A prison cell in Rome, 46 BC

     "So it is tomorrow then?"
     "Yes, Caesar has his triumph march."
     "And, I am to be the focus of the entertainment?"
Cool gray eyes appraised the darker ones of his
companion.  The Roman bit his lip attempting to hold
back the harsh words craving exit.  This man deserved a
better death than the one awaiting him.  His friend
smiled wryly then stood.  The prisoner, as if shedding
his cage stretched his magnificent body which not even
six years of imprisonment had marred.
      The other watched him, still fascinated
by the man who for over those years had become closer
to him than any of his own family.  Knowing the younger
man's unease and as if to break the spell of it, he
moved to the wall that contained his only access to the
world outside.  With his usual agility he reached for
the bars and hoisted himself up to peer out from his
jail.  His voice calm, unaffected, as he observed.
     "I see Taretus is still having problems with his
thrust.  He really should strap his wrist with leather
till it is stronger."
     Unable to respond with the same ease the Roman
swallowed hard, then eyeing the giant of muscle and
sinew, he asked quietly. "How is it you do not fear death?"
     For a brief moment the other stilled.  Slowly he
lowered himself to the floor and turned to his Roman
friend.  His answer equally subdued, his composure
serene. "I am dead already."
     "No, no you are not."  Opposition to such meek
submission, surged from the Roman and he lunged forward
to catch him by the arms.  Steadying him the prisoner
held him kindly as the Roman head lowered to his chest
in unspeakable grief.  Gently the older man comforted
him.
     "Easy my friend, easy."  He felt the dry sobs
tearing the young man's chest, wondering silently over
all the tears shed for him.
     "If there was a way, any  way.  I would   ... I
would.."  His voice, tight with helpless anguish.
     "Yes I know, I know."  The grip tightened around
the Roman's arms as the man sobbed against the strength
that the next day would see ended.  Speaking again the
prisoner's voice soothed gently.  "It would not do
though, I am promised to my people, I am willing to
die."
     "But now, now, when you are strong, when you have
so much to live for, so much to return to.  If there
could be a place I could take you, take her.  You could
both live out your lives, in peace, unfettered."
     Pushed, almost impatiently but gently then forced
to look into the grim smile.  As their gaze held the
other spoke coarsely.
     "I hope she has done with her mourning long since.
Believe me my friend, I do not grieve for this.  I have
waited overlong for tomorrow, it does not come to me
unprepared.  Forgive me if our friendship has led you
to suppose something that is untrue but, if I were free
to return home, I would return to fight again.  Though
I have come to care for you, you are Roman.  I would
meet you on the field of battle, and kill you, if that
would remove your countrymen from my land."
     Cool steel eyes supported the truth of his words.
The Roman knew him well now and knew the power of his
bond to freedom.  Though the point was academic, proved
by the response.
     "You would not meet me to kill me, my friend, but
to fight alongside of you."
     Again the man gripped him, smiling grimly as he
shook his head from side to side in warning.  The eyes
that met his sad but unflinching.  Such loyalty he
seldom had from his own, yet  from his 'enemy'?  So
many had sacrificed greatly for him and his dream of
freedom.  Now, even in his defeat, this young man
showed his willingness to also cast aside life, for
him.  Such talk was dangerous if he spoke it anywhere
but there.  After a few moments of eyeing him he broke
from the embrace asking, as he moved away. "What do you
tell them, your family, of your constant visits to me here?"
     "I tell them nothing.  They have given up on me I
think, it is two years since their last attempt to
marry me off.  Though I am inclined to believe the
offers may have fallen away.  I am thought to be a
little mad, since my return, you know."
     The Gaul threw back his head laughing loudly,
despite his sorrow the Roman laughed too, a little.
     "No doubt you are tainted by my magic?"
     "They can think what they like."  The reply acid,
even thoughts of his own family brought no comfort.
Souring as easily as he had previously laughed he
continued bitterly.  "I see a different Rome than I
once did."
     "Be careful my friend, or you may talk yourself
into a place by my side tomorrow, instead of in the
procession of cavalry."
     "I will not be there."  Barely whispered.
     "What, but surely you are required to be?"
     "Yes, but I will decline."
     The Gaul eyed him again thoughtfully, his demise bore a
more terrible prospect for his Roman friend than for
himself.  This he had neglected somewhat in his
thoughts of his fate.  In all the time of his
captivity, perhaps even prior to it, he had accepted
the inevitability of the morrow.  Well did he know his
own mind though no other could claim the same.  He, a
man who had already met his destiny in full charge,
owed nothing more to the future.  For most of his life
he had acknowledged the certainty of dying as he had
lived,  it contented him to allow it.  Let the bards
speak as they may, he had left behind the legacy he had
intended, one not easily dismissed.
     Tomorrow everything would be over for him, he
would never spend another sleepless night wondering if
'she' was content.  Torn between longing for her to
never forget and for her to have a peaceful heart he
wondered if she thought on him at all. Had she
forgotten him in the arms of another?  Did that 'other'
replace him completely?  Only to share the same air as
she, to roam in freedom the land he loved would he
forsake this fate.  After one more days passing he
would never have to spend his time watching from his
high grill the drilling of the gladiators, nor feel the
frustration of immobility.  Tomorrow he would be truly
free, free from the dependence on air to breathe, free
from the pain and torment of wondering.  If the gods
existed they could take their revenge, tomorrow.
      This young man had shared his six years
of exile, his six long years in abeyance to the
unfulfilled promise to his people.  He the 'Devoted
One', would finally know the truth of sacrifice, a
votive offering of flesh, yearning to commit to its
conclusion.  No thoughts of rescue, of flight, had
shadowed the intent.  Strange, to suddenly face, in
another, the unwillingness to accept his fate, even his
own people had understood.  Throughout the weariness of
postponement his only joy had been the comfort of this
young Roman who had brought him to Rome and death.
Only he had listened while he spoke and shared his
heart.  He, the friend of the friendless would be left
behind.  This brave young man, left with all the broken
wings of hope beating the air of censure, uselessly.
The Gaul, for once, knew the torment of another.
Softly, as to his own sons in the terrifying threat of
night he asked.
     "Will you be there, for me?"
Dark eyes turned to him and filled sorrowfully, no dry
tears this time.
     "I,   ..  I'm not sure I can...I.."
     "It would be good," he took a deep breath,  "to
know I have at least one friend, there for me.  It
would have been my brother he would have stood for me
and I would have done it more bravely, for him.  You
have become to me as he was, do you think you could do
as he would?"
     Gently a peaceful silence, fell between them then
a sorrow filled head fell in brief nod, words not his
to master yet.  His friend smiled at him, this time
warmly and he took strength from it.  Loving him as the
other said with a curl to his mouth.
     "You should have married you know.  A wife,
children, they give a man, support, something to live
for, something   ..to.. die for.  Death is not a bad
thing when compared to, to longing."
Childlike the younger stood before him and nodded,
still too overcome to speak.  His friend continued.  "I
once thought to never marry, but as you know, I did.  I
have never had one single regret for it, only for the
loss of it."
     "She loved you more than any man has the right to
expect."
     "Yes, and I her."
     "He?  ..."
     "He will have treated her well.  I had to protect
her, and my sons.  You do understand?"  Another nod,
then the Roman spoke quietly.
     "She has had good fortune to have had two husbands
who love her."
     "She is not hard to love, just hard to live
without."  Keen investigation into the Roman's eyes as
he said this.  Unable to look away, he felt his secret
gently drawn from him, smiling weakly he nodded again.
The prisoner returned his smile softly, knowingly,
moved away and stretched again.
     "What time, tomorrow?"
     "At dawn, in the cool of the day."
     "You will be there then?"
     "Yes."

Chapter 1

Gaul, just beyond the territory of the tribe of Arverni.
Some sixteen years earlier, circa 62 BC

     'Borvo' shone his mellow pleasure, pouring the
warmth of his benign blessing over the land.  High
Summer, fragrantly lush and languid lay lazily over the
small town.  Happy sounds of children raised in play
and from the slopes an occasional bleat or bellow of
grazing flocks blurred into the sweet dreamy
articulations of Summer.  The only heard contrasting
sounds came from the staccato stings of shaping metal
rising from the oppidum.
      The timed rhythm of the smithy's hammer rang
through the stillness, for miles.  Pleasantly
punctuating the muggy air with short stinging echoes.
Sweat streaked neck and arms glowed as he swung and
stung the metal into use and beauty.  This magic played
before captivated eyes as an appreciative group looked
on.  Though they had watched a thousand times they
still could not fathom this strange wonder.  More than
armorer, more than metal worker, he was artisan.
     Around his walls hung many of his accomplishments,
precious metals worked to fine perfection, marked and
splendidly engraved.  Torcs with ends contrived into
the heads of bulls or rams.  Smaller ones for the
slender necks of ladies with gathered ends of intricate
swirls.  Enameling of blue white beauty, a magic
learned from the Britons.  Master in his domain,
blessed with powers beyond mortal accomplishments,
smiled upon by the Smith God he filled his chest with
pride as his audience looked on.  A wedding began some
distance from the smithy, it too gathered a small
audience.
     Theirs was a small oppidum, complete with the
priest's long house and market square.  Large enough to
be walled for defense but not so large as the massive
hill forts of others.  Independent of any warlord
having their own nobility to guide them.  They were not
so poor but of late had suffered through a cruel winter
of storms and heavy rains.  Many of their dwellings had
been destroyed or leaned precariously, in great need of
repair.  Wattling and thatch rotted, good only for
burning.  Their store houses devastated and the grain
stores weeviled or molding uselessly.
     In frightened need they had lashed out greedily
and had, unwisely, taken certain measures to right the
caprice of the gods.  Perhaps if they had been more
selective of their victims it could have slipped by
unnoticed.  However, the oppida they chose to raid,
were clients of he who took his role of protector more
seriously than they cared to know.  By the time all
reports were in he had wrapped his horse in silver,
himself in armor and his men in ire.
     For some days they had watched for any intent
against them.  Some of the Gaesatae they had hired had
stayed to enjoy the fruits of their labors but as the
days passed even they began to relax the battle arm and
take their ease.  Apathy crept its insipid lassitude
around them all and the warmth of Borvo's favor subdued
them snugly.  The patrols became fewer as the time
passed until only a token guard kept an anemic eye as
watch, for retribution.  Lulled by the high blue and
friendly sun, warm and complacent, owing to their
having gotten away with the raids, unaware that it was
all about to end, abruptly.
     Above the ridge, the peaceful scene was viewed
with rigid intensity.  The sound of laughter and
singing as a group of women carried their bundles to
the river, drifted up to the mounted watchers.  Gray,
cold eyes saw them dancing and calling out to each
other.  A slight nod gave prearranged sanction and
without any spoken word a troop of men pulled away from
the main body with orders to skirt around and flank the
ridge that met the river.  There, to cut off the
bathing and laundering women from the village.  The
rest continued to rein their mounts and observe, with
forced composure, the picture of domestic tranquility
they were about to devastate.
     They watched, withheld charged energy, a stark
contrast to the prey which played below.  Their lines
hidden by the ridge, so too the sounds of rustling tack
and straining leather.  The last sentry to the oppidum
stared a silent bloody testimony to lethargy.  Swinging
from several bridles, heads in bloody impotence, gaped
eyes that would never again see any approaching foe.
     Each composed watcher breathed heavily, filling
his lungs with the tantalizing lust for battle that
pricked and teased in the air about them.  Each patient
warrior waited for the word as they inched closer to
the charge, eager for blood and spoil.  An impressive
sight of majestic strength and brutality, armed and
equipped for righteous battle, waited in tense lines
for the signal.  Each man, a marvel of muscle and sinew
knowing his own strength of form and structure.  Every
head glistened white-yellow with lime wash and stiff
arrangement around head and shoulders, dressed for
battle.
     His hair, longer than most, lionized his head worn
swept high and away from his face.  The cub of the
lion, full grown and baring teeth.  A permanent frown,
part of his features above cold unflinching eyes
watched unmoved as the women wound their happy way to
the river.  Bathing and washing clothes would keep them
out of the way.  Waiting for his men to reach them, he
counted slowly the prearranged number, they needed no
screams from the river to alert the foe below.
     Looking through the twitching ears of his horse he
felt the wild need begin to flex his nerves and fill
his veins, the familiar and welcome heady avidity.
Turning in his saddle he raised his arm with his broad
bladed spear for all to see.  Knowing, with old sure
knowledge, his 'two' were close, ready to serve with
fresh mounts and weapons, as needed.  Testing the line
he saw each noble with his 'two', the trimarcisia, the
warrior's three, ready for battle.  He flexed his
battle nerve to feel the familiar ripple of expectancy
surge through him.  An almost sweet demand, a craving,
quickened his heart, pulsing the blood that ran hot and
furious as his battle cry ripped up and out of his
throat.
     Hardly had it left him when his suspended force
unleashed, spurred hurtling steeds over the ridge, the
screams of his men rattling in their throats.  To they
who looked up from the village below, they were a
ravaging eclipse of imminent carnage.
     Time only to grab for any weapon faithful
Gaesatae, of the ancient persuasion, seeing the danger,
immediately cried out the warning.  Fearless they stood
to the charge shedding any clothing that would impede
fighting.  Naked, true to their vows, they prepared to
meet the advancing threat.  In meeting it they fell, a
wall of bloody flesh stung and pierced through,  a bold
sacrifice of gory gobbets pulped the spiky javelins.
Proud mounts soared over their line, mad berserkers
tore into their safety to mock it.
     Bodies hacked, fell in screaming paroxysms.  Heads
flew from axe blows and fire spilled from braziers to
gnash greedily at wattling and thatch.  Children ran
crying, some snatched from harm by the older folk, were
pushed into corrals that animals spilled from in
shrieking panic.  Youths came to battle uselessly, only
to fall prey to their own inexperience against the
greater strength.  Others ran, in terror of the
outrage.
     Again and again he hurled his spears as his two
furnished him with more and more.  Near enough to
Yvain's trimarcisia in the thick of fray to almost hear
his lieutenant's harsh laughter.  He held his own
passions as much as Yvain showed his glee.  With his
last spear gone he dismissed the two men and downed
from his horse.  They too drew their swords and
dismounted to flank their lord.  The three, with drawn
swords hacked their way through the wall of sweating
flesh.  Slipping in the mire of blood and human
excrement, finding footing and fighting again.  There
were many, more than they had been informed, a 'woman's
count'.  Only the surprise gained them ground.  Yvain
once again filled his view, battling with four stout
men.  He recognized them as Gaesatae, mercenaries,
naked in battle as was their way.  They had obviously
doffed their clothing as they heard the attack coming
down upon them.  It angered him the more as he
recognized the cowardly act of hiring against his
people.
     Calling to his foster brother he made his way
toward him, dispatching as he went.  Reaching him he
received a hearty laugh from the man who always laughed
in the face of death.  Together they fought and
disposed of any who tried arms against them.  After an
hour or two of fierce fighting the enemy was not so
many.  A slower pace allowed him space to see, his own
men, the pride of the Arverni, victorious.
     Yvain slapped him heartily on the back laughing,
as always.  They stood, shoulders heaving with
exertion, sweat and grime running freely over high
toned muscle and sinew.  He ran the back of his arm
over his forehead, shook his head whipping his giant
mane as he did so.  Sweat oozed lime wash from his hair
irritating his flesh, again he wiped at his head.  Then
Yvain slapped him harder on his back almost knocking
him over, as he laughed in triumph once more.  His
smile grim, all he could allow, for the broiling
momentum that engorged on his entrails.  He wanted to
fight, to tear and rend still, the battle done but the
battling went on.
     Groping for the mind that had to quell the old
familiar urges, seeking to reach for a soft part of him
that had to be there, he looked to Yvain, how did he do
it?  Was it his gargantuan love of life, the humor he
saw in everything?  Or, was that the facade, was he too
really deeply desirous of more, more blood, more death,
more?....  His wrist to his nose caught sweat droplets
and smeared blood, grime and lime over his face,  he
wanted to bathe.  His head fell back and his throat
cleared in a long howling cry.  Still it did not vent
the bloodlust that cornered his mettle and demanded he
satisfy its craving.  Breathing raggedly he looked
about him, struggling for his cool control.
     Bodies strewn everywhere showed his success.  Men
who had not died in battle were lined up for ritual
decapitation.  Many heads for the priests, no
prisoners, his unspoken policy intact.  Only the aged
were left alive and most of the children.  Another
contingent of his men had ridden over the ridge and now
they returned with the women.  There were about sixty
of them, a good haul.
     He signaled for his horse to be brought to him and
mounted struggling with it as it caught his emotions.
Mastering the mount, which, white eyed, still fussed,
he turned to survey the field.  The small oppidum
almost destroyed smoked around him. Collapsed burning
wattling wisped smokily, gutted animals and dead lay
everywhere.  The debris of battle not so glorious with
the stink of savage victory.  Narrowing his eyes he
watched the approach of white billowing priests.
Waiting, as they wandered through the mess calling out
their prayers and cursing.  He gave the order and
watched the remaining five men beheaded.  Beldafydd
reached him, his pinched priestly face livid with
anger. "No prisoners, again?"
     The war lord's lip curled, his blood still simmering
for sport. "No prisoners, priest."  In a voice as molten as
his blood.
     Beldafydd glared but his mouth sealed, it was the
wrong time to make complaint, the war lord's eyes were
too filled with death.
     Vercingetorix moved his steed forward, away from
the lure of temptation in the cold malice in the
priest's face,  his own emotions were enough for him to
contend with.  He made toward the river, perhaps a cool
bathe, wash away the smell of blood, the prickly lime.
     A startled scream turned his head and he saw a
woman break free from her captors and head straight for
the mess of bodies.  His mount, still skittish, stirred
at the sudden sound, it too wanted more battle.
Gripping its flanks hard he tightened the rein.  The
woman, keening bitterly ran over to a near body turning
it, then others, until she finally found the one she
sought.  Many stood around amused at the sight, none
made any move to restrain her.  Kneeling to the body
she grasped it to her and in sheer dementia ranted over
the dead flesh.  Head shaking, hair, wet from the river
sprayed water in all directions around her.  Bleached
features, despite her exertion, her throat keening over
and over an anguish unbearable, she rocked the corpse.
     Vercingetorix urged his mount towards her and
stopped.  Looking up she was forced to squint against
Borvo's indifference.  The sun behind him bleached his
hair the more, haloed the dread warrior and blinded him
to her.  Her body stilled, he could almost smell her
fear and loathing.
     "Your man?"  His voice, a harsh cut in the torrid
air.  She looked at him her eyes filled with sorrow.
Still staring at his high fearsome figure she swallowed
hard, glanced away then back and nodded.  Then, as if
he had signaled her to a more decorous grief she bowed
her head over the body and wept softly, like a woman.
Lifting his eyes from her he looked around as he asked.
"Who slew this man?"
     Roald stepped forward, "I believe I did Sire."
     Vercingetorix looked at his fierce warrior and nodded.
"The woman is yours."
     At this the woman let fall her dead, grasping a near
weapon she slowly stood to face the new threat.  Tall
and well formed, her long strong limbs denied peasant
stock.  Her hair unusually dark, clung wetly down her
back and thighs.  Vercingetorix watched her, he cared
little for the whimsy of women.  Thinking that he had
settled a matter, she had lost a man, he had replaced
the loss, she should be grateful.  The rest of the
women would not be so fortunate.  Still caught up in
high feeling he waited to see what kind of
entertainment this woman might provide.
     Weighing the weapon, with no small skill, she
crouched ready to defend herself.  Bracing slightly, as
if well taught.  A firm, but not frenzied, grip to the
weapon and eyes that flicked everywhere, with care.
Assured that no other would cause any interference she
settled her wary gaze on Roald.  He too crouched as he
approached, his grin eager and lascivious, no weapon as
if he disdained such.
     She backed away as Roald approached.  Others
gathered to watch the new sport.  Vercingetorix
narrowed his eyes at the scene, some men laughed
lightly, some nudged others to come to see.  Roald came
forward, she lunged, he moved aside, she withdrew, lips
feral against her teeth.  Lunging again she caught his
arm and drew blood, a roar of approval from the
watchers.  Roald cursed but did not flinch.  She
feinted to the left, but he was ready.  As she tossed
the knife to her right hand and savagely launched at
him.  He, deftly, caught her wrist and banged it
harshly on his knee.  Yelping loudly she let the weapon
fall, she fell too but he pulled her up and grasping
her around the waist, held her to his side.  Useless
struggles only tired her the more.  Roald looked up to
his mounted chief and said.
     "Thank you Sire, you have given me further battle,
seeing as this was but a short one."  Shouts of
laughter but Vercingetorix only smiled tightly then
moved his horse away.
     "Round up the women and the children, leave the
old ones food and clothing."  He called out and his men
moved to his orders.
     His eyes caught the malignant glare of Beldafydd
as he was obeyed.
     "Well priest, would you like to take the old men
for your sacrifices?"  Scoffing as the priest gave no
answer and moved to the front of the line his men had
formed.  Over the wailing of the women and the crying
children he gave orders for them to move out as he
persuaded his mount toward the river.
     Stocked with plunder, the carts moved out, pulled
by fighting men.  Scattered, battle frightened beasts
not yet rounded up.  Captured women were bound at the
wrists and forced to walk ahead, the children ran after
them not knowing what else to do.  Roald's woman was
pushed onto a cart with goods he had personally
selected.  Tied to the rail the only one able to look
back, to see the devastation in the wake of her
captors.  Slow hot tears traced through the dirt on her
face as she said her silent farewells to the life she
had known of safety and the man who had protected her..
     Behind them lay the debris, the old and frail
watched as their kin were taken from them forever.
Theirs would be an old village now and would die with
them.  One voice muttered that it had been a sorry day
they had chosen to go against the invincible lord and
attack his clients.  Others, tired and feeling much
older, nodded their heads in solid agreement, the dead,
silently, concurred.

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