UMA

"Bou? Is it you? Bou?"

"Uma?" I nodded. We threw our arms about each other and jumped up and down. Well, that's what I did. Bou is more reserved than I am but she let me at her anyway. She is taller than I am so I had to jump up. She is very strong, too. But she is also very pretty and feminine and not really quite the image I had in my head. I had sort of thought 'Birgitte Neilson' with red hair and breastplates, rather like a Valkyrie. Mind you- breastplates would probably have set off the alarms at the airport security, wouldn't they? She probably left them at home.

"Welcome to England, Bou! Actually you are technically in Brigantes territory here but we don't bite anymore. How was the flight? Want to crash or are you ready to hit the road?"

She smiled. "I slept pretty well and frankly I am too excited to rest. And I want to see my country. "

"OK- you're the boss. Where to first?" I wanted to let her choose- this was her holiday not mine

"Arthur's in Wales. Let's go get him and maybe see a bit of Anglesey? Worship at the old shrine?"

"Great. We're very close to Wales at the airport. Let's flirt over and pick him up. Does he know I'm here? Where is he?"

"No, I didn't tell him. He was saying it was a pity you weren't home. He will be so pleased to see you." Bou smiled and I could see the effort she was making to be sociable and make small talk. It isn't her way but I was grateful for her trying to put me at ease.

"Not as much as I will be to see him...Bou, you and Arthur...are you going to...you know? It's your visit. I'll back off. Cort's coming next week. I can restrain myself."

Bou laughed. "I would imagine you were on a lay-off anyway after ten days with my new boss. But no, Arthur and I will not be cohabiting. If you want to share his bed- be my guest."

I struggled to keep the expression on my face nonchalant. "You didn't read my diary then, Bou?"

"The last one? No, I'm afraid it's still on the list." I nodded my head, unsure whether this was good or bad news. Bou might have been born two thousand years' ago, however, but she has radar; she recognised my hesitancy straight away.

"Why?"

"No reason." I replied a little too quickly with my response. I cleared my throat. "So where are we meeting Arthur?"

She answered, "The castle of Beaumaris, are you familiar?"

I grinned. "Yep. Reminds me of holidays as a kid. OK, Let's go."

I had successfully deflected her attention so I led her to the car, and set off. Bou was quiet, staring over the countryside as we hit North Wales, taking it all in, lost in her own thoughts. Max had recognised the area from the river Mersey despite its change from wild forest to urban sprawl. I wondered if the topography was as familiar to her as it has been to a Roman who had marched the area.

We stopped in Chester for lunch and ate in one of those modern Italian chrome bistros 'Est, Est ,Est!' set in a row of shops that dated back to the sixteenth century. She was impressed- America is too new; she had almost forgotten how 'olde' our country is.

Sitting by the window, Bou suddenly choked on her bruschetta. "Ye Gods, I think I saw a ghost!"

I followed her line of vision and burst out in a peal of laughter. Across the street was a Roman legionary in full armour talking to a group of schoolchildren.

"Calm down, Bou. He's an out-of -work actor guiding tours round the Roman remains. The Roman wall is up there, the amphitheatre at the roundabout and along Via Principalis is the Deva excavations ( Deva is the Roman name for Chester. Chester just means The Fortress). And Max would have his balls if he saw him. How many Roman soldiers did you ever see who were allowed to sport dreadlocks?"

We both had a laugh at that but inadvertently the conversation had turned to Maximus, a topic that I had studiously planned to avoid, but I ventured a general comment. "How's it been? You and Maximus? Is she still at the farm?"

She took a sip of water. "We spent Easter together. It was difficult at first. But we were civil. He was tired and we didn't talk much. I think he enjoyed his stay with Darcy. It certainly seemed to create a change of mood. We became very...close again before I left. It was a fruitful time." It would be the closest Bou would come to admitting their newfound intimacy or how much she must have been missing him. "Has he been in touch?"

There was a tension in her voice that I tried to ignore. "No. He hasn't been in touch," I lied. "And if he were, I wouldn't be responding."

Bou ate quietly, clearly thinking. "What was your diary about?"

"Huh?"

"I think you heard me, Uma."

I threw my fork down in the half-eaten plate of food and lit a cigarette. I desperately wanted a glass of wine but was driving. I blew out and saw Bou screw up her nose. I expect she doesn't smoke. "It was about Easter with Terry. When we broke up. That's all."

Bou dropped her fork and stared. "When you what?"

"I think you heard me, Bou."

"What do you mean? Broke up? You were like Romeo and Juliet when you got back from Tecala."

"Well we were more like Punch and Judy this time. It's a long story, Bou, but the long and short of it is, we have parted company permanently and that is that. And that's all the news that's fit to print, as someone once said."

"Permanent? I don't believe it. You know what you two are like! He'll be on the phone any minute."

"Not this time. This was major, Bou. We are talking World War Three." I stubbed my cigarette out and stood up. "Look I need the loo, excuse me."

I just made it in time before the tears came again. I sat on a toilet seat and blubbed. I thought if I didn't mention his name I would be all right but I was wrong. I couldn't even mention him in passing. I sniffed and mopped up, replenished the makeup and returned to the table. Bou was sipping tea and staring thoughtfully out of the window.

"I ordered you a coffee."

"Thanks."

"I was thinking. Is that why Maximus contacted you? Does he know?" She asked, still looking out over the historic streets at a street performer walking on stilts on the cobbles, entertaining the tourists.

I bit my lip and held back the retort that could so easily have slipped out. "I said he didn't contact me. And if he did I wouldn't respond. Bou- I don't need this. Not from you or from him. OK?"

She looked back at me and I could see it then. She was far from settled about the divorce whatever decisions she thought she had made.

"I won't mention him again. Or Terry. I really want to get away from all that anyway. Wasn't that the point of this week?"

We shook hands on that but it was clear that something lingered. We were friends bound in a tenuous bond that was fraying because of the two men who stood between us. I hoped that this trip would sweep them away and strengthen our knot.

BOUDICCA

To be quite honest, when Uma first invited me to see her in England I was not certain I would ever take her up on it. I understood the offer at the time to be an extension of the olive branch from Maximus' lover to his wife, in the spirit of asking forgiveness and re-solidification of our friendship after all that took place. I did not then nor do I now, blame her for it. But it does not mean that I was in any shape to face the woman that still holds Maximus' fascination and a large part of his heart. Sometimes I think I am still not, but as I made plans to meet Arthur in Wales, I decided it was time to meet Uma as well.

Maximus was on immediate alert when I mentioned my itinerary to him regarding my time away from home and with whom I would spend it. At first he said nothing to me; only nodded and went back to his book. I heard later that in one of his emails to Uma, he questioned her motives for agreeing to the visit. He was given a short, terse reply back that it was none of his business and that Uma's and my friendship was intact despite him. But I think he was more suspicious of my reasons to see her, for as I packed my suitcases he stood in the door studying me as he used to size up potential opponents.

"What are you and Uma going to do?" He is not very good at disguising his concern under a light tone.

"Talk. Drink. Shop, probably." I screwed up my face at that idea.

"Talk about what?"

"I don't know. She wants to make a giggly schoolgirl of me, I think. Says I'm too serious."

"I want you to be conscious of what direction the conversation takes." I stood straight and met his eyes, a hundred retorts racing through my brain but none coming from my mouth. My words are weapons, as he wrote in his journals, and I have been trying to be careful not to utter anything that can cause damage in places not readily seen. And his worry was that I might inadvertently use them on Uma if the visit went awry. His warning was clear to me. The lack of trust that I could keep a cool head and a warm heart in the presence of his lover, while keeping my own insecurities regarding my femininity under close guard, spoke volumes to me that all is not right with him and me and might never be. It was a reminder that he considers me still an uncouth, dangerous barbarian whose only way of handling a situation is with battle, whether physical or with my tongue. It used to be amusing to me that those things the Romans accused Celts of were what they themselves practiced upon others, rather than vice versa. I no longer find it humorous. The message in his words drove home the realization that sweet things that had transpired in the last few days were a reward for my good behavior and nothing had really changed. He was going off for fun and games and I was on vacation from walking on eggshells around him still.   

"Yes," I acquiesced and turned away. I had no desire to argue with him, for we only had a few hours before our disparate flights boarded. I changed the subject to what he would see while on his latest visit and forced myself to smile and fuss over him, but the morning's harsh lesson was a black mark on my time with Uma. The strain of avoiding discussion of him or Terry cast a pall over what could have been a most joyful occasion. 

Uma talked about Maximus' recognition of the landscape when she first met him, however altered by time it has become, and she wonders if I too see it as it was; if I know the directions and distances between features that time has had little impact upon. Of course I do. We were so reliant upon our memories that it was almost an unconscious habit to imprint upon our minds every aspect of the areas we traveled. Everyone gives credit to the Romans for developing roads through our 'wild' lands, but really, all they did was improve upon what we had already built to connect township to city, as they were wont to do. As we drove over modern improvements on the engineering of the Romans on our way to retrieve Arthur, I made comparisons and contrasts in my mind between the two ages while examining the countryside. I said nothing to Uma then, as I was completely overcome by emotion and the need to keep it under control. Uma is my friend but she was a stranger nonetheless, and I was not sure she could understand exactly what it was I was going through, regardless of how she might love the historical nature of it all. I am not certain I do myself.

Even now I call Britannia home. Britannia included at one time the whole northern area that is now Scotland, and the lower areas of Man, England, and Wales. It was the Romans that first split the area up into two parts, Britannia Primera (the lower half that is in this century England, Wales and Man), and Britannia Secunda (the northern lands the Caledonii and other tribes inhabited), which is of course, Scotland. The Wall of Hadrian provided the boundary between. My home was just below that wall, so I suppose I am to be considered English in this time. And it is the illusion I lead people to believe when they meet me, in order to explain my origins. And few make the distinction between the current parts of that country unless they are from there anyway.

My own people divided the land between the tribes, and when Arthur told me where he came from I designated him last of the Ordovices. It pleased him very much, and he continually plies me for history lessons as he calls them, though they are the truths and snatches of my own history and lifetime. My namesake was queen of the Iceni, to the south and east. I was born of the Carvetii tribe myself, though Uma likes to call me a Brigante. She is not wrong, because Roman writers never really made the distinction. They did not really care so long as we paid our taxes. We neglected to tell them that they could get more out of us if they distinguished between the tribes. But inside the walls of the council chambers, as we continued to work toward finding a way to live side by side with our Roman conquerors, we cared. Every tribe had a voice and was accounted for.

I had been expecting a rather dark-haired woman to meet me, but the blonde that fairly jumped into my arms and all but strangled me as we shared our first hug was more the picture I had in mind of how Uma should look. Terry be damned. My second impression of Uma was that she lives up to her first name. Hurricane. It is in her manner when she walks, and her personality proceeds her when you spot her eyes across a room. I had no trouble picking her out of the crowd. She shines. She floats. She breezes. And the room is never the same in her wake. The most interesting and lovely thing about it is that she takes no note. Blissfully unaware of her effect. As our vacation progressed, she never left off blustering through our time, and I will admit my head was spinning from the exertion of trying to keep up.

My most lasting impression of the whirlwind that was our holiday besides the fun she never ceases to dream up is that she is running. I think it does not need explanation what she was running from, and I think that perhaps it is true of both of us. And largely for the same reasons. It was inevitable in the end that we would have to address it, but for a while we decided on a bit of fun. Well, at least as much fun as was humanly possible when disparate personalities and cultures connect. And while both our societies and ways of looking at the world are decidedly British, we are worlds apart in just how British they really are. And I do write this with a smile.

UMA

"There he is! There, sitting on that wall near the ticket booth!" Bou shouted. I set her down and went off to find a parking space. When I emerged from the multi-story car park, so incongruous opposite the concentric walls of the great castle of Beaumaris, I watched them chatting; Arthur with a wide grin and talking twenty to the dozen, Bou smiling maternally on. As I crossed the road, my hands in my jeans' pockets, Arthur looked up and caught my eye.

"YOOMA! Is it really you? What are you doing here, bach? I like your hair." His accent was even stronger than usual; a couple of days back here when he would have been speaking Welsh most of the time and it becomes impenetrable. But I adore the rich tones and the singsong melody of this full-blooded dialect. How strange Britain is- go fifty miles and experience Yorkshire, Lancashire, Manchester, Welsh and Scouse accents- foreigners must be bewildered at the vast changes that we take for granted.

"Hey, Welsh. Shagged any sheep lately?" I ran over and he scooped me up. Bou looked a little shocked. "We civilised English call this lot of barbarians Sheep-Shaggers. It's just the way we talk, Bou. He won't mind," I whispered over his shoulder. Bou would have probably lopped a head in her day for less.

"I booked two rooms at the hotel. I hope they have another one," Arthur observed, but he gave me a curiously mature look. For an instant it reminded me of Jeff. I hate it when they do that. It really throws me.

But I didn't take the bait, merely saying, "Well, I could always share with Bou for one night- we're both girls." Arthur looked a little deflated as we walked to the car; Bou was trying not to laugh. Poor lad- two Sisters and he thought he was going to luck out. Well, who knows what might happen? Que sera, sera, Artie baby! As it transpired the hotel was fully booked, so Bou and I did decide to share- for now.

Beaumaris is a one-horse town, as you Yankees might call it. Actually I don't think it even has one horse. It isn't what you might call 'a happening place'. Of course Americans love places like that, quaint historic British towns dripping in two thousand years of culture. Now, I'm a historian and I love historical sites more than most but after dark, I have to say, I do prefer the bright lights of a dangerous city, a great restaurant and maybe a jazz club or two? I mean- history's the day job- I do not take it home with me.

What to do in Beaumaris? Well, you can eat dinner at five o'clock, so that should please American tourists (do you know you wind the French up when you do that? They cannot understand why you want to eat when they have barely woken from their afternoon nap. The cocktail hour hasn't even started. You are supposed to get your fill of aperitifs and digestifs first and then settle down at eight or nine to spend the rest of the night eating and talking over dinner! Not eat at five and then be raring to run around and see some more sights!) However dinner at five thirty was no problem in Beaumaris.

Bou tried to get me moving but I was still lounging in the bath with a glass of wine and a fag (no, Jeff wasn't there, I mean a ciggie), reading a novel at six. I think I embarrassed her- I tend to prance around naked and she's very much more proper than I am. After I had done my hair -which still takes me ages even if it is short- put on my makeup, touched up my nails, dressed, changed my mind and put on a different outfit, rang a few mates, had another couple of glasses of wine, I thought Bou was going to brain me. She is such a stickler for punctuality. I said "What for? We're on holiday!" She just exhaled (and she doesn't like me smoking in the room, either.)

In the end, she left me and told me that she was going to be in the bar with Arthur. I shouted: "Tell him to get the beers in!" to which Bou muttered something about "I think you've had enough already," and left.

Half an hour later, at the decent cocktail hour of eight, I wandered down and found them deep in conversation over a few pints. She can knock them back our Bou can when she wants to. I'll bet if they served mead, she'd be on the karaoke before long. Imagine that!

When I came in, Arthur shot up and got me a Gin and Tonic- that boy is so well trained. Then we perused the menu. I groaned. God, I hate British food. But we selected a harmless meal of roast lamb and the trimmings and I ordered a Rioja. I mean- if the food is crap, I can always have a good bottle of wine.

Bou and Arthur drank beer. I drank the bottle. Bou looked disapproving. When Arthur went to the Men's room, she whispered "Haven't you had enough to drink? Are you sure you can take it?"

I raised my eyes. "Bou, I can drink anyone under the table. I've been in training for years."

"Just make sure you keep a clear head. Don't go flirting with Arthur unless you are certain this is what you want. I think you are on the rebound. He doesn't deserve that."

They all do that to me. Darcy talks to me like she was Mother Superior. I mean I'm fucking perve, just like them- isn't that what we are here for?

"Yes, Mum," I replied sweetly and she gave me a look. Arthur returned and I turned it on full blast. You knew I would, didn't you? I was planning to, anyway.

I'm not sure when Bou decided to retire for the night. She was still there when I leaned all over Arthur in the restaurant and fed him After Dinner Mints, making sure he licked my fingers clean. I distinctly remember her coughing when we explored each other's tonsils in the bar. I reckon it was when we went for a stroll to walk off the meal and Arthur and I forgot where we were and got a bit steamy against the floodlit castle wall. You know me and the feel of rough stone against my back (and the rough bolt against my stomach wasn't bad, either). Anyway we turned round and we found ourselves alone.

"Oh dear, do you think Bou is offended?" Arthur asked endearingly. He had forgotten his manners.

"I'd better go back and say I'm sorry, Arthur. It's late and I'm tired out. Let's walk home."

We walked through the now deserted streets and back to the half-timbered inn where we were staying, talking about the new found wealth and the job the new company had offered him- who better than to keep your books than Artie? Can you imagine him dogging Dino with "And exactly what was that charge for extra services in the spa that the masseuse had billed you for, Mr O'Leary? It seems to be contrary to the Internal Accounting Manual Guidelines..."

Entering the hotel we walked up to the rooms. As we reached my door, Arthur wished me goodnight and turned to his door next along. I fished in my bag for the key and suddenly he was back. "Yooma? Could you, maybe, say... apologise in the morning, like?"

I tilted my head. "That's more like it, Supe. I thought you were going to bottle it!" He pulled my hand and began to fumble with his room key; I think it was because I was fumbling with his fly at the same time. He sort of squeaked in a high-pitched note as he inserted it in the lock and I inserted my hand down his shorts - but that was the last of the falsetto. As we fell into the room, Arthur turned on the bass. He has such a lovely whispering voice. And he had some very inventive suggestions, too. Those naiads in the temple do sterling work- give them a pay rise, Iz! Mind you- I expect they do that job for free.

I think I had probably stoked young Arthur up a bit too much. He was rabid. Phew- don't you just love rabid? It was like being sexually assaulted by the Hound of the Baskervilles - without the pain and the ripping out of your throat bit, I might add -(although there was plenty of sucking of my throat. I must have looked as if I had been half-hanged the next morning.) But he's young and foolish and I was enjoying every minute of his ardour.

The clothes were off in double quick time and I was on my back on the carpet almost as fast. We were in for a young man's special here, I reckoned. Nought to ninety in a few minutes and just hope he hits your g-spot on the way. Fortunately, Arthur is sufficiently well endowed to hit your interior vena cava from there, so it wasn't a disappointment although I expected a tad more of his new found technique next time. But Arthur was excited and there is nothing sweeter than a young man on a mission, trying to beat the world record for ejaculation. He cried out and shot then rolled back on the floor to lie panting with a pained look on his face.

I lay on my side and stroked his hair back, watching him. I do so love this boy.

"That wasn't very good for you, was it, Yooma? I was a bit excited, there. I've really missed you, you know," he said apologetically.

"I wouldn't have had it any other way, sweetie. Now take it easy and you can do me a little favour while you are getting ready to go again." I scrambled up and pulled him to his feet. One look told me all I needed to know.

"Bloody hell, Arthur. Don't you even get your breath back properly?" I giggled. He was already on the move again.

"You shouldn't have said that about favours then, Yooma. You know how dirty talk gets me going."

I laughed. "Dirty talk? I'll give you dirty talk. How would you like to..." He listened. He liked to. So did I. Hope Bou was asleep. Hope we didn't wake her up. I think she slept through the bit where we had it up against the adjoining door, which wasn't actually locked, burst it open and crumpled in a naked heap onto the floor of my room. We left as quietly as we could. Ruined a perfectly good erection, that did. Luckily he was off again a few minutes later.

Eventually we made it to the bed- the only place that Arthur didn't bonk me that night, as a matter of fact. We both curled up and fell asleep almost immediately. Don't worry, Sisters, we christened the sheets the next morning!

BOUDICCA

I think I knew already, and perhaps it was a subconscious need on my part, that if I got Uma and Arthur together, they would be more interested in each other than in my presence. Arthur I consider kin, a younger brother, and truly I know that while he is not lacking in the endowment of physical attributes, I feel little attraction to him other than that. I do, however, adore him. His...attention to detail reminds me of someone else. One of his brother. And normally Arthur is attached to me at the hip, but when Uma parked the car and joined us at Beaumaris Castle, he was all hers. But at least it kept them from asking me how I was doing. It was not well.

As it turned out, I had the room all to myself the first night. I sleep lightly and was still on American time, so I heard the crashing and giggling from the next room. How either of them could have that much sex on that much liquor I cannot fathom, but Arthur is young so I guess it was none of my business. Uma's way of purging her emotions and mine are opposite ends of a very depressing spectrum. She prefers to drown hers in gin and men, and I choose to pretend I have none and need no one.

Arthur and Uma got the Beltane, or May Day as people often refer to it, celebrations underway early. Some modern pagans still reenact the mating of the Earth mother and Cernunnos the Stag God, and it seemed like these two had mastered it without help from priest or priestess. I laughed to myself as they stumbled down the stairs while I finished my breakfast, sated and in good spirits if a bit bleary-eyed and looking the worse for wear. I doubted they would be able to keep up with me during the day's activities, though it was probably just as well. Today would be a day of ghosts and memories, and I was not sure I could be pleasant company.

Uma peered at me and in her usual fashion exclaimed, "Jesus Bou, you look like shit!" To which she added in afterthought, "No offense, mate."

"None taken." I was well aware after taking a short glance in the mirror. But there was little I could really do about it unless I hibernated for a year or more. While I am certain Uma would have understood and probably encouraged me to do, I had things to accomplish and places to see.

She was fishing something out of her bag. "You are not going out like that." There was a flash of plastic that looked suspiciously like a makeup item and I think I visibly recoiled. I hate cosmetics; they make my face feel like I am wearing a mask.

"Have you seen yourself? I wouldn't go out if I looked like you, either," was my response. She ignored me and came at me with the lipstick case. It was some bright shade of red that I knew would look horrifyingly garish on me, so I gently pushed her arm away and shook my head.

"At least wear some mascara, then. And put some ice in a cloth and cover your eyes for a while. Or better yet, wear a bag on your head." At least she is direct. Arthur gaped at her in disbelief.

"Yooma..."

"Never mind," I reassured him. "She's on a mission."

"What sort of mission?" He was still staring at her as if she had committed blasphemy against the queen of England. I suppose, if I were the true Boudicca, that would not have been totally inconceivable. It is good to be queen.

"To make a harlot of me, I think." Uma shot me a withering glance.

"You'd never make it, mate." She got a waggling of my eyebrows for her effort.

Arthur, again. "But Terry says that all women are tarts, when you get them in..." I laid my hand on his.

"Yes love, I know. Listen, let's decide where exactly we are going today, all right?" Uma is not as good at hiding her thoughts as she would like to be. I caught the shift of her gaze to the window, where she pretended to study the passersby. It would have killed Arthur to think that he was hurting her by the mention of Terry's name and his thoughts on women.

While I had been unable to sleep, I had risen from the bed and gone to my laptop to read Uma's diary detailing her breakup with Terry. As I picked apart every word and bit of dialogue, I began to understand the strange tone of the emails that Terry had sent me as we planned to meet in London after I was done sightseeing with Uma and Arthur. It was apparent to me that he was suffering as I was from far too much time inside his previous world, and so was Uma feeling not only the effects of her own experience (twice now!) with him in his portal, but both of their strain from the comedown. I knew it for what it was, because I had just left my own marriage that could no longer sustain our hurt and the withdrawal from the high of the gates of time and the fact that things were unfinished yet.  For some reason or another, I felt responsible for everyone and that I had failed them somehow. 

Beltane, aside from the obvious reasons, holds much personal importance to me. I suppose you could call it Maximus' and my anniversary, for we were married by the gods and passed through the bonfires to seal our union in the eyes of men on that sacred night.  Other things happened that give it added meaning to me, and I mused on them while I knelt in meditation and prayer in the chapel of Beaumaris Castle before we set on our way to traverse the island of the Druids. Ghosts and spirits of those whom have inhabited Angelsey from before the time it was called Mona wander the island, and their voices drift to those who know how to listen for them on the breezes that waft inland from the channels and the Irish Sea. The land may change but the gods never do.  Their whispers reached me on the wind that carried through the chapel.

We remember you...

I remember you as well. I have missed you.

But you battle us.

You take much away from me. And give me little in return.

Only to make you stronger. We remember you...

Guide me. I have lost my way.

You have only forgotten how to see it.

It is not the same, in this time.

It never changes. Only you change. But we remember you...

I am so alone.

You are never alone. We are with you, always.

I only cause heartache and loneliness in others. Even he whom I love more than life.

We know. We have wept with you in the dark.

I do not know who I am, anymore.

You will remember, again.

How long? I cannot bear another day.

As long as it takes. We will not let you bear more than you are able.

I am afraid.

As well you should be. But we still choose you. We remember you...

Poor Uma. So deep in reverie was I, that I did not hear the clip of her heels as she approached me from behind and laid a hand on my shoulder. I grinned sheepishly when I realized that I had turned quick as lightning and was reaching for the dagger that in my own time would have been resting at my back, ready for me to defend myself.

"I'm not even going to ask." She shook her head, but I knew it must have amused her.

"Old habits die hard," I quipped. "That one has saved my life many times. Of course, Maximus thinks it's funny to slip up on me and startle me. One day he'll probably lose his balls." It was out before I could stop myself. It pained us both and we fairly ran out of the chapel to catch up to Arthur, who had both our car doors open.

Beltane. It always reminds me of Maximus and the beautiful moments of our lives.  And now those are few and far between. I am rather glad I did not mention Terry. But I can only imagine that if I was sick at heart for my man that Uma was also for hers, despite her carefree attitude concerning it all. One week can seem like a hundred when two women are trying to avoid sharing the exact things that they have most in common. And trying to fill the void with other things was not as effective as it could have been, had we been in better spirits. Dear Uma, when you read this, I hope you understand that I wish to try again but under more joyful circumstances.

From the castle we traveled out over the island, taking in the half-buried hill forts and standing columnar stones that I remembered as much taller in my day, the hill forts as living settlements opposed to the quiet points of interests that met our gaze.

It was so much easier to field questions from Uma than to try to make small talk, I found. She knows her history and her theories are sound and often correct in their nature, though largely unacceptable in the eyes of modern scholars.

"You know, Bou, historians say that Druids never inhabited this island. Tactitus doesn't call them such anyway," she mentioned off-handedly as we stood on the Insula Opaca, the isle of trees, the tiny portion of Mona that once was thick with groves of various trees and now lay bereft of them in lieu of townships and medieval monuments. But even as time progressed after the trees were gone and the gods lay broken and bleeding from the oppression of Rome, it was still considered a holy place by the Christians who came and built their abbeys and chapels there.

"So if it is not written, does that mean it wasn't true?"

"No, of course not. But there is no corroborating evidence to what was written."

"What about Caesar's words? How do you think he Romanized Gaul? He did it by containing the Druids' influence on the Celts there. And no, there was no written evidence to support him because he was correct in his assumption that we chose not to write our history down and memorized everything to make our minds stronger. I wish sometimes that we had at least preserved some record of ourselves, though. But who knew that we would pass into history almost without a trace?"

"There is no evidence of Druids ever existing in Britain."

"But it was generally accepted by all. It was common knowledge, even among the Romans, that this was the sacred schooling place for the priest class. It was also known that we were weakest in our strength- our gods. Many moved among the groves, and this island was thick with them in Suetonius' time. Even in my own, there were so many that survived the sacking. He was no fool and he was a master tactician. And Tacitus does say that the women wore their hair loose and were dressed in black and uttered portents. The priestesses dressed in dark robes often." This was more like it. I wondered aloud if she thought it would be interesting to go sit in a Celtic Studies or Roman History class and shoot down all the 'evidence' that is really only a small window into the world from whence I came. She giggled she wanted ringside tickets.

"Get me thrown of JACT, you will!"

"What's that?"

"The Joint Association of Classics Teachers. Good job David Singleton wants to screw me. Actually he does, really. He is a government inspector." I could only imagine why. But it was no different in my time. Powerful men are turned on by women who will not cower before them. But if they give in, they receive the world. I used to tease Maximus that that was my reason for staying with him. I was no fool.

"He is fearsome but he fancies me," she was grinning as we walked down from the crumbling walls of the hill fort.

"Do him a favor and he will do you many."

"Is that how you operated?" The look she shot me screamed 'tart' at me and I had to giggle, too. It would have been a much easier way than the path I did choose.

"Sort of. But I never paid sexual favors with any but one man. I had other more useful talents than sex."

"I'm so disappointed in you, Bou."

"Well Uma, you'd have been a wonder at it. Caesars and kings, my friend. They would have adored you."

"I'd have had them all by the balls, eh?"

"In my day, that would have been power indeed. It still is."

"Did they like you?"

"They respected me. But a woman in my position was to be feared. I threatened their manhood." And fear then meant plots and schemes against the one who posed the threat. I watched my back every second of the day. Uma would have been treasured and protected, if slandered and held in some contempt by society. But I never regretted the way I took to achieve the end for which I struggled. I was not disappointed altogether by the results.

"I think I would want your way, more." If anyone else is surprised by that revelation, I am not. Whatever one thinks of Uma, she is not the sum of appearances and her exploits. She is her own person, beholden to her own will, caring little for the dangling carrot of power and privilege unless it is to use her knowledge and gifts for the greater good. I smiled in acknowledgement of the truths behind her quiet statement that spring afternoon, standing on the crossroads between two worlds that converged on the same tiny piece of land.

UMA

I hate boats. As soon as Bou realised you could sail from Anglesey to Cumbria she wouldn't let it drop. It would save time, be a great experience and I could have a rest instead of driving. Frankly I would rather have walked. But then Arthur started on - apparently he loves the sea and was kept on about Fremantle and the Boy's Brigade having a yacht on the harbour there. Fremantle? Has he forgotten the delights of the Irish Sea even in high summer?

But, I am not one to be a party pooper, so I duly drove the motor onto the car ferry, slung on my sheepskin coat and joined the trail of passengers to the lounge. That wasn't good enough. Celtic warriors like to tough it out apparently - Bou wanted to be on deck with the wind in her face. Arthur also prefers up top. They should sign on with Jack and let me lie in a cabin and be waited on hands and foot by scantily clad sailors...oops, just another fantasy slipping out there!

I found a fairly secluded corner where the force eight gale wasn't blowing out my contact lenses and curled up, staring out over the wild and grey sea. I suddenly realised that I wasn't nervous. Usually I have this feeling of impending doom and expect the call to abandon ship any second. As you can imagine Titanic is not one of my favourite films. Perhaps the experience of sailing with Jack had cured me of my phobia. I remembered those few days- but a month ago- although they seemed a world away. A different me. No, it wasn't Jack who had cured me much as I adored my time with him. No. I wasn't nervous because I suddenly realised I didn't really care any more. If something bad happened then so be it. What was there worse than what had already taken place?

It occurred to me that maybe I was depressed. It isn't something I'm inclined to. I get down at times, like everyone does, but I have a fairly optimistic nature and shrug things off that I cannot control. But this felt difficult. I was really at bottom and sometimes felt like giving up. Was that depression? Did I need help? Should I ring Nash for his advice? What would I say? "Hi, John, I feel like topping myself- does that mean I'm as nuts as you?" Not very diplomatic. Course I'm not depressed. Shake yourself out of it, you silly cow. You are just pathetic and maudling and looking for sympathy which you don't deserve. You have only yourself to blame so stop feeling sorry for yourself...

"Hey, Arthur, I'm cold. Come over here and keep me warm!" It was time to change the record, I think. I stood up and he slid over a few benches to meet me at the rail where he wrapped his arms around me and huddled close. The wind blew full in our faces and took my breath away but it felt good to be in a man's arms and breathe the strong ozone. I let him hold me and looked down at his hands. They are a young man's hands, large but slender, how his hands would have looked when he was younger, smooth and less hairy, yet familiar and dear. I shook my head a little. Why did everything remind me of him?

"I love the sea! Did I tell you about the Boy's Brigade boat at Fremantle?" I laughed and nodded. "You ever been to Perth, Yooma? It is a lovely city."

"Do you miss it, Arthur?" I asked.

"Yes, of course I do. But I am happy here with you all. I should take you to Perth one day."

"Would you? I should like that. It's only four hours' flight from KL, you know? You and me we should do the trip when you come over although all your mates will be old fellas now!"

"Have you ever been to Oz?"

"Yes, last year. Terry took me to Sydney." I felt his arms tighten slightly around me and I was grateful for that.

His mouth made contact with my ear and he kissed me. Then he whispered. "Tell me what happened. I don't understand. You were so much in love."

I turned in his arms until I faced him, staring at his earnest face and knew that this was more than just curiosity. He was young and struggling to understand adult relationships and I expect he had focussed on Terry and me as his ideal partnership. Ideal? Terry might be the world's best at handing out advice on sexual technique but when it comes to handling his love life- he has to be the world's worst. The life and personality of Action Man rarely extends to more than rescuing damsels in distress, romantic flings and then periods of morose heartbreak. He has it all down to a fine art. Hasn't anyone actually seen the film? So this affair had outlasted the usual- six months must be a record for The King of Pain. Bloody Personal Best for me, too.

"We just got to the end of the road, Arthur. It happens."

"But you love each other!"

"It isn't always enough, Art. It just isn't. Our personalities just fire off each other."

"You always argued. You had some humdingers when I was there- but you always made up!" He insisted.

I sighed deeply. "Sometimes you go too far. And a long-term relationship needs peace and compromise. We couldn't give that to each other. The other girls give him such a lot of tenderness and sweetness. It was bound to throw our volatility into sharp relief by comparison."

"That is a load of rubbish and you know it. You are both very tender and sweet with each other. You just don't let anyone else see it, as though you are ashamed of how you both feel. I don't think that is what happened at all. I think you were jealous of each other's relationships with the rest of the Brothers and Sisters. That's because you love each other too much. You should be a proper couple."

I stared at him. He had said the unthinkable. The unspeakable. But that's Arthur, isn't it?

"That is crap. What the fuck do you know anyway?" I pulled away from him and stormed off, leaving him to his obvious embarrassment.

Further down the deck, at the open prow, alone on benches that were wind-tossed and wet with spray, sat Bou. She looked so lost and forlorn and it put my problems into perspective. How must she feel? She had lost her children, her world and subsequently perhaps her man. Cast out into a time she barely understands with values that are alien to her- she has done so remarkably well to adjust, but there is always a cost. On the surface she has made the required changes but underneath her mind must be in turmoil all the time. And now she was facing the last reality- the ruined remains of her past in a country that had moved two millennia on from her time and amongst modern Britons who would barely recognise a single concept of the culture she had once held dear.

"Penny for them, Bou?" I slipped in beside her and rested my hand lightly on her arm. She jumped a little and contemplated me as if she had never seen me before. And then I saw her eyes return to where we were and she blinked a few times.

"Why won't you see him?"

My turn to startle. What was she talking about? "Who? See whom? Terry? I called him. I will see him in London next week. Maybe we can sort something out, maybe not. But at least we can be civilised. Act like grownups."

"I meant Maximus."

"WHAT?"

"I am trying to understand you. Why do you shun Maximus? It hurts him very much. I think you should see him."

I whistled while I counted to ten. "You do, do you? And what possible good would that do to any of us?"

"He might come to a better knowledge of himself. Can't you see he is searching? You can help him. Please help him."

"Bou, this is a surreal conversation and I am cutting it before one of us says something that will make the rest of this holiday very painful for both of us." I turned to go.

"See him, Uma." I could hear a note of pleading in her voice and I knew it took a lot for her to humble herself so.

I spun round. "I am not here to lend myself out for healing men with emotional difficulties! Get him a shrink. Send him to a high-class tart. Do the job yourself. I don't know! How dare you ask me to put my sanity on the line again? What about me? What about you? What about the World? Ann spoke of Dominoes- I'm warning you, if I see him again in this lifetime, then there will be repercussions that will drive through the Game and leave fissures like a fault line- so deep, they will be bottomless. Can you all not understand exactly what I have been trying to say for months? Maximus and I can never be a weekend visit or a light distraction to each other. And he knows that."

My words hit their mark, I saw her flinch and realised that she already knew. It was her way, of course- the way of a warrior. She wanted to face her Grendel, like Beowulf in the legend. It was a tactic of which a psychiatrist would approve. Face the demons. But she was looking outwards at the ones of physical form; a modern woman might have looked inwards to the ones that lay in both their psyches.

"Then now I understand what is really the problem with you and Terry. Think you it can be resolved by running from its cause?"

"You know nothing of him and me! Leave me alone!"

I ran from her and sought out Arthur who was leaning disconsolately on the rail, hands in his pockets, deep in thought.

"Hey, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that," I said quietly, slipping my hand into his pocket to grasp his own.

"You had every right. I should keep my mouth shut," he shrugged in embarrassment.

"No, I didn't. Come here. I love you so much, Arthur, and you don't deserve to receive the brunt of my temper. I hit out at you 'cause you are getting too close to the real me. Closer than anyone else in fact."

He smiled shyly and ran his hands through my hair (it must have looked like a bird's nest in that wind). Tilting up my chin, he kissed me nervously, as though he expected me to toss him overboard - but he was wrong. I pulled him close, shut my eyes and let him blot out the rest of the world for a moment. A titter of laughter from nearby brought us back to earth with a bump. A group of teenagers had sat down and were watching, making comments.

Arthur backed off, wiping his hand nervously across his face and looking down at his feet. I was less inhibited. Teenagers- I eat them for breakfast- I'm a teacher by profession, remember?

"Get lost or take notes. Either way- keep quiet," I retorted.

They blushed and began to move away. One young scallywag, a bright-eyed blond lad, about fourteen, faced me up. "Bit young for you, isn't he, Missus?"

I grinned. "Never too young for me, kid- are you offering? I'll make your fucking nose bleed!" Arthur made a strangled sound and the boy paled. He got the message and withdrew.

"Bloody hell, Uma...would you...?"

"Would I buggery! That neither, come to think of it. But got rid of him, didn't it? They are all talk at that age. Now at about twenty one, they get to be just where I want them..." I moved up close and gave Arthur's groin a squeeze. He yelped and stepped back.

"Not here, Uma, please, not here!"

I grinned and winked. "What's the naval equivalent of the mile high club? Do you have to get down deep? A few fathoms down deep? Bet you could reach, Arthur...do you reckon the purser's got a spare day cabin?"