Druids by Morgan Llywelyn

him had been intensified by his manmaking.
    Of course, my head affirmed. That is the purpose. A small feast was served to the newly initiated men. I sat beside Vercingetorix, and we shared a few oatcakes and a lot of wine. At some point in the festivities I found myself calling him Rix.
    We had a succession of sun-soaked days together before Gobannitio returned to take Rix home. During that time I told him of my family and he told me of his, particularly of his ambitious father, Celtillus, who was warring against the Aedui in the south. Celtillus dreamed of making the Arvemi the supreme tribe in Gaul, Rix confided, although me king of the tribe had smaller goals and was content with things as they were.
    “My uncle Gobannitio agrees with the king,” Rix said. “He says we would lose more men than we can afford to lose if we tried to subjugate all the tribes of Gaul.”
    “What do you think?”
    Rix smiled. “I like a bold dream.”
    “You’ll never defeat the Camutes,” I assured him, but I laughed as I said it and there was no hostility between us. We had become friends. We fished in the river and rolled our eyes at the women and the time we had together was too short.
    “Perhaps you have found a soul friend,” Menua suggested to me in private.
    “What is a soul friend?”
    “A person you have known … before. And almost remember. A person with whom you have a special link. When one of such a pair is a druid, the druid is obliged to serve as guide and counselor for his soul friend.”
    “Does Vercingetorix know about soul friends?”
    “I doubt it,”
    ” Should I tell him?”
    “He might laugh at you; he might not understand,” Menua replied with a perceptiveness I would only appreciate later.
    My head knew Menua was right; the Arvemian and I were soul
    DRUIDS
    friends. I recognized the spirit that looked out at me from Rix’s long-lidded eyes.
    I began taking my obligation seriously, giving him much gra-tuitous advice. To my surprise, he accepted it, or at least listened.
    Rix had a habit common to those who live with others. He announced what he was going to do before he did it, often in unnecessary detail. “I’m going to bed now, I’m sleepy and I want to be fresh for hunting tomorrow,” he would say. Or, “I’m going outside for a piss, my belly is too full of wine.”
    As Menua had advised me, I advised Rix. “Don’t announce your intentions so freely. The less others know, the better.”
    “Secrecy is for druids,” he replied.
    “Secrecy could be good strategy for warriors, too,” I suggested.
    Rix studied me through narrowed eyes. “You are clever, Ain-var.”
    His compliment embarrassed me. “I use my head,” I said diffidently.
    “If you find anything else in that head of yours that might be of use to me, share it. I’m trying to assemble an armory.”
    “The King of the World will need one.” I could not resist teasing.
    He hit me. I hit him. We rolled in the dirt, punching and pounding, until laughter broke us apart.
    When Gobannitio came for Rix our leavetaking was awkward. We had almost been enemies; we had become more than friends. We were not bards and so did not have the agility of tongue to express our feelings-In near silence, I helped Rix collect his things in the lodge. When he lifted his rolled bedding onto his shoulder, he said, “Beware of the man with the crooked shoulder, Ainvar. He failed himself at the manmaking and you were a witness. He won’t forgive you for having seen his weakness.”
    “You don’t understand, Rix. Crom was my friend.”
    “Just remember what I said. You have a clever head, but I am a pretty good judge of men.”
    “I’ll remember,” I promised.
    At the doorway he turned back toward me. Had we belonged to the same tribe we would have hugged fiercely, grabbed one another by the beard, and kissed both cheekbones. But he was
    Arvemian and I was Camutian. A chasm yawned between us.
    Rix grinned. “We jumped the pit together,