Chapter 2: The Secret

Asteria, the little Gaulish warrior, dusted her hand over the handwork she’d made out of the rookie legionnaire, the one with a temperament worse than a child. The enemies were neutralized, it seemed, through a bit roughhousing and a sharp tongue.

Asteria went back to the large boar she had hunted before the skirmish. The boar lay on the boulder limp, with fading warmth and its pinkish tongue lolling out. She lifted the large beast to her shoulders.

The weight, while was light as a feather, now had bearing her down—even if it’s a little bit.

Oh dear, she thought, I’ve got to go back to the village before I really grow weak!

She then quickened her pace through the familiar forest path. The foliage grew thinner as she found her way out.

Her thoughts drifted back to the vivid image of the crumbled soldier. She giggled slightly as she hastened, kicking stray pebble down the path. She paused mid-step, imagining his face—all red and quivering—then shook her head with a grin.

"He was so easy to break. I wonder how much more I could've pushed before he really snapped." She absentmindedly patted the boar's haunch as she continued walking.

"Not that I'd do that, of course. I'm not completely heartless!" She paused, considering. "Well... maybe a little."

The sun is at its peak when the Gaul emerged from the forest with her hunt. The sunlight hit her facade as she exited the dim forest area, greeting her was the walls of pine and oak trunks driven deep into the soil, their tops sharpened to cruel points. The walls were no work of masonry or polish, but they carried the weight of necessity. Above the walls she spotted the sentry guards carrying spears to their shoulders.

The gate was wide open when she came down the track, its twin timbers cut from whole trunks, bound with bands of iron and rope, as tall as the wall itself. The guards peered down at the arriving huntress. After a single nod of acknowledgement, they resumed watching the perimeters.

Within the palisade the village sprawled in a jumble of timber and stone huts and homes. Thatched roofs sloped low against the wind, their walls patched with whatever lumber and rock could be hauled from the fields. From many of them rose thin trails of smoke, twisting lazily from crude chimneys before vanishing into the clear blue sky. The air smelled of hearth-fires, peat, and boiling stew.

Near the centre stood an oak, gnarled and scarred yet stubbornly alive, its upper branches burdened with a crooked little dwelling. No one but lyricist bird would dare live up there, and most thought her mad for it, though she claimed the vantage point let her ‘voice be heard by the gods.’

The clang of iron carried across the yard from the smithy, where sparks leapt with every hammer-stroke. Parallel would be the fishmonger’s stall sagged under nets, baskets, and the stink of yesterday’s catch—an odd pairing, but one the villagers were long accustomed to.

At the heart of the village stood the chieftain’s hall, looming larger than any other dwelling. Smoke spilled from its central vent, and the carved beams above its doors were worn smooth by years of hands gripping them in greeting. Before it stretched the common ground, a broad circle of beaten earth where children chased chickens, elders gossiped, and warriors idled with their spears.

Entering from the front gate, Asteria met up with the behemoth of a woman who could carry menhirs effortlessly—though she'd already finished her deliveries for the day and stood empty-handed. Obelia was a large woman, quite literally and figuratively. Belying her ursine strength was her surprisingly gentle nature. The old girl's light blue pinafore dress with white stripes was taut, belted at the waist with leather.

“How’s the menhir business, old friend?”

“You know, as usual. People just don't appreciate good sturdy stones anymore. They all want those fancy pillars with carved-up naked people on them."

Asteria chuckled, setting the boar gently to the ground.

“Well, I suppose those pillars do have their charm. But there's something to be said for the simplicity and durability of a well-placed menhir.”

Obelia then eyed on her spoil from the hunt.

“Only one today?” the twin-braided Gaul raised a brow. “Have you been fighting Romans on the way? If so, how many?”

She cast a suspicious glance down at her blonde friend. Asteria couldn’t help but smiling to her cheeks, guilty as charged.

“Oh, you know me, Obelia. Couldn’t resist a little tussle. Just about a half-dozen Romans this time—barely a warm-up.”

The usually oafish Obelia would had missed, but she wouldn’t let this slip by. The red-haired crossed her arms as she snorted.

“Barely a warm-up, is it? Then, why are you giddier than a kid? Something interesting might had happened.”

“Oh, Obelia, you’re too sharp for me.” Her grin widened with a faint flush, “Alright, fine—I had the most fun in days. One of those Romans had a shiny new helmet, like it hasn’t have a dent in its lifetime. He had an audacity to sneak an attack, so I tore him down with mere words!” she threw her head barking a laugh.

Obelia’s face beamed. She gasped as she leaned in a gossiping manner. The two walked side by side across the village in a mild pace. “You didn’t.”

“Oh, I did,” Asteria nodded with a mischievous grin on her face, “he didn’t take to losing quite as gracefully as the others. I did taught him a little lesson in humility.” she said with a playful shrug.

Obelia let out a thunderous laugh, shaking her head. “You always have a cruel streak when it comes to Romans.”

“It’s not cruelty, it’s training. Can’t let them think they’re better than us, can you?”

"Okay then, deary." Obelia puts a hand to her cheek as she tilted slightly, "I was hoping you didn’t go too far with them. Last thing I wanted was to scare away fun Romans to toy with."

The last part was said as a warning and less in jest. The diminutive Gaul’s thoughts drifted back to the vivid imagery of the teary lot that’s all puffy and reddened. Maybe she was enjoying it a little too much. A pang of guilt washed over her.

“Of course, I didn’t!” Asteria’s voice raised defensively, “I gave them a warm welcome is all.”

“Mm-hmm… Alright, then.” Obelia shot Asteria a skeptical glance, yet decided not to press the matter watching her little friend squirmed at the notion. “Well, I fancy myself a lunch break.”

The diminutive Gaul led out a sigh of relief seeing her bigger friend shifted her focus to the boar.

"Ah, perfect timing. Help me haul this inside and I’ll throw some of it your way.”

“Now that’s what I call fair trade.” Obelia bent down and hoisted the boar onto her broad shoulders with effortless ease. “Although, I fear that share isn’t enough to fill me, Asteria.”

“Well, my apologies, friend.”

“Not to worry, I had a spare pork or two in the pantry of my hut.”

Asteria walked towards her home with Obelia following close behind. The larger woman’s footfalls thudded heavily on the packed earth of the village path. Both Gauls were eager to have their lunches.

In Camp Compendium, Centurion Crismus Bonus sat in his quarters, his gaze fixed on a map of the known world, zeroing in on the northern coast of Gaul where his legion was stationed. His eyes bored into the parchment like a hawk’s, desperate for some shift in their fortunes. And shift it did.

“Ave, Crismus Bonus, the patrol’s back,” announced legionary Julius Pompus.

The centurion swept aside the tent flaps and stepped out, his eyes widening at the sight of the disheveled patrol limping into formation. Blackened eyes, broken noses, blistered lips—their uniforms hung in tatters, chest plates battered to near scrap. It was no different from the morning’s patrol. Crismus Bonus palmed his face, groaning. He hesitated, but duty compelled him to ask. Dropping his hand, he fixed the men with a weary stare.

“Please tell me you were outnumbered…” he exasperated.

One legionary tried counting on his fingers, only his forefinger uncurling.

“Barely… there was one of them.”

“She folded men twice her size,” another muttered.

“We didn’t even know she was a village girl!” a third added, voice cracking.

Crismus Bonus’s gaze settled on the fourth legionary, who bore no visible wounds but stood visibly shaken, his face pale and crestfallen. The centurion leaned in, brow furrowed.

“And you, I suppose, escaped unscathed?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” said the legionary beside the greenhorn, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “I don’t know what happened, but he’s not looking good.”

The centurion threw his head back, running a hand through his ashen hair, his clenched fist trembling. The senior legionary beside him remained stoic, unfazed. Crismus Bonus bellowed.

“We can’t go on like this! Beaten by a mere village girl? By Jupiter, there must be some secret to this—this superhuman strength of the Gauls!”

The four legionaries trudged toward the sick bay, leaving the centurion to mull over the disastrous encounter. He muttered, tapping his chin thoughtfully.

“Now—I might have just the plan to get to the bottom of this.”

The interior of Asteria’s hut was a snug, circular haven, its rough-hewn beams and thatched roof steeped in the earthy warmth of Gaulish life. The main room, both heart and hearth, centered on a stone fireplace that glowed with steady warmth, casting flickering light across a sturdy oak table. Low benches, their wood polished smooth by years of use, flanked the table, while the packed-earth floor was softened by scattered rushes and a boar-hide rug.

The meal had been picked clean, bones stripped bare. Asteria, with a satisfied grin, tossed a femur onto a growing pile in the corner of the table. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she watched Obelia devour the last of the feast in mere seconds.

“Compliments to the chef, my dear Obelia. Your wild boar is nothing short of extraordinary.”

Obelia leaned back on the bench, her broad frame creaking the wood as she patted her stomach with a contented sigh. “You’re too kind, Asteria.”

She reached for the jug of goat’s milk, only to find it nearly empty, and shot Asteria a mock glare. Always leaving her crumbs and dregs, she’d whined. Asteria chuckled, kicking her boots up onto the table’s edge as she clutch her stomach, her hand unknowingly landed on the greenish gourd tied to her belt.

“Sorry about that, old girl. I’d fill in more of our share of ration…”

Asteria trailed off, her hand absently groping the gourd at her belt. Its weight felt worryingly light. She turned her attention to it, giving it a gentle shake. The faint slosh confirmed it—dangerously empty.

“Speaking of which,” she said, her brows furrowing, “I wonder where the druid is. I need another fill of the magic potion."

Her hand leaves the gourd with her up and leaving the seat. She cleaned after herself, sweeping the leftovers and rubbish onto the clay bowl as she set them to the kitchen sink across the room.

She dusted her hands as she finished, beckoning her huge friend to follow. Asteria pushed open the wooden door, stepping into the bright noon sunlight that bathed the village in golden warmth. Obelia followed, her heavy steps kicking up dust, her twin braids bouncing as she squinted into the sun.

They wove through the cluster of thatched huts, the late summer fields vibrant with green and gold, and headed toward the village outskirts. The forest loomed ahead, its canopy dappled with sunlight, leaves just beginning to hint at autumn’s touch. The druid was likely out there, sickle in hand, harvesting mistletoe from the ancient oaks.

The faint swish of a blade cutting through foliage mingled with the rustle of leaves overhead. Asteria and Obelia, only a short walk from the village, soon spotted their quarry.

Harvesting mistletoe demanded precision and focus, Asteria knew—a delicate procedure that left little room for distraction.

But a mischievous thought sparked in her mind. A sly grin spread across her face as she tucked one arm behind her back, the other hand cupping her mouth. Her voice boomed through the trees.

“GETAFIX O DRUID!”

The sickle jerked, and Getafix yelped, nearly tumbling from the branch. He clung to it with one hand, his beard quivering as he glared down.

“By Toutatis, Asteria! Must you shout while I’m working here!?”

He carefully climbed down, licking a stinging nick on his forefinger. Approaching the pair with a scolding frown, his voice carried the sharp whine of a druid at his wit’s end.

“You made me jump! And I’ve gone and cut myself with my sickle!”

Asteria winced, her grin fading. The wings on her helmet drooped like a scolded pup’s ears, her wide eyes brimming with exaggerated remorse. “Sorry…” she mumbled, her voice soft and pleading.

“Ah, I can’t stay mad at you! Now stop looking at me with those eyes.” Getafix sighed as his stern expression softened rubbing his temples. He tucked his sickle into his belt. “What’s so urgent you had to startle me half to death?”

Asteria straightened with the wings on her helmet perking up. The gourd swinging lightly at her hip.

“My gourd’s gone dry, druid. It’s that time again to have my fill of that potion.”

“Very well…”

The druid clasped his hand behind his white-robed back, the red cape he donned lightly sway before him as he turned around. “Come home with me.”

The trio set off through the sunlit forest, the late summer air warm and buzzing with insects. Getafix led the way back to the village, his hut nestled safely within the wooden palisades. As they emerged from the trees, the thatched roof of his dwelling came into view, smoke curling from its chimney.

Inside, the familiar clutter awaited: a large cauldron bubbled within the fireplace, the room is surrounded by shelves crammed with jars of herbs, dried roots, and vials of mysterious liquids. A small pallet in the corner, half-hidden by a curtain of woven reeds, served as Getafix’s sleeping nook.

Getafix set his satchel of foraged ingredients on a rack’s hook, then strode to the cauldron, peering into its steaming, bubbling contents. His voice tinged with pride announcing:

“Ah, the magic potion is nearly ready—making the drinker invincible! His strength increases tenfold, in a limited period of time.”

Asteria and Obelia stood nearby, watching the druid move with practiced ease from one corner of the hut to another. He stepped to a cluttered table, grinding a mixture in a mortar with precise expertise. The air was thick with the scent of herbs and the faint crackle of the hearth.

Asteria’s thoughts drifted to the potion’s formula. For years, she’d memorised Getafix’s foraging routine—various herbs, mushrooms, and nuts plucked from the forest. Mistletoe, she assumed, held some spiritual purpose, though its true properties eluded her. Curiosity piqued, she edged closer, leaning over the druid’s shoulder to peek into the clay bowl.

“What’s the recipe, o druid?”

He didn’t flinch at her intrusion, calmly pouring the bowl’s contents into the cauldron.

“The origins of this recipe are lost to the mist of time, dear Asteria. It is handed down from druid to druid by word of mouth.”

“And the lobster?”

Getafix reached into a container, pulling out a lobster, its shell glistening red and damp from the steam.

“Nothing to it but flavour.”

Getafix said with a wry smile, dropping the creature into the cauldron with a small splash. He stirred the cauldron, the potion’s glow casting eerie light across his weathered face.

He glanced at Asteria, who was still hovering, her gourd clutched eagerly.

“Now, your refill. Hold that gourd steady.”

Asteria held out her gourd, the wings on her helmet twitching with excitement as Getafix ladled in the shimmering liquid. A couple of scoops filled it, with a bit left in the ladle. She tipped the ladle to her lips, drinking every last drop. The potion tasted like a strange blend of vegetable soup and a meaty broth—its exact ingredients a mystery only Getafix knew.

The savory aroma wafted to Obelia, her mouth watering despite countless warnings to steer clear. The temptation was too strong, the scent irresistible.

Maybe this time he’ll let me have a sip, she thought, feeling bolder than usual. Stepping forward, she fixed Getafix with a longing gaze.

“Any chance you’d spare a drop for the largest woman in the village?”

“No, Obelia,” Getafix said, his eyes narrowing as he pulled the ladle back. “You know better than to ask for more potion! Its effects are permanent on you—ever since you fell into the cauldron as a child. Even a drop more could be dangerous, more for everyone else than for you.”

Asteria flexed her arms, feeling the potion’s energy surge through her. Though her muscles looked unchanged, a hidden strength thrummed within, ready to topple any Roman in her path.

Obelia pouted, her cheeks puffing out in disappointment at the druid’s blunt refusal.

“Not allowed to join the fun, huh? It’s not fair, by Belenos!” she huffed, crossing her arms.

Asteria shot her friend a sympathetic glance, knowing Getafix was right to deny her. Turning to the druid, she flashed a beaming smile, her cheerfulness radiating gratitude. Against the hearth’s warm glow, her silhouette seemed to shimmer as she spread her arms wide.

“Thanks a lot, druid!”

“Wait—no, Asteria—” Getafix protested, stepping back.

But Asteria closed in, wrapping him in a tight hug. Her chin rested on his shoulder, her potion-fueled arms clamping down with unintended force. His bones audibly popped. He yelped, wriggling in her grip:

“OW! OW! OW!”

Asteria released him, stepping back with a sheepish grin. “Oops, sorry! Got carried away.” She adjusted her helmet, its wings perking up as she clutched her refilled gourd.

Getafix rubbed his shoulder, muttering, “What did I told you before? Not to shake hands or hug me when you just had your potion!” He straightened, regaining his composure, and pointed to the door. “Now, out—both of you! I’ve got more brewing to do, and I’d like to keep my bones intact.”

The pair obliged, one was chirpy with a filled gourd to her belt, the other exited with her arms stiff straightened with barely confined frustration.

In the evening, after the second hunt, Asteria and the village hunters noted fewer Roman patrols in the Gaulish woods. Less fun, perhaps, but certainly more peaceful. She slung a few more boars over her shoulder than she had that afternoon, her potion-enhanced strength making the load effortless.

Obelia, as she had at lunch, took charge of tonight’s feast. Roasted wild boar, as always, varied only by the spices or herbs she sprinkled atop them. Asteria finished her chores and headed to the village centre, where Fulliautomata, the blacksmith’s wife, and Unhygenia, the fishmonger’s wife, held court.

Despite their rivalry in trade, the two women were the heart of the Indomitable Gauls’ gossip network, drawing the village’s wives and women to the smithy. Asteria’s hut lay to the north, and Obelia stepped out to join her friend, striding toward the lively gathering.

The smithy’s fire cast flickering light, the air thick with roasted meat and the rhythmic clang of Fulliautomata’s hammer. Unhygenia, waving a fish-scented rag, was recounting the day’s quiet.

“Hardly a Roman in sight today. My husband says they’re up to something at Camp Compendium. Probably cowering after Asteria thrashed their patrol.”

Then Unhygienia leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush.

“Speaking of scheming, my Bacterix is off importing fish from Lutetia again.”

“Lutetia!” snorted Fulliautomata, “As if our coastal catch isn’t good enough. What’s your hubby playing at, traipsing to the city like some fancy merchant?”

Unhygienia rolled her eyes at the Fulliautomata’s comment.

“It's because of the market prices, love. The traders from Lutetia offer better deals. It's all about the coin, you know.”

"Well, at least you're not getting the short end of the stick." commented Obelia.

Unhygenia nodded, and then she and Fulliautomata turned to the towering woman in the white-and-blue pinafore. The two asked:

“What about you, deary?”

“Who? Me?” Obelia looked around before pointing to herself.

“Yes. Have you found anyone interesting yet?”

Obelia’s cheeks flushed, and she shifted her weight, the smithy’s firelight glinting off her braids. The towering woman fidgeted, kicking a pebble with her foot.

“Well, I—”

“She’d make fine wife material, wouldn’t she?” one woman whispered to her neighbour. “With those strong arms and her knack for roasting boar, any man would be lucky to have Obelia.”

Obelia’s hands flew to her reddening face, now the centre of the gathering’s gossip.

“Gosh, I hadn’t thought much of it. I’m too busy hauling menhirs to search for any man.”

“And well-endowed too,” Fulliautomata winked, nudging the woman beside her, drawing gasps from Unhygenia.

“Blunt as ever,” Unhygenia said, shaking her head, her unkempt blonde hair swishing.

Asteria, perched nearby with her gourd heavy with potion, chuckled.

“That’s right, let her stick to her stones. Menhirs don’t talk back like husbands do.”

The women burst into laughter, the jibe sparking a fresh wave of chatter. Now, that she thought about it, most women here were already married, leaving her and Obelia maidens, both past twenty summers.

As Fulliautomata, Unhygenia, and the others’ attention shifted from Obelia, their eyes settled on the diminutive warrior. Asteria’s helmet wings perked up at the sudden focus. Oh no.

“And what about you, Asteria? Always off bashing Romans, but no man’s caught your eye?”

Fulliautomata asked, leaning forward with a sly grin. Asteria glanced between them.

“Huh? What do you mean?”

“Aye, you’re as fierce as they come, but surely someone’s turned your head. Or are you wedded to that gourd?” Unhygenia added, waving her fish-scented rag.

The women laughed, and Asteria’s cheeks warmed, her helmet wings drooping slightly. She cleared her throat as she forced a grin.

“Me? I’m too busy keeping Romans at bay to bother with all that. Besides, who needs a husband when I’ve got Obelia’s boar roasts?”

“Don’t drag me into this! I’d wager you’d scare any suitor off with that potion-powered punch.” A memory flickered in Obelia’s mind in relevance to this, and she opened her mouth. “But, speaking of suitors, didn’t you—”

“Ah! Ah! Ah! Enough talk of other people’s love lives!”

Asteria cut her off, playfully punching Obelia’s arm. Even with her potion-enhanced strength, the jab didn’t faze the gentle giant. Asteria masked her fluster with a mischievous facade, her grin wide.

The women’s laughter swelled, but the chieftain Impedimentix stormed into the circle, others immediately caught his thin frame.

“Enough chatter, ladies! Asteria, Obelia, Vitalia’s waiting at the banquet hall. She’s fretting about those quiet Romans—report to her, now.”

Asteria hopped off her perch, relieved to escape the teasing.

“Right, let’s not keep the chieftain’s wife waiting,” she said, nudging Obelia.

The pair wove through the village, the late summer evening rich with the scent of roasting boar and the hum of gossip.

A purple twilight sky blanketed Armorica. Torches flickered along the boundaries of Camp Compendium, its sturdy palisade shielding the garrison. A fresh shift of legionaries replaced those stationed during the day.

Unlike the scattered huts of the Indomitable Gauls’ village, the camp’s tents stood in neat rows. Inside one tent, a row of cots held injured legionaries, temporarily incapacitated. The greenhorn, clad in a simple tunic with no visible bruises, lay face down on his cot, burying his face in the pillow, brooding over the morning’s events.

“She humiliated Rome—no…”

The woman’s image flashed in his mind—her confident air despite her small stature, the fearless grin she wore in the face of danger.

“She humiliated me. That blasted Gaul…!”

The memory of her soft skin against his palm lingered, surprising for a barbarian. His heart thumped loudly—fear, or something else? He lifted his head from the pillow, staring into the dimness, brow furrowed.

Moments later, his face warmed, and he buried it in the pillow again, the urge to scream growing as his thoughts raced. He couldn’t forget her.

Sleepless in the sickbay, plagued by the Gaul’s audacity, he tossed and turned.