true? I listened when I soldiered in your world. That's not so different from us Celts. Three is our most sacred number, and our gods are often trinities, like Morrigan, Babd, and Nemhain, separate and yet the same."
"If they are the same, then why three?"
"Three is a sacred number. Three can surround itself, each member flanked by two others. Druids believe that the educated mind requires, first, knowledge, second, nature, and third, truth. All these are the same, and yet they're different as well."
"Perhaps you should become a Christian, then."
"Theirs is a very weak god, a humble man killed so easily that none even remember what he looked like. In our world we worship strength. Besides, how can one god do the work of dozens? How silly to have different people, with different needs, all worship the same god. That defies common sense."
"Christ is the god of civilization. The god, now, of Rome."
"And what good is civilization? Your poor are worked like animals, and your rich become tyrants. In our world men and women alike are more equal, and we share in toil, and we move with the wind and season and allow ourselves to enjoy life. We care nothing for monuments but only for deeds, nothing for power but only for friendship, nothing for death-which is only sweet release-but only for life. We care for the deer and the oak and the brook and the stone. Christians are proud their god walked among them, but our Celtic gods are with us all the time, in everything we see and touch. The Christian god has gone away, but ours speak to us with wind and thunder and sometimes, more softly, in the call of birds."
"And yet it is Rome that rules the world."
"Not this world. Not this warrior." He glanced upward into the trees and pointed. "Let me show you." Reaching up, he grabbed the limb of an oak and swung himself off his horse as easily as an acrobat. Climbing to the topmost bough, he sawed at something with his dagger and then descended, his catlike drop to the ground reminding her of the time he'd surprised the mule pulling her cart. Then he remounted and walked his horse over.
"Here."
It was a branch of polished leaves and white berry, very different from the oak it came from. "What is it?"
"The sacred mistletoe. It's a magic plant that grows at the crown of trees. Wear a sprig in your hair, and it will protect you from evil spirits. Keep it at hand, and it will ward off death and disfigurement. Put it over a cradle, and it will prevent a baby from being abducted by faeries. This is the most powerful plant the gods have put on Earth, and it's free for the taking. It symbolizes the truth of the world, that wood and water give us all we really need."