yellow . . . uh, that’s a bull, so it must be the Turons . . . Ah, here we are, the Carnutes!”
Keltill rode past the largest of the Carnute tents, displaying the horse standard of their vergobret, and reined in before a somewhat smaller one flying a red-and-black pennant.
“Why here first?” asked Vercingetorix.
“As a favor to you,Vercingetorix, for this is the tent of Epona, widow of Arthak, vergobret of the Carnutes, slain by the Teutons in battle, and an old friend—”
“I don’t understand—”
“Oh, you will,” Keltill told him with a wink and a laugh as he dismounted, bidding Vercingetorix to do likewise.
“Greetings, Epona, we are here!” Keltill shouted when they reached the entrance.
A stern-looking woman with more gray in her hair than brown emerged, wearing a somber black tuniclike dress nevertheless secured at her right shoulder by a large and ornate filigreed silver broach in the form of a horse.
“Greetings, Keltill,” she said much less loudly, and they embraced fraternally as Vercingetorix dismounted.
“You remember my son, Vercingetorix. . . .”
“Who could forget the silver-tongued Vercingetorix?” Epona said in a dry tone.
“We’ve met . . . ?” Vercingetorix stammered.
His father and Epona exchanged amused glances, which only made his discomfort worse.
“Your attention, as I remember, was elsewhere at the time,” said Epona.
Keltill laughed. “If you don’t remember Epona,” he said, “I’ll wager you remember her daughter, Marah.”
Indeed he did.
For the girl who then emerged from the tent had been the first object of his boyish lust. The girl who had so disdained him at his father’s inaugural feast. The girl he had not found the courage to speak to, but whose presence had somehow conspired with much beer to turn a tongue of wood to one of silver.
Her face had tanned to a golden hue, and her long blond hair was now worn free and wild. She wore a plain white shift, snug enough to reveal breasts that had blossomed into womanhood. Her lips were if anything fuller, and there was a new . . . something in her eyes. All in all, the sight of her was now even more intoxicating to Vercingetorix sober than it had been when he was drunk.
Keltill gave the gaping Vercingetorix an elbow in the ribs. “Why, if I were a few years younger . . . and, on the other hand, even so—”
“Don’t even think about it, Keltill,” said Epona.
Keltill exhaled a great false sigh. “Well, there’s always my son here to carry on. . . .” And then, more seriously, “They make a fine couple, do they not? And your family is without a man to head the household. . . .”
“Now, there might be an alliance,” mused Epona. She continued, more sharply: “But we have something more pressing to discuss right now, don’t we, Keltill?”
“Indeed,” said Keltill. “So why don’t we discuss it inside and leave them alone to see if they’ll do what comes naturally?”
Vercingetorix blushed, for nothing could have been closer to his mind.
“Not
too
naturally, Marah,” Epona said, and the maiden in question blushed likewise. Then Keltill and Epona went into the tent, leaving the two of them to stand there staring at each other in red-faced mortification.
“Shall we go walk down by the stream?” Vercingetorix summoned up the courage to suggest.
“Well, I suppose so,” said Marah. “At the moment I seem to find myself with nothing better to do.”
The stroll through the encampments together had been awkward, but not as awkward as Vercingetorix found himself when at last he had Marah alone under the trees fringing the stream.
There, he could at least break the long silence pointing out the identities of the tribes whose encampments they passed, and boasting of the extent of Keltill’s holdings, and of his good fortune in being the son of such a great man.
But here, alone with her in the cool brown shadows, with no sounds but the burbling of the stream through its
Keltill rode past the largest of the Carnute tents, displaying the horse standard of their vergobret, and reined in before a somewhat smaller one flying a red-and-black pennant.
“Why here first?” asked Vercingetorix.
“As a favor to you,Vercingetorix, for this is the tent of Epona, widow of Arthak, vergobret of the Carnutes, slain by the Teutons in battle, and an old friend—”
“I don’t understand—”
“Oh, you will,” Keltill told him with a wink and a laugh as he dismounted, bidding Vercingetorix to do likewise.
“Greetings, Epona, we are here!” Keltill shouted when they reached the entrance.
A stern-looking woman with more gray in her hair than brown emerged, wearing a somber black tuniclike dress nevertheless secured at her right shoulder by a large and ornate filigreed silver broach in the form of a horse.
“Greetings, Keltill,” she said much less loudly, and they embraced fraternally as Vercingetorix dismounted.
“You remember my son, Vercingetorix. . . .”
“Who could forget the silver-tongued Vercingetorix?” Epona said in a dry tone.
“We’ve met . . . ?” Vercingetorix stammered.
His father and Epona exchanged amused glances, which only made his discomfort worse.
“Your attention, as I remember, was elsewhere at the time,” said Epona.
Keltill laughed. “If you don’t remember Epona,” he said, “I’ll wager you remember her daughter, Marah.”
Indeed he did.
For the girl who then emerged from the tent had been the first object of his boyish lust. The girl who had so disdained him at his father’s inaugural feast. The girl he had not found the courage to speak to, but whose presence had somehow conspired with much beer to turn a tongue of wood to one of silver.
Her face had tanned to a golden hue, and her long blond hair was now worn free and wild. She wore a plain white shift, snug enough to reveal breasts that had blossomed into womanhood. Her lips were if anything fuller, and there was a new . . . something in her eyes. All in all, the sight of her was now even more intoxicating to Vercingetorix sober than it had been when he was drunk.
Keltill gave the gaping Vercingetorix an elbow in the ribs. “Why, if I were a few years younger . . . and, on the other hand, even so—”
“Don’t even think about it, Keltill,” said Epona.
Keltill exhaled a great false sigh. “Well, there’s always my son here to carry on. . . .” And then, more seriously, “They make a fine couple, do they not? And your family is without a man to head the household. . . .”
“Now, there might be an alliance,” mused Epona. She continued, more sharply: “But we have something more pressing to discuss right now, don’t we, Keltill?”
“Indeed,” said Keltill. “So why don’t we discuss it inside and leave them alone to see if they’ll do what comes naturally?”
Vercingetorix blushed, for nothing could have been closer to his mind.
“Not
too
naturally, Marah,” Epona said, and the maiden in question blushed likewise. Then Keltill and Epona went into the tent, leaving the two of them to stand there staring at each other in red-faced mortification.
“Shall we go walk down by the stream?” Vercingetorix summoned up the courage to suggest.
“Well, I suppose so,” said Marah. “At the moment I seem to find myself with nothing better to do.”
The stroll through the encampments together had been awkward, but not as awkward as Vercingetorix found himself when at last he had Marah alone under the trees fringing the stream.
There, he could at least break the long silence pointing out the identities of the tribes whose encampments they passed, and boasting of the extent of Keltill’s holdings, and of his good fortune in being the son of such a great man.
But here, alone with her in the cool brown shadows, with no sounds but the burbling of the stream through its
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