"My name is Bendeigid,” the Druid said, but he did not question Gaius, and the young Roman remembered hearing his mother’s people say that among the Celts a guest was still sacred, at least outside Roman lands. A man’s worst enemy might claim food and shelter and depart unquestioned if he chose. Gaius breathed a little freer at the reprieve; this was one place it might be safer—and wiser—to claim hospitality as a guest than to exact it as the right of a conqueror.
The girl Eilan came into the alcove again, carrying a small chest of oakwood bound with iron, and a drinking horn. She said timidly, "I hope this is the right one.”
Her father nodded to her brusquely, took the chest, and gestured to her to give the horn to Gaius. He reached for it and found to his surprise that his fingers had not the strength to close.
The Druid said, "Drink that,” with the unmistakable manner of a man who is accustomed to giving orders and to having them obeyed. He added after a minute, "You’ll need it by the time we get through with you.” He sounded pleasant enough; but Gaius had begun to be frightened.
Bendeigid gestured to the girl and she came back to Gaius’s bedside.
She smiled, tasted a few drops in the traditional gesture of hospitality, then held the horn to his lips. Gaius tried to raise himself a little but his muscles would not obey him. With a compassionate cry, Eilan lifted his head in the curve of her arm so that he could drink.
The young Roman sipped at the cup; it was strong mead, to which some bitter, obviously medicinal spice had been added.
"You had almost won through to the Land of Youth, stranger, but you will not die,” she murmured. "I saw you in a dream, but you were older—and with a little boy by your side.”
He looked up at her, already too deliciously drowsy to find that disturbing. Young as she was, lying against her breast was like being back in his mother’s arms. Now, when he was in pain, he could almost remember her, and his eyes stung with tears. He was vaguely aware when the old Druid cut away his tunic and the old Druid and the young man Cynric washed his wounds with something that stung—but not any worse than the stuff old Manlius had put on his leg when he hurt it before. They smeared his leg with something sticky and stinging, and bound it tightly with strips of linen. Then they moved the swollen ankle, and he watched without much interest as somebody said, "Nothing much wrong here—not even broken.”
But he snapped out of the dreamy daze when Cynric said, "Brace yourself, youngster; that stake was filthy, but I think we can save the arm, if we burn it out.”
"Eilan,” the old man commanded curtly, "get out of here; this is nothing for a young girl to see.”
"I’ll hold him, Eilan,” Cynric said. "You can go.”
"I will stay, Father. Maybe I can help.” Her hand closed over Gaius’s, and the old man growled, "Do as you like, then, but don’t scream or faint.”
The next minute Gaius felt strong hands—Cynric’s?—holding him flat and hard. Eilan’s hand was still twined in his, but he felt it quiver a little; he turned his head away, closing his eyes and grinding his teeth lest some shameful cry should escape him. He smelled the approach of the heated iron, and then a frightful agony ripped through his whole body.
A scream contorted his lips, he felt it escape as a gagging grunt; then the rough touch released him and he felt only the girl’s soft hands. When he could open his eyes, he saw the Druid looking down at him, a bleak smile tight around the greying beard. Cynric, who was still bent over him, was very white; Gaius had seen that look on youngsters in his own command after their first battle.
"Well, you’re certainly no coward, lad,” the youth said in a choked voice.
"Thanks,” Gaius said absurdly. And fainted.
TWO
When Gaius came to himself again, feeling as if he had been unconscious for a long time, the rushlights had burned down. Only a little light came from the coals on the hearth, and by it he could just make out the girl Eilan seated beside him nearly asleep. He felt tired, and his arm throbbed and he was thirsty. He could hear women’s voices not far away. His shoulder was done up in thick wrappings of linen—he felt as if he had been swaddled like a newborn babe. The injured shoulder was slick with some greasy salve and the linen smelled of fat and balsam.