Hidalgo Chapters
Sample Chapters from HIDALGO
(Unedited manuscript in progress)
Historical Background
Roman Spain in the first century BC was a direct reflection of the struggle in Rome between the haves and the have-nots. Since the founding of Rome in 753 BC, aristocratic and common citizens competed for a greater share of prosperity. For centuries conflicts had been settled peacefully, but failure to reform by the turn of the first century BC led to a revolt of the oppressed, and the civil war in Rome spilled over into its provinces.
One leader of the oppressed was seven-time Consul Gaius Marius who had professionalized the Roman army turning military loyalty from the state to his social cause. Following his example, other Roman leaders began using their personal armies to achieve political ends, but lofty goals soon turned into fighting for personal wealth and power. Cornelius Sulla took his legions to support the aristocracy, invaded Rome, threw out the popular party rulers, crowned himself Dictator, and purged the opposition in a bloodbath. Quintus Sertorius, governor of the popular party’s provincial support base in Hispania was condemned as an outlaw, and pursued by two legions, fled to Africa.
In 82 BC, Sertorius found himself stranded at the end of the world on the shores of the Straits of Gibraltar, cut off from his own political party and bereft of resources, when fortune favored change. Approached by ambassadors of the Hispanic nation of Lusitania, Sertorius was persuaded to return to Spain and lead them in a war of independence? Gathering a motley band of 2,500 Roman legionaries, a few hundred Numidian mercenaries and four thousand Lusitani warriors, Sertorius went on the offensive. With borrowed ships and inexperienced crewmen, he planned to slip across the narrow sea channel unnoticed at night and return to the Iberian Peninsula. The Roman coastal patrol caught sight of his crossing and a sea battle ensued wherein Sertorius’ defeated the vastly superior naval fleet under the command of the governor of Hispania Ulterior (Farther Spain), Caius Aurelius Cotta. Back on land, Sertorius turned his troops for Lusitani territory only to be ambushed at a river crossing by the provincial vice governor, Lucius Festus, and two legions, whom Sertorius also defeated.
As a result of Sertorius’ initial victories, the leaders of the Lusitani pledged the allegiance of their one-hundred-thousand warriors and their one-million native population. Headquartered among the Lusitani, Sertorius set about recruiting and training the undisciplined warriors in Roman warfare. Starting small and moving slowly, Sertorius led highly mobile fighting units in a series of successful attacks on nearby towns supporting the Roman occupation.
The loss of a governor and his naval fleet, not to mention the defeat of the vice-governor and two legions of Roman soldiers raised considerable concern in Rome among the members of the Sullan Senate. Reports came in increasing numbers from Roman citizens in Hispania complaining about the bandit Sertorius, scourge of the countryside. To govern Hispania Ulterior, the most prosperous of all the Roman provinces, and to capture the outlaw, the Senate sent its most prestigious soldier-statesman, Quintus Caecilius Metellus Pius and two veteran Roman legions. Metellus expected to make short work of the bandit and his rabble following.When Metellus arrived in Hispania, he repeatedly challenged the upstart to open battle, but Sertorius refused knowing his army was still under equipped and untrained. Instead, Sertorius wisely used the speed and flexibility of his native warriors to constantly attack Roman columns on the march with hit and run guerrilla tactics. Within half a year after his arrival, Metellus had become so weary from losses of men and equipment that he withdrew permanently to Corduba, his capital city and refused to leave the safety of his province. In the meantime, Metellus began setting up a series of garrison-town, listening posts hoping learn of rebel movements and catch Sertorius offguard.
Part I: Sanctuary
Preface
News of Sertorius’ victories spread throughout the Iberian Peninsula. Warriors from neighboring tribes flocked to Sertorius’ camp. Many were grizzled native veteran fighters interested in a leader who proved he could defeat their enemy. Others came to Sertorius’ rebel camp as refugees from the harsh reality of Roman law. Still others arrived seeking revenge for the exploitation and human cruelty meted out by avaricious Roman officials.
Among those wending their way to join up with Sertorius was a young man named Marco from a well-to-do Hispanic family. Accompanying Marco was a wrinkled, skinny old octogenarian named Abu Vacca, who liked to think of himself as, “pony boy.” Marco was set on joining the rebel army after witnessing first hand the devastation caused by Romans raiding his parent’s cattle ranch called The Refuge. Marco’s companion was the eldest living member of the Vacca clan, an extended family that had worked for the Marcos for many generations. His attachment to Marco, as far as Marco was concerned, was something of a mystery.
The two travelers had started out from The Refuge ranch nestled just below the foothills of the Sierra Morena, bordering the Baetis River Valley. The Valley was part of peaceful Hispania Ulterior, controlled by the new governor, Metellus. Inhabitants of this bounteous land had put aside their weapons centuries ago, many becoming prosperous landowners and rich merchants. The fertile valley was also the destination of wealthy Romans planning their luxurious retirement. Successful Roman magistrates needed grand sections of land for the latifundia farms they envisioned civilizing the countryside. What better way to obtain that land than to simply take it from the barbarians? Unfortunately for the Romans, one of the so-called peaceful southerners would turn out to be their greatest nemesis. His name was Marco, and he was headed north to join the rebels as a sword fighter.
CHAPTER 1
Marco had been on the trail for less than a day and already he was entertaining negative thoughts about joining the rebel army. His ability to fight was not in question. After all he reasoned, in the past two months he had participated in two battles and put down six competent opponents. Traveling with the old man, however, was causing him to severely doubt his personal capabilities. No, the more he thought about it, the more he saw that the problem had to do with his self-esteem. The skinny, wrinkled, small old man with a face as weathered as a dried up prune was doing nothing more than making Marco aware of his youthful inadequacies. Maybe Marco was adept at wielding a sword, but right now the old man had reminded Marco that he was little more than a fourteen-year old boy unprepared even to start a campfire. The old man has asked Marco to make the fire while he scrounged up their evening meal. Marco had just stood there. How was he going to make fire when he had not thought to bring a striking flint? The old man had to turn back and loan Marco his own small flint tools neatly carried in the man’s pack. Marco asked himself how he was ever going to become a decent soldier if he was not able to attend to basic survival skills?
A short time earlier, the old man had abruptly called a halt to their day’s march, stating, “We stop here.” It was obvious to Marco that at least a few hours of daylight were still available for travel, and though tired he had wanted to push on.
“But tio,” Marco had politely tendered, “there is still light. Should we not continue at least until it is too dark to see clearly?”
The old man had not answered. Instead, he had put down his back pack, and looking around, let Marco know that they were setting up camp, like it or not, right here, right now. Ignoring Marco, old man had taken a small snare net, which served as a belt around the waist of his short pants, walked a distance to a nearby wood, set up a trap deep within the brush, and promptly caught a rabbit for their dinner. There was no sense in disputing the matter, so Marco had made the campfire and was then assigned to skin and clean the animal, while his provider, went about scouting for herbs, pulling wild legumes out of the soft watery dirt, and returning to build a roasting spit. All this in total silence, and from someone who had not stopped talking all day.
The way north from The Refuge ranch had taken Marco through the dusty dry pan flatland, back up toward the mountain road coming west from which he had traveled weeks ago on his way to the ranch. From dawn, the sun was hot and beat down on Marco relentlessly. The skinny, wrinkled old man trailed along, seemingly unconcerned and unaffected by either the heat or parched and dusty landscape. At first, Marco thought the old man was headed somewhere else and just accompanying Marco for his own convenience part of the way. After shadowing him for an hour, Marco began to consider whether his guest planned to walk with him all the way to the rebel camp. Was he going to join up too? That didn’t make sense. Marco was young, with the strength and stamina that would be needed for a long and perilous trip. Before long his companion would become a burden. No sooner had the heat of the sun began to soak Marco’s tunic with sweat, than his puny companion offered to carry Marco’s chain mail shirt for him. The metal cuirass that Marco wore weighed more than the old man did. It was long enough to reach down to the little fellow’s ankles. The worst part was the thought of having his own burden carried by someone else. Marco was embarrassed just to be asked.
Going to war meant proudly carrying his father’s newly gifted sword and his grandfather’s chain mail shirt. Marco was also not about to leave his forge hammer, he was sure would continue to come in handy, nor the forge glove lined with chain mail that Marco had fashioned and had already proved its worth for defense. At least Marco had thought to place the metal chain mail on top of an inner tunic to keep his skin from chaffing. Marco also carried a sack of food stuffed under his arm as a last minute gift along with a water skin for his belt and a straw cap for his head. Other than that, Marco had left The Refuge Ranch wearing the same clothes he had come with. Which now, after only one day, Marco saw was part of his problem. He had left for a long trip, unprepared.
After interrupting the silence of their walk by offering to carry Marco’s chain mail vest, the old man had begun talking. Non-stop. He told Marco how he had traveled this way when he was young, when he too, many years ago, had taken this path to join the fighting in the north. “They’re always fighting, these northerners, nothing else to do.” It was about this point that Marco began to consider that perhaps Abu had been sent with him as a guide. Abu’s accounts of his youthful travel had made Marco wonder about how he would fare in the days ahead. The worrying hadn’t stopped since.
The way north from The Refuge ranch was roadless. Dusty mound hills rose higher than a man’s head cutting off the line of sight for any distance. When the pair reached the main east-west trade route trail, Marco started to head west, but the old man stopped him, pointed straight north across the fields and grunted, “Better this way. Straighter, faster.” Remembering the lesson he had learned during the fighting at The Refuge, Marco had not questioned the old man’s directions, but simply followed him. Marco could now see that he had been aimlessly skulking around behind the ranch buildings looking for a way to sabotage the Roman raiders when the old man had showed up with an unexplained plan and said, “follow me.” Sensing the old man knew what he was doing, Marco had complied without question. Acting inebriated, the old man had gotten them inside the Roman lines and then proceeded to talk the Roman commander into fleeing the ranch. Later that same night, the old man had returned to the ranch, hauling back with him a train of mules carrying all the plunder that had been stolen by the raiders from the local Hispanics. Abu couldn’t stop giggling over the trick he had pulled on the Romans.
“Time to make a raft,” said the old man skewering the skinned rabbit on to the spit he had constructed.
“Make a raft,” Marco asked?
“Listen, hijo! You cannot see the river, but if you would stop making so much noise you could hear it. Pointing toward a thicket of trees and brush, he continued, “spring flood waters have pushed the river up over its banks widening it to the those trees you see which line the river’s banks. Young tree shoots and thick shrubbery block your view of the water surging by. We cannot cross fast water by swimming without help. Now, if I had my faithful yegua”…Marco saw another story coming… ”My yegua she could swim dacross carrying your very heavy load. You and I, we would hold her tail. Did you know horses swim better than humans do? My horse was so well trained. Did I tell you? Yes, no?” Abruptly the old man ceased story telling and said, “That is why we stopped. We need the light of day to make a raft. “
“A raft, Marco echoed softly.” As he stood silent for a moment, sure enough he could hear a faint susurrus ahead where Abu had pointed.
“I told you, pony boy has traveled this way before. When I was chacho, a boy like you, I fought with corn-eating Vaccaei. Crossed rivers many times. Harder in Spring, but not impossible. We make a raft to carry your heavy weapons, my little pack.” He held arm out to the side, the hand simulating grabbing something and moved the other in a circle. Marco wondered if this was some sort of bird story. “With one hand, the old man explained smiling at Marco, “we hold the raft and with the other we swim. I myself will navigate and the angle the raft downstream for the opposite shore.” He shrugged and said,” difficult to cross, but possible. Tomorrow we go.” Motioning to Marco with a fluttering hand. Your job now is to find and cut down slender tree saplings for raft.” When Marco didn’t move, the old man, again became his teacher. “A raft, muchacho. It is made like a wicker fence. Only our fence will be a lazy fence, too big to stand up. It will want to lie down on the ground,” he added giggling. “Use thicker wood than for fences. Choose young trees with stalk trunks longer than you are tall and flexible enough to bend. About this size around” he said, holding his thumb tip to the tip of his middle finger, making a circle. You gather wicker. I find plant leaves to shred and weave rope for binding. I make good rope, you see.”
Ice melting in the high sierras had sent the lifeblood for the valleys’ fertility trickling down through thousands of descending gullies, arroyos, canyons and creeks until small rivulets swelled up to streams and streams flowed deeply into surging rivers. Hard soils along the sides of the rivers became enriched with floodwater and yielded. Seeds took root and hope abounded. As Marco went about breaking off the slender saplings and trimmed away branches, he thought back to how during the day the barren brown plain of early morning had transformed itself by midday into sparse green vegetation and, as the day wore on, had then thickened rising higher in the air as small trees. Here and there appeared signs of track and spore. The southern land of The Refuge ranch was gritty dirt pounded constantly by the horny hooves of domesticated livestock; horses, cows, goats, sheep and pigs. Ahead lay a wilderness countryside that hid wild boar, deer, lynx, and wolf. Even bear.
Here by the river, Marco could feel the spongy earth beneath his feet as he gathered wood from places nearer to the sounds of flowing water. Water pooled around depressions in the ground. Standing as tall as he could stretch, Marco still could not yet see flowing water. He took the long sword his father had given him out of its scabbard and held it in his hands. Marco examined the gift. The blade was several inches longer than his grandfather’s sword. He laid it flat on one extended finger. It balanced at mid point. Center balance would maximize flexibility of movement. Heavy ends tended to club or slice with momentum, but they could not be wielded with dexterity. A too long unbalanced blade was more of a club or for chopping. In training, Marco had practiced for hours until his arms felt like they were going to fall off with many different sorts of swords, long, short, curved. Marco had never held a blade like this one, but he was sure he knew how it was made. He held the sword one hand at each end and flexed the blade over his knee. With each bend, the shiny metal sprang back straight without warping. The edge was sharp. It would take an even finer edge. Marco was positive the metal had been forged using different grades of steel to step its hardness toward the core. Just holding it now told him that his skills could be improved working with such a blade. He worked the sword around in a series of moves. Very light. Very maneuverable.
Marco was piling the stalks of cut wood on the ground when Abu returned, his two hands full of rope, woven from strands plant of fiber. Dropping the plant rope, the old man picked up a few of Marco’s sapling stalks, laid them in a row and began to weave one of the smaller, more flexible limbs through vertically. After weaving the first wicker line, he inserted a second at a second vertical point a foot away and wove it in a fashion opposite to the first stalk. He followed the same procedure adding two more cross pieces and then a few more horizontal stems. The raft was slowly making its appearance just like an illustration drawn by Marco on his design table at his grandfather’s forge works. The old man smiled to indicate his self-approval of his own handicraft. “A good weaver pulls the vertical cross members closer together. This secures the horizontal struts before tying off the end joints.” After checking for tightness, the old man wove together the last members of horizontal and vertical cross pieces and tied the edges. In less than half an hour they had a wicker raft. It looked solid to Marco, but he wondered how much weight the raft would hold.
“Let’s see if it floats.” The old man propped the raft up vertically, holding it at one end so Marco could take the other. The raft stood slightly higher than a man’s height, and was equal-sided. Between the two they carried the raft a few hundred paces along the brush lining what the old man assured Marco was the river toward where the old man said he had gathered the plant rope fibers. They crossed a weathered and warped wooden plank bridge covering a dry ditch that creaked and bent slightly under their weight and that of the raft. “Below us is irrigation channel,” said the old man tilting his head to the side at the ground below. On the other side of the wooden bridge, the old man led Marco onto a ridge of higher ground that bordered both sides of the channel. He motioned for Marco to put the raft down on one edge. Pointing back behind them, the old man said, “ There is a village that way, below somewhere. We cannot see it, but I think those villagers use this irrigation ditch to water their crops. “Put the raft down for a moment. Let me show you something.”
They laid the raft on its side and off the old man went like a young boy nimbly winding his way down the channel ridge with Marco scrambling to follow. “See here!” he said, pointing to dry circles of cleared area a foot or so deep to each the side of the ditch. “Fish traps. These dry holes fill with water and become fish traps. Water comes down the ditch from the river. Fish in the water swim to feed in ponds. The ponds become their new home. Look, here is the door lock,” he said, reaching down to pull up a board wedged in the ground. Marco could see the board served to open up or close off water flowing in the irrigation ditch. “Fishponds are live food storage areas replenished by fresh water. Water for drinking, water to grow grain; fish for food, fish for fertilizer to nourish crops. “ The old man paused to muse on the importance of what he had said. “This irrigation ditch also talks to me. It tells me the river is bending ahead of us.” The old man started trotting back toward the raft. In between small leaps over the rough ground, he continued lecturing on river geology. “Wherever the river bends as it travels downstream, the water flow slows. During flood time, the water volume builds; the water spills its banks and makes the land around it mushy. Swampy ground is a good place to hide from enemies. Slow water is where smart people learn to make irrigation channels. It is also a good place for animals to come to drink.” When they returned to the raft they picked it up again and continued following the ridge toward the sounds of the water.
“Put raft down, ” the old man commanded again. Ahead was a wall of brush blocking their way. The sounds of the river were louder. The old man reached down into the marshy land to the side of the ditch and pulled out a broken tree branch. He drove the smaller end down deeply into the water-soaked earth. Then he unraveled the fiber rope from around his waist and tied one end to the stake and the other end to the raft. He mimicked holding the raft flat in his hands and gently tossing it. “You and I, together, we toss raft to land flat on top of the little bushies.”
The river was still hidden from view, but its sounds told Marco it was probably just on the other side of the brushy green wall ahead. Looking down near the bottom of the green wall of brush, Marco noticed a small dark opening. Someone or something had worn a small hole moving through the thickness. Abu must have come here while he gathered the rope-making plant leaves. “Ready, asked Abu? “ Together they lifted the raft, holding it horizontally flat. “Nice and easy. “ They swung the platform gently. “That’s it, back and forth. Now together, throw,” and they heaved the light craft like a tabletop onto the greenery, crushing it downward. Like the curtain dropping before a theatre performance, the water appeared right in front of Marco, a huge mass of muddy brown, swirling like the earth itself was in movement. The river was almost at their feet. If not for the higher ground of the irrigation ditch they would both be standing in watery mud. Looking out over the water, the river appeared slow and sluggish to Marco. Far away, perhaps as stadia or so on the other side, were tips of greenery denoting the far shore. Marco had paddled around in small bodies of water and he had waded across fast moving, but shallow streams. He wondered if he would be capable of actually swimming across a large river that could push and pull him around like a tiny stick. Concern must have registered on his face.
“You don’t like the water? Don’t tell me you can’t swim.”
Holding on to the raft rope, Marco stepped forward and sank ankle deep into marshy land. Abu pulled Marco back onto the dryer dirt lining the ditch. “You really want to go now? You do not have to prove anything to me. Once you get in the water you can not come back.” Marco was a bit chagrined. “We leave the raft staked in ground. It is safe here. Let’s go back to camp. We still have things to do and we should leave early tomorrow.”
“I thought we came to test whether the raft floats,” asked Marco?
“Floats? All wood floats. Trust pony boy. You go in the water now, too late to come back. Once in, we do not get out until we reach the other side.” The old man giggled. “Come out the river like wet babies.” Abu was clearly enjoying his role as lesson giver and kept giggling to himself as they made their way back along the ridge of the irrigation channel.
Marco had heard Abu Vacca speak classical Latin to the commander of the Roman raiders. The old man had spoken in soldier’s dog-Latin to the legionaries on guard duty to make them feel comfortable talking to a native. With Marco’s father, Abu Vacca showed he was well versed in Iberian Celtic. Moreover the crusty old critter could switch voices in an instant throwing out local slang to make a joke like any locals. Make no mistake, the old man had been well educated, but wisely kept his talents well hidden. He was enjoying himself with Marco behind an adept manner of switching voices and languages, as the mood or circumstances demanded. Marco had to admit, the old man’s talent was more reassuring than posturing. When Abu spoke, Marco paid attention and listened.
The two of them had just reached dryer land near the bridge, when the old man ahead of Marco, stopped, turned his head and held his fingers, palm inward over his mouth as a hunter’s sign for silence. The old man cautiously moved off the ridge and cautiously made his way into the edges of the nearby woods. Marco followed silently. When the old man stopped, Marco imitated him. As he stood quietly, a distant but familiar grunting noise could be heard coming this way. Abu drew the knife with a long thin blade from its scabbard hanging from his waist. Marco started to remove his own sword from its place across his back. Abu waved his hand and shook his head motioning to leave the sword alone, and to move forward parallel to him slightly to his rear. There was no wind, not even a breeze, but Marco noticed that Abu positioned himself on what would have been the downwind side away from the river. As they moved step by step forward, a faint trail appeared on the ground between them. Ahead a single loud grunt brought Marco to a standstill. Wild boar! The single sound was followed by the series of gruntings and snorts made by of a large snout uprooting plants. Accompanying the adult were the tiny small snorting sounds of young pigs. Ahead was a sow with her piglets. Abu had moved behind a small tree leaving Marco a dozen feet behind him and off to the river’s side. They waited motionless. Marco wanted a weapon of some type but Abu had told him to leave the sword alone. He looked around moving only his eyes to locate something that might serve as a club should he need it.
A thick pink snout stuck out through a clump of green followed by the huge body of a sow boar as she wedged her way out of a thickness of brush. She had not come down the trail, but was rooting through the undergrowth. Digging for food. Abu faced Marco and held up one finger to his eye. Watch! He then lowered his hand and made a movement with his thumb over the top of his other fingers like someone asking for price. Abu looked at Marco’s for recognition. Then he pointed to his ear. Listen! Then made the price sign with his hand again. Marco understood he was to move his thumb to make a soft rustling sound. Marco nodded his understanding. Abu turned his head back toward the pathway of the sow. The huge animal was just passing the tree behind which Abu was standing when Abu motioned for Marco to make the rustling sound with his fingers. The soft noise brought the sows head up in a cautionary alert, her ears and eyes distracted toward where the sound had come from. Seconds later the sow was crumpled on the ground blood oozing from the hole in the back of her head where Abu had stung her with his pig-sticker. The piglets scattered into the undergrowth, motherless, but alive. For a moment both men just stood there breathing slightly from the previous tension, but with a keen satisfaction. The former cattleman had spent a lifetime killing stock animals with the jab of a knifepoint into their brain stem at the back of the head. But the quickness of the sting was something to behold.
Abu grabbed the sow’s backlegs, rolled it over and in one smooth movement squatted down and hauled the heavy animal onto his back. “Let us get this animal away so there is no blood trail for scavengers.” Without waiting for an answer or a helping hand the old man weighted down with a load greater than his own body weight started trundling back toward the irrigation ditch bridge. Scrambling again to catch up, Marco took hold of the sow’s forelegs and offered to carry the fat carcass between the two of them. The old man smiled, and in this fashion they toted their burden back to the campsite.
Back at the firepit, they wedged back legs of the sow onto a forked tree limb and hung the body head down. Abu dug a hole in the ground and slit the sow’s throat letting the body empty itself of blood into the hole. “It is a terrible shame we cannot make sausage with all this blood.” When the sow’s body had drained, the old man slit open its belly, removing the insides. Setting the stomach and intestines to one side, he buried the remains in the blood hole. “Back to the river,” said the old man to Marco. Leaving the pig to continue draining, the old man carefully carried the pig stomach back to where the raft was tethered. Using the raft as a platform, the old man stepped onto the raft with the pig stomach. He lay down on the raft and bending over the edge next to the river he cleaned the bladder inside and out with great care so as not to damage the tissue. When Abu returned to the bank where Marco waited, he held up the dripping vessel and proudly proclaimed, “Marco, here are your water wings. Tomorrow, you fly like a bird over the mighty water.”
When once again they had returned to the campsite, Abu set about finishing the air bladder he had fashioned from the sow’s stomach. Marco discarded their puny rabbit dinner and roasted a side of pork on the fire spit. As the meat cooked, Abu showed Marco how to tie off the bladder openings with gut tissue sliced off from the pig’s intestines. One opening with a drawstring was left untied with which to fill the bladder with air. Abu gently, but securely tied strips of plant rope around four appendages, attaching them to a harness, which Marco, inturn, would strap around them front of his chest. “Make sure you do not roll over. When the bladder is on top, your head is underwater and you drown. You do not want to drown, do you? I expect not.” Marco tried on the harness. They made some adjustments to secure it and position air pockets evenly across Marco’s chest and under his arms. “First you float. Do not roll over. Later I will teach you the tricks.”
After crafting the air bladder, the two travelers feasted on succulent pig flesh and pushed the remains of the body of the sow up into the fork of a tree out of reach from night hunting animals. As the last droplets of fat crackled on the dying embers of spitfire, each man wrapped himself in a traditional Iberian mantle against the cool of night that was already closing in. Turning toward Marco, Abu said, “In the morning, we gather damp branches and marsh grass and pile them on our rekindled fire. Villagers far away will suddenly see clouds of smoke billowing up into the sky. The curious will investigate. Should we come this way again, there will be a shrine on this very spot to the unknown gods who left such wonderful food for the hungry people. Pity we can not take more meat with us. No one except the gods would leave good food go to waste. And so our unknown neighbors will have roast sow tomorrow for dinner.”
“How far is it to Sanctuary,” Marco asked. He was sure that Abu Vacca had been sent with him as his guide. The question was still open as to other reasons for the old man’s attendence.
“They may be watching us from the other side.”
“My mother’s people?”
“Rivers are natural boundaries for different groups. For all I know, enemies have set their trap for us.” Even in the fading light, Marco could see Abu’s eyes squint and a grin spread across is face. “No, hijo, we are unimportant, but the arms of Sanctuary have a long reach. No doubt, as head guardian of the sacred preserve, your mother and her attendants are well aware of your traveling north to join the Roman leader of the Lusitani. She would expect you to pay your respects as you pass through Sanctuary before traveling on.
“How far to her temples?”
“We are in Sanctuary land right now. You know The Refuge—your parent’s cattle ranch—was build to cover the lower section of the total preserve. As for her central meeting place, I am sure it is not far away. I do not know exactly where. We will be met and guided to her. Soon, I expect, possibly when we reach the other side of this river.
“How much farther to the rebel army camp?”
“You think pony boy knows everything? “ Abu giggled. Of course I do.
There is no need to hurry. I hear these crafty northern peasants are learning to win battles all the time and feel can fight without you, at least for a while.
"War…,” the old man mused. “War is not about fighting. War is about starting a thousand cooking fires, mending torn shirts, gathering stones for walls, walking, miles and miles of walking. War is shivering cold nights, no woman and an empty belly. Most of the time war is sitting around waiting for something to happen. Don’t be in a hurry. You will be sick of war soon enough."
CHAPTER 2
Torquatus had never been given anything his whole life until he joined the army. Now he had a handsome uniform, his feet were shod with nailed sandals, he was protected by a vest, and he carried his own deadly sword. Most of the time Torquatus had a place to sleep and food to eat, and though never enough, it was better than starving. He was only a common foot soldier, one of the grunts, as the Roman officer in charge of his unit called conscripts from countryside towns like his home in Clusium. All Torquatus could remember of his former youth was doing without and making do by stealing. The fact that he had stolen in order to survive was immaterial to him. He was still a good thief. When the Romans had come along looking for recruits and offering free silver he had told them in his Etusian-accented Latin that he was their man. The silver coin he had received for joining was long gone, but here he was fighting with the Romans in wooden-walled Hispanic town called Oretium, where his leader assured him he would find more silver. All he had to do was to look. Kill a few people, burn their huts and find whatever they were hiding. As a soldier, Torquatus was expected to bring back everything he found which was then supposed to be divided up between the state, the officers and the enlisted men. Maybe he would get something to keep. Torquatus was not a good thief for nothing. He would hide part of whatever he found and come back for it later. First he had to find something valuable. Was that asking too much of the gods? Everybody hid their valuables. It was just a matter of persuading them to tell you where. Torquatus was good at physical persuasion.
After the fall of the town’s front gates, those Oretani defenders still alive had streamed out the town’s side gates, scattering in every direction into the surrounding woodlands. The commander of the Roman force had sent cavalry after the fleeing refugees to gather up prisoners to be later sold as salves. Those that were not within a day or so would be lost in the mountainous terrain. In the meantime soldiers were being ordered into the town to round up anyone left and search for valuable possessions. Torquatus was to be one of the ransackers,
When his unit was ordered forward, Torquatus rushed through the burning front gate with his comrades. Inside the wall, small bands men had pealed off together to scour the streets for captives and plunder. Groups banded out of fellowship and for safety. Torquatus, did not need anyone to help him. He had always worked better on his own. Besides, setting buildings on fire was exhilarating. He was enjoying the sight of buildings burning. There was also the expectation of real power herding women and children. He was looking forward to herding someone to whom he could give orders.
The Centurion leader had lectured repeatedly, especially when his superiors were about, about protecting valuable captives to be sold as slaves. “Rape,” he smiled as if impossible to believe his men would stoop so low, “should not be so violent as to result in death or serious damage to the merchandise. “Disregard of special orders,” said the Centurion chopping down with his sword blade, “will result in the immediate loss of your worthless head.”
Regardless of orders, some of Torquatus’ fellow soldiers did appear to be dallying a while inside buildings and huts. Torquatus knew what that meant. Taking a woman was part of the plunder. Women were few and far between back at camp. Camp women charged a lot for their favors. Besides, it might be more interesting to take a woman by force. Still, Torquatus was not quite sure how to go about it.
As he poked about in the burning embers of one particular barnlike structure, Torquatus let his mind wander around the idea of how he would go about imposing his will on a woman, if he should happen to find one. He was also searching intently for secret places where he knew first hand that valuables were likely to be hidden. Thoughts of sex and silver were just enough distraction to keep Torquatus from noticing the movement of a young girl vainly attempting to hide behind nearby fencing.
Torquatus soon demonstrated why he was a better thief than a thinker. While focused on small things that might lay hidden under stones or buried in the earth, the corner of one of his eyes finally caught a movement. As Torquatus stared, a goddess suddenly took shape out of the shadows right in front of him. A very young girl. A very pretty young girl. Moreover, the mysterious way the girl had suddenly appeared, to a country-boy like Torquatus was a bit disconcerting. Dressed only in a thin rag of a tunic and smudged from head to foot with ash soot. Like a wood nymph, but also one rather terrified and vulnerable. Just what Torquatus needed.
Torquatus took a hesitant step forward and grabbed the girl roughly by one arm. He would have to find a place to do it. Someone might see him here in the open. That someone might be bigger than him. Steal his prize. He had to hurry. Torquatus yanked at the girl’s arm and tried to pull her toward the darkest corner of the broken shed. She resisted slightly, and he noticed her dark eyes had a glint of gold to them. For some reason here eyes reminded Torquatus of the eyes of a snake. Torquatus held one arm firmly, but he approved of the way the girl kept both her hands demurely, it seemed to him, behind her back, her head bowed slightly. When he had pulled her arm, she had only shuffled sideways. The little temptress was being coy. What use was that? He was not doing anything that was not supposed to happen.
“Don’t hurt me,” she pleaded in broken Latin, looking up at him. She had really big imploring eyes and a wide sensual mouth. Torquatus let go of the girl’s arm and, with a finger, brushed a strand of hair from her face behind one ear. She was so sincere. Don’t hurt me. Whoever heard of taking a woman as hurting her? He could not get over the idea that he was in total control of someone.
Somewhere, a loud cry broke through the humming sounds of the streets. The girl was trembling. He was wasting time. Instead of dragging her by the arm, he pushed her stumbling farther into the darkness. For a moment Torquatus stood unsure of what to do next. Stupid, he told himself. He began to pull down his woolen britches, and when he bent over to balance himself on one leg, the little vulpine hit him with something heavy and hard, like a brick. The blow merely stunned Torquatus, but it caused him to trip over his half-off pants, and as he fell, she continued to hit him again and again. When he regained his senses, Torquatus found himself on the ground; his arms and legs spread out and securely pinioned with leather strips and tent stakes. The snake-eyed girl in the thin dress was sitting on his hips. She had the same glint in her eyes. A feral glint as if preparing to enjoy the consummation oftheir union. That was the last thing Torquatus saw before the snake-eyed girl bashed in his head.
The girl pulled the Balearic off the dead soldier and dragged his body into the dark corner of the shed, covering it with scattered tufts of straw. Looking at the brick covered with blood, she lifted it too her lips, kissed it and tossed back behind the dead body. Would other soldiers find the body? Would he left to be eaten by wolves? There were too many dead to be concerned with this one. She had no time to think of them either. Gathering the belt with its sword she re-entered the broken shell of her home. She had gathered what she needed and left before someone else found her. Setting down the sword belt, the girl reached up into a niche in the rafters and pulled down a leather band attached to a pouch. Small stones rattled softly inside. The girl wrapped the leather band around her head and secured the drawstrings of the pouch to the sword belt. She tried the belt around her waist. It was too big for her. She tightened the belt by repositioning the clasp, but it still hung loosely. The heavy sword dangled awkwardly down one leg. It would bounce around when she walked. Hooking the tip of the scabbard to the belt so as to align it parallel. Then she slung the loop over her head and across her back. The buckle lay across her chest. The heavy sword fit like a pack across her back. She could at least carry it comfortably. A sword might come in useful. The strap was still loose fitting. It would shift around when she moved. Should she just leave the sword and belt behind? A Roman gladius was easily recognizable. Carrying a sword was a deliberate risk. For a moment the girl considered going back and taking the soldier’s sandals. Leave the sandals. She was used to traveling barefoot. There was no food to take with her either.
The noise of men moving down the street made her draw the sword part way out of its scabbard. Better to move than to stay. The sword slid back down into its sheath. The girl left the hut, crossed the barn area and entered a large warehouse structure. Community foods were normally stored here for distribution during the winter. It was an old building, built as part of the original town, with one side still forming an integral part of the town’s wooden wall. A foot high platform extended out from the back wall. The girl crawled underneath the platform. Using one hand to clear away a few inches of surface dirt, she uncovered a series of wooden slats. The slats were part of a lid. The lid covered a hole. The hole was a tunnel passing under the town wall and extending several dozen feet outside the compound into the woods, rising up inside the hollowed out stump of a tree. As a little girl, she had found the tunnel entrance while playing hide and seek. Such tunnels were secret exits for their owners. Now it was her escape hole.
Pulling off the cover and laying it aside, the girl squeezed down into a dirt-bottomed nothingness. She began crawling along the dark narrow passage. It was pitch black, much harder than she remembered. Her body was bigger, including the sword belt. As she crawled, she thought back to the opening. Chances were it would not be discovered, but she had to be out of the tunnel before anyone looked for the exit. She could not wait for night to cover her escape.
After a few minutes her hands felt the end of the tunnel wall in front of her. There was enough space above her head for her to rise up but only to a hunched position. Bending her head forward, she placed her shoulder against what she remembered as the exit cover. The exit lid should be the same as the entry one, but better disguised with a littering of dirt and stones. Could she manage to push off the added weight? The thought of being buried alive made her anxious enough to begin pushing upward. Nothing budged. A tinge of panic shot through her insides. She pressed up against the roof of the tunnel with more determination. Had more dirt and rocks been placed over the exit lid? How big of a load could she push? She was not a weak girl. Slim maybe, but strong, and tough as metal wire. She walked everywhere. She started pushing with the self confidence that her legs were strong enough to push anything.
The lid above slowly rose. Faintly, she heard the soft tumble of rocks and dirt sliding down the sides of the tree stump. Light slivered across a horizontal plane. The girl peered outside the tree stump through the tiny opening. Nothing, at least not in this direction. No reason to delay. Slowly she pushed the rest of the load off until the entire lid popped free. The girl scrambled out the hole, the blade of the sword flashing in one hand. No one was about.
Quickly and silently the girl ran barefoot into the nearby woods. She kept running at a goodly pace for a considerable time. When she decided she could afford to stop and catch her breath she found her breathing was only a little higher than normal. Time to take a bearing. Which way to proceed? She had come out on the western side of the town. Returning east was out of the question. The Romans would be circling the town scouting for escapees. Men on horseback could easily run down anyone on foot. North lay a great river too nearby to feel safe and too wide to cross. Beyond the river, the mountains of the North were steeper, colder, and home to tribal enemies. Towns to the southeast were mostly under Roman rule. Continuing westward seemed the only alternative. The West was an unknown land that sloped downward through valleys. All directions seemed friendless. At least the way West led away from the dreaded Romans.
The girl was not the only one to decide to head West. Back in Oretium, the Roman commander was also good at evaluating terrain. He would not fail to send men westward to pursue the fleeing Oretani refugees.
It was mid-afternoon. Before long she would have to find a place of shelter where she could pass the night, safely. Until then she would stop running and move more cautiously. The girl stooped and plucked tender shoots of long stemmed green and purple flowers from the damp mountain ground. She stuffed her treasures in between tiny twigs and clumps of moss, weaving the mass into a garland for her hair. The spicy scents warred with fresh memories of air filled with dying flesh. Breathing deeply, the garland soon replaced her sense of loss with the promise of hope. The earthy smells would keep her mind constant with the world outside, as she contended with the loss of family and friends deep within.
After a night inside the cleared out hollow of a long ago fallen tree, the girl headed West down the mountainside. The terrain was easy to negotiate. Well spaced, tall pine trees had laid a carpet of pine needles over moss-covered ground. As she walked, daylight filtered through the tree top branches and bird songs rippled through the early stillness. At her feet small animals could be heard scurrying through the undergrowth.
The morning air was cold and while the girl played with the puffs of mist in her breath in the air, the vigorous walk soon warmed her. The pristine forest at the edge of the blue dome of the sky almost made her forget the nightmarish past. Passing a small stream, she took her first drink of water in almost a day. The water was icy and tasted of rock pebbles.
The land dipped down in small plateau steps with slanted open meadows of wild grain and small outcropping of huge boulder rocks. At times it felt like she could see forever, but the lay of the land rose and fell and visibility was often no more than a dozen meters ahead. Closed spaces reminded her to be cautious.
By midday, the girl had entered a high valley filled with a broad band of flat grass bounding, what was probably a small water way along its center and banked by steep slopes rising to the sides. This was flat land that walking refugees would follow as the best passage downward to the valleys below. This was also a place where the Roman cavalry would hunt for refugees. She stood motionless at the edge of a wood bordering a broad clearing to look and listen. Moving only her eyes, she searched for telltale shadows or odd movements. She decided to circle the clearing staying within the wood line for concealment.
The tall pines had given way to oaks, elms and sycamore trees, whose large leafs, once on the ground, quickly dried, and if one was not careful, made crunching noises underfoot. Wind rustled through the thick leaves of elm trees. The meadow before her was as familiar to her as the land higher above where she had ventured regularly to gather plants and herbs, nuts and berries, and occasional small animals for the town’s midwife and healer.
Remaining cautious, the girl stopped again to look and listen. There were no signs of any activity that disturbed the nearby birds or animals on the ground, yet she could not see far out into the clearing. A rise of huge boulders forced her away from the edge of the woods and into the field with its waving stalks of grain. Out in the open, she tried to keep her head below the level of the grass, but hiding her head also cut off her view. Choosing to see where she was going over the benefits of remaining hidden, the girl slowly lifted her head. Not a stone’s throw in front of her was a soldier. He was walking to one side, bent over examining the ground, holding the reins of a horse trailing behind him. The soldier was dressed in Roman garb, but his helmetless head was surely non-Roman, filled with bushy, light-colored hair. Strange, the soldier was alone. The soldier bent down and picked up something that glistened in the sunlight.
The girl began stepping sideways back toward the boulders. She had moved no farther away than a dozen paces, when heard several men whispering. She stopped and crouched. Forward and sideways were blocked. She would have to backtrack toward the earlier wood line. She had almost started to rise when another Roman soldier on a horse appeared behind her coming out of the wood. She sank down on her haunches. Apparently the rider had not spied her in the field. He continued, passing her not twenty meters away, headed toward the other soldier standing in the middle of the field.
The horse soldier wore his helmet, but it did not hide his mane of bright hair. The crest of the man’s helmet was tufted with horsehair. A Gallic scout. The second rider was also holding the lead to a mule loaded with fetters and chains. Slavers. These soldiers were sent to gather prisoners from among the scattered refugees. A third rider appeared coming out of the wood farther away. Then, two more left the woods, each separated by a distance of several dozen meters. They had been quartering the land looking for signs of human movement. Each rider carried a lance, but no shield. They were not expecting to have to defend themselves. As the four riders merged on the standing soldier, the girl began backing away once again toward the edge of the wood. She was not going to turn her back to either group.
The four horsemen dismounted and stood around the soldier holding the shinny object. A heated discussion ensured. What had they found? It glittered like gold. A coin? Lost or planted by the whispers?
The air about the five soldiers was suddenly filled with a rain of missiles. Panic sent the riderless horses galloping past the girl. One of the soldiers ran toward her, arrows sticking out of his back, arms and legs. Staggering he fell out of sight somewhere in front of her in the tall grass. Three soldiers stumbled around with javelins shafts hanging from their torsos, while the forth made a dash for the trees only to be pole axed as he fled by an apparition rising from the field with tufts of grass tied around his head.
The slaughter was over in minutes. Oretani men by the look of their dress began to emerge from their hiding places, wisps of grass stalks clinging to their hair. Three who were probably the whispers she heard earlier stood up not a dozen paces away. As the refugees closed in on the dead, the Roman scout who had been felled by arrows, rose up right in front of the girl. Glimpsing the sword in her hand, he began edging away. A moment later his body shuddered as a lance tore through his back, its sharp, silvery point stuck out of his chest. The scout did not scream. He clutched the blade point with one hand. Blood seeped between his fingers and out of his mouth, as a large round-bellied Oretani walked up behind him and lopped off his head.
As she sheathed the sword, the girl recognized that the man in front of her looked familiar. She had passed him several times in the streets of Oretium. He had always worn a blood-splotched apron across his front. No wonder he had sliced the man’s head off with one blow. The dead soldier’s executioner was the town butcher. The butcher bent over his victim and pulled the soldier’s head up by his bushy blonde hair. He starred at the face. “Rhenus,” he spat. “Hijo de la perra,” he added, shoving the head back down. The girl understood the butcher’s anger. Even so, it was a long way from his homeland, the Rhenus River, for the Gallic man to die.
Kneeling on one knee, the butcher unhooked the buckle and pulled off the soldier’s sword belt, slinging it over his shoulder. Looking at the punctured, bloody cuirass, the butcher paused, then as if deciding to let nothing go to waste, he rolled the man over, undid the back straps, and pulled off the cuirass along with its hinged and flapping metal armor plating. Dumping his prizes on the ground, the butcher called for carriers. Several women began emerging from somewhere to the rear. They would complete the scavenging, gathering up any spoils to take back with them. The women used knives to remove the soldier’s equipment like dealing with livestock. The girl stood transfixed.
“How did you get out here?” the butcher asked, snapping the girl back to the present.
“Walked,” she said looking up at his face.
“Walked? I imagine. And that big sword you carry like a sack of grain. Where did you find that?”
“Took it.”
“Took it, did you? The butcher’s face expanded into a smile full of mirth. Off of a dead solider, I presume.”
“Live.”
“Live was he? Just handed his sword to you. All nice and if you please.”
“Dead when I took it. Live before I killed him.”
The young girl’s face was serious. Wide eyes glinted at the big man who towered over her as if challenging him to deny her story. A second man hobbled up behind the butcher. Under one arm he clutched a forked tree limb as a crutch to support his disabled leg. The lower part of the man’s leg was bound with cloth around a piece of wood to keep it immobilized.
“I know you,” he said, regaining his balance. “You’re the healer’s fetch. Are you a wellmaker too?”
Before the girl could answer, a voice from the rear cried out, “Hacemal, mago! Witch, magician! Beware!” The voice belonged to a small, shrunken man with scars running up and down both bare arms. His face was pocked and studded with barbs of unshorn hair. He was gaunt with the loose flesh of a penitent. The small man prodded a javelin at the girl. “This girl is the witch’s spawn. I know her. She was an apprentice to that so-called healer. Kill her! Kill her now!”
The girl took a step backward, unsheathing the sword with one hand while using the other hand to remove the leather band from her head.
“Kill her, butcher. Kill her before she brings ruin among us.”
While the small man ranted, the girl stuck the blade of her sword in the ground. Quickly, she took a stone bullet from the pouch at her waist and placed it in the cup of the sling. The loaded sling hung loose and menacing at her side. The girl’s face held no sign of tension, but her legs were flexed ready for action.
“Take her sword,” the little man said, prodding at the sword in the ground with his spear. “The little snip is just a worthless female. A witch’s pup.”
The girl saw fear in the eyes of her accuser. Perhaps the healer had offended him and he was now taking his spite out on her. The spear tip edged toward her, and the girl responded by raising the sling and twirling it. The spinning sling made a wining sound like the warning before the strike of a poisonous snake.
“What are you going to do with that toy?” he cackled at her threat. “You raise your hand to me, you worthless piece of dog dropping, I’ll stick you like a rat.” The man was full of blunder, but he did not advance further on her.
“Back!” the butcher commanded, in a tone that brooked no opposition. “Back off little keeper of the flame. We may need this little girl. She has a talent we are missing.” Frustrated, the small man lowered his spear, but made no move to back away. The girl lowered her sling.
“Are you a healer’s helper? Or are you wellmaker too,” the butcher asked?
The girl did not reply. She was not sure whether she could perform the healing tasks well enough to be considered a healer. It took more than knowledge of plants and their preparations. She had watched and learned, but how much did she miss by only watching? What would be demanded of her? The healer had employed her as a helper not as an apprentice. The tasks she was given were for work, not professional training.
“My friend here is our tanner,” the butcher said motioning to the hobbled man. “He had the misfortune of breaking his lower leg bone. We can do nothing more for him. The leg has been braced with wood for support. We all know that eventually the bone will close over the break, but the leg will grow crooked. He will never walk again with out aid. We need a healer with experience weaving broken bones back together solid and straight. Can you do that?”
The girl had attended the healer while she knit the broken bones of both humans and animals. Carrying tools and mixing herbal potions, she had watched. How much had she learned from watching? Sometimes the injuries were small, what the healer called a bone crack. The most difficult were those where the bone had snapped and broken through the skin. The healer had mended them all. The tanner’s injury did not look severe. He was able to stand. Most probably, the bone surfaces above and below the break would have to be pulled apart enough so that they could be guided back together following the break pattern. What knowledge might she be missing?”
“You understand, our tanner will die if you can not mend his leg.” The butcher was dead serious. “He cannot walk. We cannot delay. He will be left to die here, alone among these mountains with no one to mourn him. I have worked with this man too long in life to feed him to the wolves.” The girl hunched her shoulders, bending over to look closely at the injured leg. Could she do it? Should she try? Her life might depend on the results.
“I say kill the girl and let us be gone before more horsemen come.” The small man was furious at being ignored. He moved closer to the girl, once again thrusting his spear at her. The butcher ignored the interruption. He stared at the girl waiting for her answer.
“You don’t want a priest for an enemy,” the butcher said nodding his head at the spear-carrier. “He wants to kill everything he does not like. Look, we can use a healer. You would be safer with us. One more mouth to feed won’t matter. But we will only take you along if you serve a use. Mend the tanner’s leg, or be on your way. What will it be, little lady?”
“I can try,” said the girl in a noncommittal voice. “I have seen it done, but I have never done the mending. I am not a healer, only someone who has seen such things done.”
“If that the best you can offer, we will take our chances with you.” The butcher turned his head and shouted. “Everybody! Gather up what you can carry. Bury the dead. Let us get away from this killing ground.” Turning back to the girl. “Well, little healer, what do you need from me?”
“Let me feel the leg,” she said asking permission of the tanner. She knelt at the tanner’s feet and sat back on her heels. Taking a deep breath, she began gently unwrapping the binding. The bare leg was puffy but not bloated. Mottled colors of dark purple to pink appeared around the probable break line. It looked to be more than a crack, but not an offset separation. Carefully she probed the swelling with her fingertips. The hobbled man stiffened at the first touch. No sharp edges, no fragments. The bone had not fully separated, but the break had rough edges. She would have to reset the bone surfaces. “It will hurt, but I think we can do it.”
“We,” asked the butcher? “Who is this we? Do you intend to do this thing now?”
“No better time than now, and I can’t think of any better place than here. You and I will do this “thing,” as you call it. You and I are the “we.” Well, we will need one more person, a man strong enough to hold the tanner’s foot, fixed, so he cannot move it. The foot must not budge while your friend rages like a rutting bull in pain.”
The butcher called over two strong looking men to aid him. He ordered one to stand by and the other he directed to the tanner’s foot. “Hold it with both your hands like a carpenter’s vice.”
Looking at the butcher, the girl mimed and said, “You are to pull the upper leg back toward your chest very gently and slowly. The surfaces of the broken bone will separate slightly like this,” she demonstrated with two fingers. I will circle the bone break with my hands until I feel that the positions of each surface are aligned. No more than a few seconds will have passed. I say release. You relax slowly. The bones slide together. His muscles will hold the mend in place. We splint the leg again, this time with a brace on both sides and wrap it as before. From then on, it will be up to the tanner’s body to weld solid new bone material and close over the break.”
“Will it hurt bad?” asked the tanner completely forgetting that the girl had just talked about the rage of a bull in pain.
“At first, the pain will feel like the searing of hot branding iron. You will either want to fight us to the death or you will simply lose consciousness. I have nothing to give you to ease the pain. After the first pain, take heart, the worst is already over. Your body will only accept so much pain. The intensity of the pain will become less and less or your mind will shut down.”
The tanner was beginning to sweat. “Listen, she counseled, “women giving birth to a child feel much greater pain and for a lot longer time. Be glad you are not having a baby.” Picking up a piece of wood from the pile of kindling next to the campfire, she said, “Put this stick in your mouth. Try to bite it in half. Show us how strong your jaw is. Everyone ready?” The butcher and the man holding the tanner’s foot both nodded.
“Pull,” she said clearly and evenly. The chunk of wood in the tanner’s mouth crunched and muted his scream. Mercifully, he went unconscious, saliva drooling down the corner of his mouth. The girl probed the mushy leg flesh to feel for the bone sections. Wrapping her hands at the fracture to hold it aligned, she ordered, “Release!” The bone surface felt smooth to the touch of her fingertips. The sections were back in place. “Just hold him for a few moments more,” she asked the two men. The girl picked up the former brace of wood and broke it in two vertical pieces making a splint for each side of the break. Then she wrapped the leg tightly and evenly as she had seen the healer do what seemed to her now like a thousand different memories.
The tunic of the man holding the tanner’s leg was soaked with sweat. The man had the tanner’s foot in a death grip. “Paulus, you can let go now,” said the butcher. The tanner was moaning in his dark sleep. The butcher felt drained from the experience. “That it?” he asked. The girl nodded. “How long before he can walk again.” The butcher’s mind was already back on the trip ahead.
“Two weeks I would guess.” The girl estimated. She stood. “He can give it a try earlier, but if he is not careful, he could ruin the leg. Too much pain and he is to stop immediately and immobilize the leg.” Looking down at the tanner still in his dark world of dreaded dreams, she realized she had just performed her own first major operation. Mending a broken leg was the mark of a true healer. “If he can stand the pain, he can walk with help or a crutch, but only for a little while. Even the pressure of standing can push the break apart. He must be watched closely.”
“Two weeks carrying him. Can we do that?” the butcher asked himself. He called for a litter to be made. “We cannot carry a man day after day.”
“After a two days he should be able to ride. Put him on the mule. Where are you headed?”
“We are not sure.” The butcher looked down the long stepped valleys. “I am told that long ago there was a meeting place down in the valleys below. A place where the tribes gathered for socializing. Once a year, they met for exchange and celebration. Our people call such places nemetons, sacred ground. At such places everyone was assured of their personal safety. This haven we are seeking, aptly enough, seems to have been called Sanctuary. I know of no one who has ever been there. Perhaps it is just another old wives’ tale. Our plan, however, is find this Sanctuary, settle the women, the children and any adults too weak to travel to rest and recuperate, at least temporarily. The men and I will march on, as soon as possible. We go in search of the military camp of the new Roman General who leads the Lusitani. The one said to be successfully leading them in their war of independence. We are Oretani who have lost our homes and our families to the greed of Romans. We can fight and we too would be independent."