Nobody Loves a Centurion(51)

“Your pardon, sir. My thoughts were elsewhere.”

He raised a hand to his breast and swept his staff to one side in a graceful gesture. “The fault was mine,” he said in heavily accented but very passable Greek. “I was admiring the standards and failed to watch where I was going.” He nodded toward where the eagle and the lesser standards stood in gleaming splendor, guarded by men draped in lion skins, near the pit where the provisionally condemned men waited for me to save them.

“I am Decius Caecilius Metellus the Younger,” I informed him, extending my hand. He took it awkwardly, like one unused to the gesture. His hand was as soft as a patrician woman’s. Clearly, these Druids had made an easy life for themselves.

“Caecilius Metellus? Is that not one of the great Roman families?”

“We are not without distinction,” I affirmed, preening.

“I am Badraig, acolyte of the Singing Druids.”

“You came here for the court?” I inquired.

“Yes. We had expected Caesar to be here.” He looked annoyed at this. Apparently, Labienus had been correct about Caesar’s ruse.

“Caius Julius can be unpredictable,” I commiserated.

“I had thought he held us in higher esteem. Several times during the negotiations he has entertained us separately, and we have informed him of our religion and customs and practices.” Clearly, he didn’t realize that Caesar was gathering propaganda to use against them.

“Don’t be upset. In the Proconsul’s absence his legatus wields full authority. His every decision will be backed up by the Senate. If you don’t mind my asking, what business do you Druids have before the court?”

“There are several border disputes to be settled here, and these require our presence.”

“I am not well informed about your customs, but it was my impression that Druids owned no land.” He fell in beside me as I strolled toward my tent. I had no objection to such interesting and unusual company and he certainly led my thoughts away from that troublesome box.

“Nor do we, although we have charge of holy places. But by ancient custom Druids must be present before any decision can be taken concerning boundary disputes. In the days before the Roman presence in the land you call the Province, the decision would have lain with us.” I detected more than a hint of resentment in this.

“Well, that much less to trouble you, then. Ah, here we are. This is my tent. Will you join me for some refreshment?”

“You do me honor,” he said, with another graceful gesture. Whatever the rest of the Gauls were like, at least the Druids were well-bred.

“Molon! A chair for my guest.”

Molon came out of the tent and gaped in astonishment at my guest. “Right away, sir,” he said, and scurried off to borrow one from another tent. He was back in moments, and then he and Freda proceeded to serve lunch. She regarded the young priest with the same cool disdain she seemed to hold for the entire male sex. As Lovernius had hinted, the Germans had little awe of the Druids or their sacred sites.

“We’re low on wine,” she announced.

“Can’t have that, now, can we?” I reached into my pouch and handed her a few coins, wincing at the expenditure. No more worries about money if I can just get back to Rome with that box, I thought. I pushed the evil thought aside, knowing that it would return all too soon. “Run along to the camp forum,” I bade Freda. “Doubtless a wine merchant has set up. A trial crowd is always a thirsty crowd.”

Without comment, she turned and walked away. Badraig did not follow her with his eyes. These Druids were an unworldly lot, I thought.

Molon had come up with a passable hare, but Badraig passed it up in favor of fruit and bread. Likewise he declined to accept any wine, drinking water instead. More for me, I thought.

“That is an interesting staff,” I remarked. It leaned against the table and I was admiring its intricate carving. It was about man-height, made of some twisted wood. “Is it a part of the Druidic regalia, like an augur’s lituus?”

“Yes, every Druid carries one. It is used to mark out sacred boundaries and consecrate waters. But it is also a walking stick and is not sacred in itself. You may handle it.”

I took it and found that it was heavier than it appeared. Its whole length was carved in a bewildering interlaced design, but the knotty top was the most interesting. A natural swelling in the wood had been carved into the head of a deity, only it had three faces, each facing in a different direction. The eyes bugged out grotesquely, as they usually do in Gallic art. I have often wondered why the Gauls, wonderful artificers though they are, choose to portray the human form in this grotesque and childlike fashion.