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Well, Mother of a Hundred Tribes, you are certainly enjoying the good life, aren't you?" The low voice of Andraste the war goddess whispered in my ear. "Lying about, being waited on hand and foot, as if your wounds were so horrible," she teased, sitting back to watch me with merry eyes. I groaned, starting to rise and face her, but she gently pushed me back with the warning that the effort might rip the stitches that bound the deep cuts and near severance of some of my limbs. Then she morphed into a little bustling man, who patted my cheek, and bade me drink an unction of indiscernible origin. I did, making a disgusted face that made the old man smile.He unwrapped my bandages, and for the first time, I saw the damage done to me. My left arm was held to its shoulder by the skillful sewing of the surgeon, and by a splint fashioned to fit around my neck, then on each side of the arm, until the muscles, sinews, and nerves knit back together. I wondered if he had attached each one to its other half. My belly was exposed, as were my breasts, and I could see the marks left by beasts of such immense size, I could not fathom before the day that was my last in the amphitheater. I shuddered, realizing how close to death I had come, and how strong I was to have survived. In a couple places on my abdomen were bits of drying intestine and tissue, and I wondered at the surgeon's skill at repairing those vital areas of my person.
It was a practice among certain orders of the Druids, to divine by how one dies. This was done by cutting the person, often a captive from a war or raid, open from throat to privates, then pulling the intestines out, to see if the victim died quietly, or with much noise, and the length of time it took the life force to ebb. The Druids I had been taught by did not practice thus, but I had seen it done, and death always followed quickly. Amazing, that I had lived through the ferocious gutting given me by one of the beasts. I would forever bear the scar of the bite marks on my thigh by the other, the flesh striped by sharp, long teeth, and when it stepped on me it had shattered the bone. These places still ache, when a storm is coming. There were other cuts and tears on my person, but not as bad, and I was grateful.
The physician busied himself cleaning up the evidence of his work, and I watched, while the medicine took its effect, dulling the throbbing of my wounds. When he finished, he kneeled down beside me, to apply fresh wraps and poultices to the exposed injuries. He gave his name as Galen, and his eyes and hands were warm and tender. This man cared for what he was doing, and took great pride in his ability to heal. His knowledge was vast, I learned in the days to come, and I supposed he had traveled to far off places to gain such wealth. I moved again to sit, again, he pushed me gingerly back.
"Not yet. You should not have expended so much effort earlier today." He must have quizzed the boy.
"I have to move. I will heal faster."
"True enough. However, a few more days of stillness will not hurt. And then we will get you moving, little by little." Mumbling something about stubborn warriors, and patting my cheek- this was apparently a habit- he left me to the darkness of the room around me. I lay awake for some time, tears washing my face, whether I wanted them to, or no. I knew not why I wept, but did not stop. I imagine it was from relief, from long-hidden fear, for the life that had been stolen from me. Memory crashed upon my brain, swirling in pools of images, both frightening and beautiful.
Galen had his hands full with me, over the next few weeks. Lying about was uncomfortable, and he finally allowed me to sit, when he got tired of my complaints, but I was not to stand. He enlisted the aid of servants to move my pallet outside, so that the sun's light could fortify me and lift my spirits. He gave me small strengthening exercises for my arm, though the splint that kept it immobile hindered movement of it. I was given a ball of toughened ox hide, to squeeze several times a day. He would hold a cushion of the same material between his palms, against his belly, for me to push on with my injured leg, and everyday, I felt improvement. The boy often visited me, and would read to me lessons from his scrolls. His name was Lucius, and I became quite fond of him. He had a quick mind, and a ravenous appetite for knowledge. He asked endless questions about whatever came to his inquisitive conscious. I answered him as best I could, and if I did not know the answers, he would go elsewhere for them, then come back and share them with me. He was quite analytical, for one so young, and often quoted the writings of Marcus Aurelius, who had died some years back. As I listened to him, and we shared information, I could not help but think of the child I had loved, that had been torn away from me. When Lucius left me in the evenings, and I was alone in my room, my heart would ache.
In a few weeks, I took my first steps. It was difficult, even with the assistance of Lucius and Galen, and the exercise I had been getting. The pain was unbearable at times, and I despaired of being whole again. My legs continued to buckle under me, particularly the left one, and the arm did not help matters. Galen increased my exercises, and I drove myself to them. I would rather be dead, than crippled and useless. Eventually, my limbs began to obey me. It was a slow process, but in the span of four moons’ time, I was able to go on small excursions away from my quarters.
I still had no idea what use the man who bought me had for me. I asked Lucius several times to tell me about the man Maximus whom I belonged to, and had not seen me since that first night he had brought me there. The boy was tight lipped, and would only tell me he would come soon. Lucius' silence was maddening, and even small tricks to get him to divulge his secret did not help. In jest, I asked him once if telling me would get him killed. Annoyed, Lucius shot me a withering look.
“No, Boudicca.” He was very conscientious of pronouncing my name in the Celtic fashion, and was learning my native language quite rapidly.
“Then why the secrecy?”
A sigh, then, “Because he made me promise. And I never break them. My word is my word. He made me swear.” He said it so solemnly I had to stifle a giggle. Fifteen winters, and so serious, when most boys were carefree, and careless. The boy was already responsible, far beyond his years. I left him alone, after that, but my worry was not salved.
During one of my walks, I decided to explore the property further. Lucius was out with his mother, and Galen was in attendance upon a senator’s small daughter. Left to my devices, I gripped the crutches that Galen had made for me, for walking alone, gritted my teeth against the pain in my shoulder, and set on my way. At the end of the lane that separated the double row of servant’s quarters, the walkway split around a small fountain, adorned with a marble statue of a child bearing a water jar, from which poured water that spilled over the levels of the stone wells. It was quite charming, and my favorite seat. Today I had no desire to sit. Unattended, I had every intention of getting to know my whereabouts.
I rounded the fountain, and the path led through poplar trees that swayed gently in the autumn breeze. On the other side of the trees, were the stables. Unable to resist, I entered, and neither soldier stationed at the doors moved to stop me. Finding it odd that Praetorians should be assigned here, I shrugged nonetheless, and took in the building. Of the same stone as the servants' quarters, but large and long, it housed some hundred horses.
The smell of grain and leather, horseflesh and iron mixed and blended into the most wonderful aroma I had inhaled since being kidnapped from my home, seven years before. An equine head appeared over the door of its stall, at my sob of joy. Large, dark eyes regarded me with no fear, and the mare sniffed me for treats, while I wrapped my arms around her neck, burying my face in her brown mane. It was as though I held Epona herself. I stayed like that for a while, then thanked the animal, scratching her between the ears. I wandered the rest of the area, studying the horses. They were all fine creatures, specifically chosen, and well cared for. There were several of Spanish stock, the best of the lot. They were kept together at the end of the stable, a red ribbon tied to each halter.
As much as I would have loved to stay among the horse-goddess’ children, I had more to see, so I left, heading toward the kitchen and baths. I got a whiff of roasting meat, and quickened my pace, letting my nose and stomach lead the way. The bustle of the kitchens directly contrasted to the relative quiet of the barns. House servants scurried to and from the cook's space to the house beyond, bearing trays of steaming meats and breads and bowls of fruits and vegetables. The cook, a man whose heritage I could not guess, screamed orders at his helpers, and at the workers who labored to get the noon meal out. There were a great many people to feed, three times a day, and much to be done. Standing there, taking it all in, I failed to notice the man's eyes turn in my direction, and the anger in them. When he was in front of me, shaking a finger in my face, I took note. I understood nothing of what he said to me, he spoke no language I had ever heard. His eyes were black, as was his hair, and his eyelids caused his eyes to slant. His meaning was clear, however, either help, or get out of the way. I supposed I would be fed later, so I could wait. I was beginning to tire from having hobbled such a long way, but I wanted to go on. Around the kitchen's front was another fountain, plain, in the middle of a small courtyard that led to the marbled steps of the house.
It was enormous. Pillars in columns of three held the balcony of the inner courtyard up, and ivy crept up and surrounded each, in lacy green coverlets. The design of the outside reminded me vaguely of the temple to Apollo in Corinth, with its marble finish and alabaster details. This was where Lucius lived. I shook my head in marvel at how it must be to live in such a place. I think I would have felt confined.
The garden was truly paradise. At the back of the villa, it covered several hectares of earth. Hedges wound and turned in upon each other creating a maze, that on any other day, I would dearly have enjoyed wandering through. Placed here and there were stone and marble benches, for sitting, and entertaining. In the middle of the hedge puzzle lay a manmade pond. A great fountain rose from the center of it, water rushing down over raised figurines of people and animals from myth. Lily pads with their star shaped blossoms floated peacefully below. On each side of the garden grew a grove of citrus trees, bearing ripe fruit, ready for harvest. I am particular to limes, and the sight and aroma of the fruit with its verdant skin, and idea of the sharp tang of lime juice on my tongue, prompted me to hobble that way. I thought it could hurt nothing, if I took just one. As I reached out, steadying myself on my wooden crutches, a voice behind me startled me so badly, I almost fell.
"Young lady, you can at least ask permission." My first instinct, which I followed, was to defend myself, and I barely missed the old man's head with the false appendage that I swung in his direction. But the effort unbalanced me, and I toppled to the cobblestones.
