back was the indeterminate color of old thatch. He was neither polished
DRUIDS 45
nor prepossessing, but he had refused to leave me when I was ill.
Tarvos the Bull, he was called.
I was young, my strength returned quickly. Later in the day Sulis came to check on my progress. Tarvos followed her with his eyes. “She has a nice haunch on her,” he commented when she had gone.
“She’s our healer!”
“She’s a woman,” he said with a shrug.
Menua allowed him to stay, though I never knew why.
Tarvos spread his bed outside the door to our lodge, but during the day he was inside with me, feeding me, bringing me water, encouraging me to get up when I was ready. He also provided me with an unexpected opportunity to enrich my head. Only a few winters older than I, the Bull had served as a warrior in several tribal battles and experienced many things I had not.
“Tell me what it’s like to be a warrior,” I said.
He looked blank. “It’s something to do.”
Tarvos was not a wordy man, but I persisted. “Druids need to know all they can about everything, including battle, Tarvos. If you share your feelings with me I can experience war through you.”
He considered this, then stared into space for a time, obediently seeking words for things not usually discussed outside the broth-erhood of battle. While he pondered I poured him a cup of wine from Menua’s personal store, thankful that the chief druid was away, supervising the castrating of the bull calves.
I held out the cup and Tarvos accepted it eagerly. When he had taken a long drink, I urged, “Now. Tell me what it means to be a warrior.”
“Being a warrior is about getting killed,” he replied simply. “Warriors are born to be killed.”
“Are you afraid of dying, Tarvos?” It was a druid sort of question.
He took another drink. “You druids teach that death is merely an incident in the middle of a long life, don’t you? So why fear it? It’s no more lasting than flicking or farting.” He drained the cup. “What warriors fear,” he went on, “is losing. Most of us are more afraid of losing than we are eager to win. The losers are usually badly injured, perhaps crippled for life. I don’t fear death but I don’t like pain. The wounds you get in battle may not hurt at the time, there’s too much going on, but they are a misery after. Some say they don’t mind. I do mind.”
“So you fight to avoid losing?”
He nodded his shaggy head. “Most of us. Or to avoid being
46 Morgan Llywelyn
called coward. And for a share of the loot, if there is any. Of course, a few men are different: the champions. The warriors with the greatest style fight for their own reasons.”
“What do you mean by the greatest style?”
He held out his empty cup and waited. I filled it. Tarvos nodded again, solemnly. “Style is what sets a champion apart, Ainvar. They are crazy-brave, they do things that would get any other man
killed but they walk away laughing. When you see the style of a champion, you recognize it, it’s like a glowing inside him.”
Vercingetorix has style, my head informed me. He is one of those rare beings who achieve because they never deviate from the pattern that applies to themselves.
Yet how does he know? Do champions, like druids, receive some special guidance from the Otherworid? Or is it accidental, so they are subject to failure at any time?
Tarvos was watching me over the rim of his cup- “Do you want to be a champion, Tarvos?” I asked him.
He looked startled. “Not me! I’m content to carry my spears and try to kill the other man before he kills me. All that fancy style just makes me tired. I think it’s as unnecessary as teats on a boar.”
He finished his second cup and rubbed his belly, spreading the warm glow. “Can I ask you a question, Ainvar?”
“You may.”
‘ ‘Why did you choose me mat day? To be your bodyguard, I mean.”
I thought back. “I was actually looking for Ogmios, to ask
DRUIDS 45
nor prepossessing, but he had refused to leave me when I was ill.
Tarvos the Bull, he was called.
I was young, my strength returned quickly. Later in the day Sulis came to check on my progress. Tarvos followed her with his eyes. “She has a nice haunch on her,” he commented when she had gone.
“She’s our healer!”
“She’s a woman,” he said with a shrug.
Menua allowed him to stay, though I never knew why.
Tarvos spread his bed outside the door to our lodge, but during the day he was inside with me, feeding me, bringing me water, encouraging me to get up when I was ready. He also provided me with an unexpected opportunity to enrich my head. Only a few winters older than I, the Bull had served as a warrior in several tribal battles and experienced many things I had not.
“Tell me what it’s like to be a warrior,” I said.
He looked blank. “It’s something to do.”
Tarvos was not a wordy man, but I persisted. “Druids need to know all they can about everything, including battle, Tarvos. If you share your feelings with me I can experience war through you.”
He considered this, then stared into space for a time, obediently seeking words for things not usually discussed outside the broth-erhood of battle. While he pondered I poured him a cup of wine from Menua’s personal store, thankful that the chief druid was away, supervising the castrating of the bull calves.
I held out the cup and Tarvos accepted it eagerly. When he had taken a long drink, I urged, “Now. Tell me what it means to be a warrior.”
“Being a warrior is about getting killed,” he replied simply. “Warriors are born to be killed.”
“Are you afraid of dying, Tarvos?” It was a druid sort of question.
He took another drink. “You druids teach that death is merely an incident in the middle of a long life, don’t you? So why fear it? It’s no more lasting than flicking or farting.” He drained the cup. “What warriors fear,” he went on, “is losing. Most of us are more afraid of losing than we are eager to win. The losers are usually badly injured, perhaps crippled for life. I don’t fear death but I don’t like pain. The wounds you get in battle may not hurt at the time, there’s too much going on, but they are a misery after. Some say they don’t mind. I do mind.”
“So you fight to avoid losing?”
He nodded his shaggy head. “Most of us. Or to avoid being
46 Morgan Llywelyn
called coward. And for a share of the loot, if there is any. Of course, a few men are different: the champions. The warriors with the greatest style fight for their own reasons.”
“What do you mean by the greatest style?”
He held out his empty cup and waited. I filled it. Tarvos nodded again, solemnly. “Style is what sets a champion apart, Ainvar. They are crazy-brave, they do things that would get any other man
killed but they walk away laughing. When you see the style of a champion, you recognize it, it’s like a glowing inside him.”
Vercingetorix has style, my head informed me. He is one of those rare beings who achieve because they never deviate from the pattern that applies to themselves.
Yet how does he know? Do champions, like druids, receive some special guidance from the Otherworid? Or is it accidental, so they are subject to failure at any time?
Tarvos was watching me over the rim of his cup- “Do you want to be a champion, Tarvos?” I asked him.
He looked startled. “Not me! I’m content to carry my spears and try to kill the other man before he kills me. All that fancy style just makes me tired. I think it’s as unnecessary as teats on a boar.”
He finished his second cup and rubbed his belly, spreading the warm glow. “Can I ask you a question, Ainvar?”
“You may.”
‘ ‘Why did you choose me mat day? To be your bodyguard, I mean.”
I thought back. “I was actually looking for Ogmios, to ask
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