spare my people. He offered us survival only as slaves for the profit of the greedy dealers who follow him everywhere.
Confronted with these “terms of surrender,” the tribal council voted to fight. We have done our best to send off the women and children we could to Albion, the White Isle across the sea. Your sisters and daughters have gone to our allies there. Your mother, greatly to my sorrow, refused to go, saying only that she would find the world too empty a place without me. But she sends you her love and this memory of honor.
I say again, I think we will lose. As it is said, not even the best sailor can prevail without the wind and tide. Both are with the Romans. We will be lost. But, my daughter, remember the wind changes and the tide ebbs. But not, alas, in our lifetime. So,
ave atque vale.
Hail and farewell.
Imona stood silent for a moment. Outside, she and Mir could hear the shouts of children playing a chase game, the kind of game children have played for millennia and will play for millennia more.
Imona folded the letter and placed it in her bodice between her breasts.
He extended the torque with the other hand, but she didn’t take it.
“How long have you kept this from me, old man?”
“Years,” Mir admitted sadly. “It has been years since they died. But seeing you still had hope and a chance for some happiness among us, I believed that even if Leon never recovered, you would be able to carve out a life for yourself And, for a long time, you did achieve some semblance of peace, and hope, even a faint one, played a role in this. Did it not?”
“I suppose so,” she answered in a lackluster way.
Outside, someone called out to the children at play in a language with more gutturals than sibilants. And Imona remembered where she was, now driven forever from even the poor place she once held among Mir’s people.
A woman’s voice sternly ordered the children away from the weaving room and its shadowy guest, lest they be brushed and withered by the power crouching there.
“How did they die?” Imona asked.
“She took poison. He used his sword as a warrior should, sacrificing himself so that his power would go to those of his people who survived, and see them through the lifetime of slavery they faced, and beyond into another dawn.”
She reached out and took the torque from his hand. “You will see that I receive wheat and oats so I may cook my daily meal and, of course, a fire on the hearth to keep me warm by night?”
“Yes, but rye bread and barley beer is likely to be more often found here.”
“I’ll make do,” she whispered.
“You are the last, the best that we possess. All the great families are gone and the gods will never send down kingship to a dishonored people.”
She placed the torque around her neck. “If that is what you fear, old man, I will do my best.” She turned her back and walked toward the dead hearth. When she looked again, Mir was gone. She knew then she would see him only one more time and that would be the last for both of them. Perhaps even the last sight her living eyes would look upon.
Dryas slept again in the mountain meadow. The path was quick and easy for her. She found when she entered the clearing near Mir’s house that he again had guests. Dryas sighed when she saw Firminius, but was relieved to realize he was much calmer today. Sitting in the chair next to him and enjoying the fine morning was another man, a tall, blond, handsome youth dressed for hunting. He wore the tunic and trousers of a rider. Two horses grazed near a tree. One, a slender, long-legged gray mare with an elaborately padded saddle, obviously belonged to Firminius. The other, a big-boned, thick-bodied black with a leather saddle pad, must belong to the hunter.
And indeed, the hunt had been successful. A half dozen hares hung like a stringer of fish from a tree branch, and near them a young stag. All of the animals had been expertly field-dressed, entrails and scent
Confronted with these “terms of surrender,” the tribal council voted to fight. We have done our best to send off the women and children we could to Albion, the White Isle across the sea. Your sisters and daughters have gone to our allies there. Your mother, greatly to my sorrow, refused to go, saying only that she would find the world too empty a place without me. But she sends you her love and this memory of honor.
I say again, I think we will lose. As it is said, not even the best sailor can prevail without the wind and tide. Both are with the Romans. We will be lost. But, my daughter, remember the wind changes and the tide ebbs. But not, alas, in our lifetime. So,
ave atque vale.
Hail and farewell.
Imona stood silent for a moment. Outside, she and Mir could hear the shouts of children playing a chase game, the kind of game children have played for millennia and will play for millennia more.
Imona folded the letter and placed it in her bodice between her breasts.
He extended the torque with the other hand, but she didn’t take it.
“How long have you kept this from me, old man?”
“Years,” Mir admitted sadly. “It has been years since they died. But seeing you still had hope and a chance for some happiness among us, I believed that even if Leon never recovered, you would be able to carve out a life for yourself And, for a long time, you did achieve some semblance of peace, and hope, even a faint one, played a role in this. Did it not?”
“I suppose so,” she answered in a lackluster way.
Outside, someone called out to the children at play in a language with more gutturals than sibilants. And Imona remembered where she was, now driven forever from even the poor place she once held among Mir’s people.
A woman’s voice sternly ordered the children away from the weaving room and its shadowy guest, lest they be brushed and withered by the power crouching there.
“How did they die?” Imona asked.
“She took poison. He used his sword as a warrior should, sacrificing himself so that his power would go to those of his people who survived, and see them through the lifetime of slavery they faced, and beyond into another dawn.”
She reached out and took the torque from his hand. “You will see that I receive wheat and oats so I may cook my daily meal and, of course, a fire on the hearth to keep me warm by night?”
“Yes, but rye bread and barley beer is likely to be more often found here.”
“I’ll make do,” she whispered.
“You are the last, the best that we possess. All the great families are gone and the gods will never send down kingship to a dishonored people.”
She placed the torque around her neck. “If that is what you fear, old man, I will do my best.” She turned her back and walked toward the dead hearth. When she looked again, Mir was gone. She knew then she would see him only one more time and that would be the last for both of them. Perhaps even the last sight her living eyes would look upon.
Dryas slept again in the mountain meadow. The path was quick and easy for her. She found when she entered the clearing near Mir’s house that he again had guests. Dryas sighed when she saw Firminius, but was relieved to realize he was much calmer today. Sitting in the chair next to him and enjoying the fine morning was another man, a tall, blond, handsome youth dressed for hunting. He wore the tunic and trousers of a rider. Two horses grazed near a tree. One, a slender, long-legged gray mare with an elaborately padded saddle, obviously belonged to Firminius. The other, a big-boned, thick-bodied black with a leather saddle pad, must belong to the hunter.
And indeed, the hunt had been successful. A half dozen hares hung like a stringer of fish from a tree branch, and near them a young stag. All of the animals had been expertly field-dressed, entrails and scent
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