Chapter 30: Bella

I don't remember walking back to the village. I vaguely remember falling on to the bed in Eadweard's hut. He offers me one of his remedies, murmuring something about heart's ease, and mint leaves, to take away the taste of the vomit. He pushes up my sleeve and looks at the cut. After Adsiltia has brought him warm water with which to wash away the blood, he says:

'It really needs a stitch or two to hold it closed, but it won't matter if it isn't done. Do you want me to do it?'

I don't answer, so he decides to do it anyway. It hurts much more than I expect. Adsiltia holds my arm, to keep it still. He tries to tease me when I cry out, but I don't respond. I don't have the energy.

'Two of my finest stitches,' he says as he finishes. 'A permanent reminder of me.'

Gently, he binds it up for me. A permanent reminder as well of all that has passed today, of what I have done. He kisses my forehead and strokes my face.

'You'll do, Bella Romana, you'll do.'

Then he lies down on the bed next to me and gathers me into his arms.

'It will be all right, it will be all right,' he murmurs.

Safe in his embrace, I allow myself to relax against him.

After a while, Adsiltia and her mother, Brina, take me to the women's hut. It is warm and half-dark inside, and I am grateful for that. They undress me and bathe me, and put me in clean, beautifully-woven clothes. Adsiltia takes down my hair and brushes it, then braids it down my back, like a Celt. I am re-made into a Celtic woman.

They don't speak much, except to murmur to themselves. They don't ask me anything. I don't want to talk, so I let the warm silence envelop me. They offer me food, then leave me to sleep, wrapped in woven blankets and hides. I would rather be in Eadweard's bed, in his arms, but I do not want to insult them after their kindness. Once they have left me, I do not have the energy to move, and take myself to his hut. The family are eating together; I would be alone, but I would be in the place I want to be in, waiting for him.

I am cold, so very cold. In my mind, I re-live the afternoon and the sword-fight with Publius. I feel sick when I think that I have killed a man, when I remember the feel of pushing the sword home. I would not have taken that path of my own free will. He forced me to confront him. He wanted to kill me, to save his honour and his chance of a good job with Manius Fabius. This goes round and round in my head, and won't stop. He wanted to kill me, and was prepared to do it. If I had not sent Bretta to the village, he would have done so.

The thought of dear Bretta's face cannot blot out the vision of Publius's face as he looked up at me raising my father's sword above him. The look of horror in his eyes as he realised what was about to happen, the panic as he tried to save himself. Venus punished him for not respecting her altar. Ultio punished him for murdering my father. He haunts me, although he brought his fate on himself.

The sound of my mother, keening for Publius, and the sight of her being led away a widow, also haunts me. I believed for a long time I had killed my father; I can say for certain I killed my step-father. I am free now, but at the terrible cost of my mother's pain. Before the fight she absolved me of any blame, but I blame myself. If only I had left with Eadweard the first time, when Cador asked me, none of this would have happened.

'Hush, hush.' Adsiltia sleeps beside me, and tries to soothe me. I am not aware of calling out in my sleep. I am restless, though. I want to get up, and walk about, but I will disturb the sleeping women and children.

Eventually I do get up, hearing a cockerel crow somewhere. It is so strange, not to be hearing Cockcrow in the fort. It has been a sound in my life for a while now. Finding a blanket to wrap round me, I creep out. The light is grey, the sun not yet up over the hills. Mist clings to the hollows and the grass; it makes my feet cold and wet, but the discomfort is real. It distracts me from the pain in my mind. I can see that the gates are shut, so I turn towards the back of the village, out towards the fields.

The animals that are standing crop the grass intently, ignoring me. Some of the ones that are seated turn their heads, but find in me nothing of interest. Geese fly overhead, honking, towards the fort. Tears start to well up and spill down my cheeks.

I see him walking towards me. He says nothing, but folds me into his arms and strokes my hair while I sob. He leads me back to his hut. Even though he wraps another blanket over and round my legs, I sit still shivering by the fire while he makes us some breakfast. I don't eat much, but he does not press me. He just takes my hand and squeezes it, concern in his green eyes.

I lie on his bed, watching him getting ready for the day's business. It is not long before Adsiltia comes. Brother and sister confer quietly, then she nods and leaves. I know I should thank her, her lessons saved my life, but I cannot speak. The events of the previous day are too momentous, too terrible to think about, let alone give voice to. If I do not speak of them, then perhaps they did not happen. Perhaps I can make them go away.

The days become a blur. I walk, I cry, he fetches me back from the forest or the fields. In anger one day I rip open and untwist the braid that Adsiltia makes for me in my hair.

'I am Roman, I am Roman,' I cry.

But I know I am not. Not any more. My old life is dead to me, and I to it.

Adsiltia looks at me with sad eyes. Sometimes she follows me; I see her out of the corner of my eye. If I set off towards the fort, she lets me go a short way, then she stops me. We gaze at the ramparts and the gates for a little while, then she guides me back. I do not know what it is I seek at the fort. A sight of my mother? A return to my old life?

At night I am exhausted, but Eadweard gives me a remedy. I sleep in his bed, with him close behind me, his arm protectively over me. I hear and feel his steady breathing when he is asleep, his occasional sighs, the shifts in his position, all of which soothe me, in a strange way. This is all new to me, to share a bed with another body, someone not of my blood, someone who chooses to be there, close to me. In other circumstances, I could enjoy it. When he turns over, I turn, too, lying right up close behind him, pressed against his back, putting my arm over him. He draws it round him, and holds my wrist. I feel protected. I feel safe.

Sometimes I sleep in the afternoon, if Eadweard is not busy and the hut is empty of visitors. In the afternoon, I dream. I feel rather than see the goddess Ultio, in my special place in the grove beside the fort. She came to me in my hour of need. That little grove, which I chose purely because it was out of sight of the fort and the mocking legionaries on the rampart, is indeed a special and powerful place. I see the farm, with the goats and my father. He is smiling and waving. I awake from this dream with tears on my cheeks, but for once they are happy tears. My father is content, his death has been avenged. I see my mother, standing in the prow of one of the barges, the wind blowing her mantle. I awake from this one with a start.

'She's gone, isn't she?' I say.

Eadweard and Adsiltia turn towards me.

'Did you hear us?' he asks gently. 'Yes, we've heard your mother is setting off back to Italy.'

'Can we go? To watch her, I mean.'

He exchanges glances with Adsiltia. She nods, then he nods.

'We'll see what we can arrange.'

So we ride, me sitting astride the horse behind him, my arms round his waist. We stop on the river bank just downstream from the port, and I slide down. We wait among the trees that trail their branches down to the water, which laps the bank quietly. The tide is high. Eventually the barge appears mid-stream, pulling away from the port and out into the flow of the water, which Neptune is calling to himself. She stands in the stern, looking back. I break out of the cover of the trees and stand on a patch of exposed bank, waving both arms above my head. By the grace of the gods, she turns her head and sees me. She hesitates, then she waves for all she is worth. I am convinced she knows it is me. I am convinced she is smiling. The river bears her away, and with it some of my pain.

On the way back, the need starts to build in me to touch him; for him to touch me and sweep me away on a tide of sensations; to merge myself with him again. We have not lain together since Beltane. He has not asked, or pressured me, he is just waiting patiently. He keeps the connection with embraces; frequent, chaste kisses on cheek or forehead; the joining of hands; resting his hand on my hip or shoulder, like the early days; and I am grateful for his touch, which comforts me. I have been too drained of energy, of emotion, to think about anything more. Till now. But I am unable to ask, to say what I want – the words will not come. I stand still in the middle of the house till he comes to put his arms round me.

'Are you all right?' he asks.

In reply I take his face in my hands and kiss him. This is the first time since he brought me back to his house. It is as intoxicating as wine. Tenderly he responds. I slide a hand under his tunic, on to his back. Then he knows for certain. He strokes my face.

'Are you sure?' he asks.

I lead him to the bed. While I lie down, he takes off his belt and peels off his tunic. Just the sight of him makes the sweet spot tighten and tingle. This is how it all started, those months ago now: me looking at his body and melting. This beautiful man. This beautiful British man. And so much has happened, so much flowed from that small act, that strong desire. He is mine now, and I am his. Would I give him up for a chance to change things? He is getting on to the bed with me, half-lying on me, his leg between mine, letting me stroke him, explore him. He kisses and caresses, making no demands, but slowly edging my tunic upwards so that he can slip his hand under, to stroke my thigh. I bend my knee a little, putting my leg over his. When he reaches the sweet spot, my body sings out and I just want to surrender to those waves of sensation. My senses are filled with him, and only him: no memories, no thoughts, only him, here and now. I reach for him, pushing down his loosened breeches, and hands on his hips, guide him inside me. I press him against me, wanting to feel his weight on me, so we are as close as we can possibly be without blending our two bodies together. Our union overwhelms us both and this time we sleep afterwards, me wrapped safe in his arms, against his chest, hides and blankets thrown over us. This is the best remedy, if only I had realised sooner. No, I would not give him up.

When we wake, as we get ready to go to his father's house, I ask him something that has been nagging at me for a while.

'Did you see it in the smoke? Really? That the gods were with me?'

'No. I made it up.' He does not seem bothered in the slightest by that. He smiles.

'Why?'

'You needed to hear it, and believe it. So did he. But from what I saw, I believe they were with you. You did well.' He comes to hug me. 'The gods move in strange ways sometimes. Don't question it, you will drive yourself mad.'

After the evening meal, instead of taking me back to the hut, he walks me through the village towards the fields. It is still light, and there is still some warmth in the rays of the sun, but not much. By the goats, he breaks the news that he will be leaving with the warriors. I had not taken this in properly. The conversation in Kaswallon's house is always in Celt, always fast, backwards and forwards among them all, and I cannot always follow it accurately.

'No. No, no, no, no,' I wail. 'But why?'

'I'm sorry, I have to. I just have to.'

I turn to walk away, but he catches my wrist and pulls me to him, holding me close. I beat my fists against his chest, and he lets me do it, until I collapse against him, sobbing.

'Why? Why? You are not a warrior.'

'But we all know how to fight. You know that. And sometimes we have to.'

'Why are you doing this to me?'

So soon, after the most traumatic events I have ever been through in my life.

'Not because I want to, but because I have to. I told you, weeks ago, do you remember? The Romans are not welcome here, in a country not their own.'

'I am Roman,' I whisper.

I knew really, as soon as I left the clearing in the woods with the Celts. As soon as Brina and Adsiltia dressed me as a Celtic woman. I have lost not only my family, but my people, my country as well. Everything I have ever known in my life. All for him. This beautiful man.

'This is your home now. We are your people.'

It is as if he reads my thoughts. He appears to understand how much I have given up for him. But still he is going to leave me here. Alone. This beautiful British man is going to leave me, in order to fight against my people. My people – when will that change? When will the Celts feel like they are my people? Because they are not, for the present. The resistance gone from me, I sink down towards the ground. Somehow he sinks with me, still holding me. He leans his back against the fence, and I lean on him.

'When?' I ask, trembling.

'In a few days, I think.'

'Where is it, this battle? Where are you going?'

Looking out across the village, bathed in the warm orange light of sunset, people coming and going among the houses, I listen while he explains. It is probably a long way away, somewhere near Londinium. That is where they have decided to head for, expecting to pick up information on the way about where the Iceni army actually is. In another blow that crushes the air from me, he tells me that he will probably be away for months.

'Months?'

'The fighting season usually finishes round about Lughnasa. But even if it does, we still have to get home.'

Fighting season. I can't believe what I am hearing. He is making it sound like farming, like nothing out of the ordinary. Even if it does . . . he is suggesting it might not stop then. Lughnasa is a few weeks away, Summer's End, their next festival after that, a few months. I don't know how I can survive that long without him.

'Bella.' He makes me sit up and look at him. 'I need you to be strong about this.'

Like the Celtic women, but they must be used to it. I am not.

He takes my hands in his. 'I know you can.'

'Another lie, is this? Something else I need to believe?'

By the look in his eyes, I can see I have hurt him with that, but I don't care. He has crushed me with his news.

'No. I have lied to you only once. I am not sorry about that. But I am sorry I can't explain why I am going. But I will go. I need to. I am so sorry I have hurt you with this.'

'I don't understand,' I whisper.

'I know. I need you to be strong. And I know you can be.'

He folds me back into his arms. His body doesn't lie; I can feel his upset, his tension as well. His body never lies to me. I want him to explain, as best he can, but all he can say is he feels he must do his duty by the tribe: he feels called. As the light fades, the air becomes chillier, he talks about his mother. The people that are about look in our direction, perhaps they comment to each other, but they don't approach, however strange we must appear to them. Slowly the tension leaves him, he relaxes beneath me. I realise I can't fight him on this.

I continue to recover slowly. We never speak of what is coming, but he can see in my face what I feel. I can't hide it from him. At night, we hold each other tight, and sleep as close to each other as we can. His body tells me how much he is going to miss me, but that does not console me.

He and the fighting men prepare to depart. They put stuff in their hair that makes it white, standing up round their heads. Some of them whiten their beards. They look different, unsettling, their faces fierce. Adsiltia takes me to watch them painting themselves, ready for battle. I vaguely remember Decimus telling me something about this, in another life, a long time ago. How bizarre the legionaries find it. They were frightened at first, confronted with naked, painted warriors, but now they just laugh. Their armour and their discipline protect them better than any sacred symbol.

The men have removed their tunics. Cador is painting the designs on to Eadweard's chest, his hand on his brother's shoulder. Their heads are close, and they exchange comments. Cador is excited, smiling and laughing. He has been nicer to me since Eadweard brought me back to the village. I had thanked him for his advice, and he had told me I had done well – for a woman – which was high praise indeed from a warrior like him. Eadweard has told me in confidence that in my moment of victory Cador had let his delight show, a rare moment of emotion for him where I am concerned. He doesn't come to sit and chat with me, but he will greet me now, he will ask how I am getting on, he will make the occasional comment to me and he smiles sometimes when we are talking. I realise I have never noticed him smile, in all my visits to the village. He has the same slow, charming smile as Eadweard. Eadweard says the smile is a sign of Cador's approval. At last.

When Eadweard has finished painting his brother, Adsiltia and I approach. I am fascinated, and put out my hand to trace the design on Eadweard's chest. Cador tells me I will smudge it. Regardless, I put my hand over Eadweard's heart; I want to feel it beating, feel that he is alive. If he does not come back, this will be almost my last memory of him. He takes my hand and kisses the palm, then presses it back down. We do not need words. I can see the emotion in his eyes; I am sure he can see mine. He is all I have in the world now. I cannot let myself even begin to think what will become of me if he does not return.

I look at Cador, the proud warrior. He lets me study him, admire him, almost. He asks me what I think of Eadweard's handiwork. I tell him it is very fine, that it will frighten the legionaries, but I know it will not. I cannot say what is really in my heart, that I fear for them all against the might of Rome. When I say I will pray for their safe return, it is true, but it is all I can do. He promises to keep Eadweard safe for me, and I hope with all of my being that he can.

Hiding behind Brina and the Chief is an anxious-looking young girl, apparently accompanied by a young man. I recognise neither of them, but then I do not know many people in the village. Cador approaches them, and tenderly takes her hands in his, which surprises me. Eadweard tells me that that is Ula, Cador's betrothed. My eyes widen in amazement.

'I know,' Eadweard says. 'Who would have thought he had such a soft side? It's been going on a couple of months or so. He met her years ago, apparently, when she was an annoying child, so he says. But she never forgot him.'

'And not so annoying anymore, then.'

'She's sweet. Shy. She adores him.'

And, by the look of it, he is very taken with her, after all. My heart wants to go out to her, but it is too full of its own pain. And presumably she does not know what I know, about how Roman legions fight, how ruthlessly efficient they are. She is blessed in her ignorance. Her pain will only come later, if her handsome warrior does not return. She will need all of her prayers and offerings to keep him safe. As will we all.

Eadweard and I climb up a hill that gives a view over the river, from beyond the fort in one direction, almost to the sea in the other. The light is flat but bright; the tide is in. Barges bob at the quayside in the harbour. We can see soldiers patrolling the ramparts of the fort. He stands behind me, his arms round my waist, his cheek against my hair.

'I don't understand it, I thought they would have marched east,' he says.

But this is the edge of the empire. Roman law does not run on the other side of the river. Perhaps they feel they have to hold the line.

'I don't understand,' I say, stroking his arm. But I don't mean the soldiers. And I don't understand; all I know is that in some way he feels compelled to go. In some way that is too deep, too painful for him to explain, even though he tried. I want to hang on to him, to keep him close, keep him safe.

'I'm sorry,' he says. 'I have to.'

He tightens his embrace, pressing his face closer against my head. I nod. Nothing I can say will change his mind, so there is no point in speaking, in ruining our last moments together by arguing.

He turns me to face him and folds me in his arms. We kiss, a last, lingering embrace. Our last love-making was just before the men painted themselves: so tender, so moving, it made me cry when it ended. He was too emotional to speak, so no Celtic sweet nothings whispered in my ear. I missed them; I will miss him, so much. I will ache for him, for the weight and warmth of him and just the presence of him beside me.

I have tried so very hard not to cry today, but tears spill over and down my cheeks. Gently he brushes them away.

'I love you,' I whisper.

He kisses me passionately, bruisingly, like he is giving us both a memory, an impression that will last on our lips for as long as we are apart, for however long that might be. So that, whenever we touch our lips, we will be reminded: and reunited, in our memories if not in life.

'I'll come back for you. Even in death, I'll come back for you. Look for me in the smoke.'

We return to the village. Eadweard rides out with the other armed men, some from nearby villages, Ula's oldest brother and several warriors from her village among them. Parties of fighters have been leaving from all over the area over the past couple of weeks. They are determined, they believe in their cause. They believe their gods are with them. What they are making of this in the fort, we can only guess. The spears and swords rattle and clash together, and against the shields. I stand with my sister Adsiltia, strong and dry-eyed, like a proud Roman. Like a proud British woman. Then we turn, to the business of keeping the cattle safe, the crops growing, the fires burning, till they return.