She looked skeptical. "And yet you barbarians sneak into Roman territory to steal, so you can live as Romans do."
He laughed. "How clever you are! Some do, I don't deny it. But there's more to the magic of this mistletoe." His arm stretched, and he held it near her face, dangling from his hand, and then leaned and kissed her, a kiss as swift and fleeting as one of Brisa's arrows. "There!"
She leaned back in consternation. "Why did you do that?"
"Because the mistletoe is also our plant of friendship and conciliation. Our plant of love. Because you're pretty. Because I felt like doing it."
Her face was aflame. "Well, I did not feel like it, and I'll not let any man take liberties without permission." It reminded her of Galba. "I'll, I'll…" She thought desperately for a threat. "I'll stick you with a brooch again!"
He roared with laughter and backed his horse away. "It's only a Celtic custom, girl! But if you're threatening with your brooch, then I'll throw my charm away." He raised his arm to toss the mistletoe aside.
"No!" she relented. "No, no. Don't kiss me, but I want a sprig for protection like you said. Please give me one."
So he plucked a piece and gave it to her. She put it in her hair.
Then they turned and rode again, finally breaking free of Iola Wood just as the sun broke clear of ragged cloud, setting toward crags in the west. They galloped up a steep ridge to a place from where it seemed they could see the entire world… all of it, perhaps, except the distant wall. Lakes, painted gold by the late fire, lay in every hollow. Mist swirled along the ridge crests like wool combed from the sky. Rainbows arced like portals to the heavens. Rocks glistened from the recent rain, their veins a raiment of diamonds. The raw beauty took her breath away.
"How wondrous the world," she murmured, as much to herself as him. Then, remembering her plight, "Will we get back before dark?"
"There, Tiranen." He pointed, and she saw the cone of his hill and its fort, just two ridges away. "Come, race me there!" Then he cried like an eagle, a wild screech, and rode like the wind without even bothering to look behind, Valeria following as gamely as she could, clinging to her racing mare.
She'd not come very far from the fort at all, she admitted to herself. Yet Arden had made her curious about his world. Maybe she could learn something useful from these strange people. Something important to take back to her Romans. Back to her Marcus.
XVIII
The prospect of a boar hunt filled Valeria with excitement, apprehension, and resolve. It was clearly a test of her fortitude. She'd already endured jests about "escaping" to Iola Wood and becoming lost, but she'd also noticed an undercurrent of respect among the Celts for her courage at running off. She was not quite the Roman kitten she looked, they whispered; perhaps there was some cat to her as well. She felt she was representing not just herself but the empire. So this time she took her own mare, Boudicca, as well as a Roman saddle, leather boots, and woolen trousers.
Savia regarded the mannish garb with mourning, convinced the barbarians represented a particularly corrupting kind of hell. "Your mother would die if she could see you."
Caratacus gave her a more approving eye as the hunting party gathered. "You've dressed smartly this time. Are you ready to risk Attacotti adventure?"
"The risk is yours, barbarian. Take me on enough hunting trips, and sooner or later I'll be able to find my way home."
The other hunters cheered with approval at her boldness.
"I'm wagering that by that time you won't want to leave," Arden countered.
"You're very confident about your charms."
"Not my charms, lady. The charm of wood and fen, moor and meadow."
The chieftain had given the boar the name Erebus, after the Greek station of the underworld: a classical reference again betraying the mystery of her captor's background. Their quarry was described as a bristling, black, monstrous hummock of an animal, all shoulder and hoof, as deadly as a bear and as swift as a bull. It stole out of the forest at night with red eye and yellow tusk, goring and furrowing, and two watchdogs had already been killed. Caratacus had finally directed the clan's hunt master, an old and leathery woodsman named Mael, to track the beast to its hiding place. He had done so.
Now a dozen men and women rode out of Tiranen in high anticipation, heavily armed with spear and bow. A dozen hounds ran with them, loping through high green grass that scraped their bellies. It was early summer, birds flushed as the horses galloped, meadows had erupted with flower, and the morning seemed fresh with promise.
Valeria had neither the experience nor trust to have a real weapon and so was given only a silver dagger. Brisa rode alongside her with bow and quiver. Proud Asa had come too, her long red hair rippling in the morning's breeze and three light javelins holstered on her saddle. Arden had a lance, Hool a shorter and sturdier spear, and Luca a sword. Each of their weapons had names, Valeria had learned, as well as druidic blessings, a complicated history, and intricate decoration. The spear shafts were finely carved, the arrows fletched with feathers of different birds, and the bows studded with silver.
Brisa had adopted the captive Roman like a puppy and had set out to teach her Celtic ways. Valeria had never known a woman so mannish, and yet the barbarian archer commented frequently, favorably, and sometimes lewdly on the attributes of men in the tribe: she cheerfully admitted to frequent lovemaking. Unlike the females of Valeria's class, she seemed in no particular hurry to marry anyone, and didn't seem to have the need of a man for completion. She was also comely enough to draw suggestions, both polite and vulgar, from the single men. She laughed at them unless whim and fancy took her, and then she'd lead one to her bed. This independence of emotion fascinated the Roman, whose society valued careful relationships and formal alliances above all else. She asked Brisa once why she resisted betrothal, and the woman replied simply, "I've yet to find a man who would let me be me. But I will." So she stayed in her parents' hut, dissuading serious suitors and living life as a boy.
As they rode, the Celts boasted of other hunts. An orbiting hawk called to mind some past bit of falconry, the flashing rump of a disappearing deer provoked the memory of a great stag, and the dart of a rabbit recalled the wiles of a fox. Every rock and tree represented some peculiar piece of clan history, and every dale and hillock recalled the wanderings of gods and spirits. Valeria realized that these rough people saw the landscape differently than she did; it was alive to them in a way the Romans had never considered. Behind the visual world was a second universe of vision, legend, and memorized song that was somehow as real to these barbarians as stone, bark, and leaf. Every object had its spirit. Every event had its magic. The waking world was merely a brief dream, and their lusty and violent lives a quick hallucination, before passing through to something more substantial and lasting.
Because of that, their carefree, undisciplined, war-crazy life was beginning to make a kind of sense to her. She'd explored Tiranen after returning with Arden, and decided they were not the simple, ignorant people she'd assumed. Their round huts were cramped and dim, smelling of smoke and musk, but also cozier and more richly furnished than she had imagined, each occupying family exhibiting a communal unity very different from the stiff hierarchy of an upper-class house in Rome: three generations sharing chores, food, sleeping loft, and the fire. Their chests and furs and woolens were often of fine quality and elaborate, with time and work lavished upon them. Yet there was no concept of duty or discipline. The Celts would start a hundred projects with the enthusiasm of children and abandon them just as swiftly to go riding, wrestle in mock fights, shoot arrows, or make love, their passion audible from the round walls of their houses. The lusty noise intrigued Valeria. What were they doing? What was she missing? The cries of the women were especially loud, but she was too shy to ask about their experiences. These people fought as casually as they made love, and didn't put too much importance on either. They washed together at the heated tubs at night and splashed in cold barrels of rainwater in the morning, howling at the cold with brisk roaring pleasure, and they loved perfumes, fine clothes, bright jewelry, and intricate tattoos: they were as fastidious about their persons as they were oblivious to the rude dirt of their hamlets. Their long hair was ornament, some male warriors stiffening their locks with lye to make it arc upright like the mane of a horse. They took great delight in costume, their ceremonial helmets fitted with wings or horns, and they were as craven about superstition as they were bold in combat, wearing amulets, and as fearful of thunder as they were indifferent to pain.