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rubbish from here to Caledonia.” He added scornfully, "There’s no telling whence it came.”
    Something in Cynric’s manner told Gaius he stood in more deadly danger now than in the pit. The Druid himself, Bendeigid, would never violate hospitality; he knew that from tales his mother and his nurse had told him. But there was no telling what this young hothead would do.
    On an impulse, he took one of the smaller rings from his pouch.
    "My life I owe to you and to your father,” he said. "Will you accept this as a gift from me? It is not costly, but it may serve to remind you of a good deed done.”
    Cynric took the ring from his hand; it was too small for any but his smallest finger. "Cynric, son of Bendeigid the Druid, thanks you, stranger,” he said. "I know no name by which I may return thanks…”
    It was about as broad a hint as good manners permitted, and Gaius could not in courtesy ignore it. He would have given the name of his mother’s brother; but the name of the Silure chieftain who had given his sister to a Roman might have made its way into even this corner of Britain. A small breach of truth was better than a major one of manners.
    "My mother called me Gawen,” he said finally. This much at least was true, for Gaius, his Roman name, had been foreign to her tongue. "I was born in Venta Silurum, to the south, of no lineage you would know.”
    Cynric thought about this for a moment, twisting the ring on his little finger. Then a curious light of comprehension dawned in his face. He said, gazing intently at Gaius, "Do ravens fly at midnight?”
    Gaius was no less astonished by the question than by Cynric’s manner. For a moment he wondered if the young man were simple; then he answered carelessly, "I’m afraid you have the better of me in woodcraft; I never knew any that did.”
    He glanced down at Cynric’s hands, saw the fingers were enlaced in a peculiar manner, and began to understand. This must be the sign of one of the many secret societies, mostly religious like the cults of Mithras or the Nazarene. Were these people Christians? No, their sign was a fish or some such, not a raven.
    Well, nothing could interest him less, and his expression must have showed it. The young Briton’s face changed slightly, and he said hastily, "I see I have made a mistake—” and turned away. "Here, I think these will fit you; I borrowed them from my sister Mairi, they’re her husband’s. Come, I’ll help you to the bathhouse and get father’s razor for you if you want to shave—though you’re old enough, I would think, to grow a beard. Careful—don’t put all your weight on that foot or you’ll fall on the floor.”
    Bathed, shaved and, with Cynric’s help, dressed in a clean tunic and the loose breeches the Britons wore, Gaius felt able to get up and hobble. His arm throbbed and burned, and his leg ached in several places, but he could have been much worse, and he knew that his muscles would stiffen if he remained in bed. Even so, he leaned gratefully on Cynric’s arm as the taller boy guided his steps across the yard to the long feasting hall.
    A table of hewn boards ran down the center, with heavy benches to either side. Warmth was provided by a hearth at either end of the hall. Near these a mixed number of men and women and even a few children were assembling. Heavily bearded men in roughly woven smocks talked to one another in a dialect so crude Gaius could not understand a word.
    Although his tutor had taught him that the Latin familia originally meant all who shared living quarters: master, children, freedmen, and slaves, the Romans now kept their serving folk apart from the family. Cynric mistook his look of mild distaste for weakness, and hastened to lead him to a cushioned seat at the upper end of the long room.
    Here, a little apart from the mixed crew at the lower end of the table, the lady of the