Authors: N. M. Browne
There are armoured soldiers outside the bathhouse. It is obvious that they are still searching for me. I stoop a little to disguise my height and keep my eyes modestly lowered. Perhaps it would be a better disguise if I were bolder.
There must be fifty men or more checking the vicus. I am a woman just going about my business, an innocent bystander, curious about what is going on. I try to walk with an unhurried feminine gait.
One of the soldiers detaches himself from his cohort and wanders over to speak to me in his own language. He is carrying a burning brand to light his way. The flames dance on his armour, reminding me of the massacre of the fort. They throw the shadows of his face into stark relief, giving it a demonic look. His dark eyes glitter and I fight the urge to draw my sword. He speaks again. I can tell nothing from his tone and I have no idea what the words mean, but I gamble that it is nothing bad and force myself to raise my eyes to his. I attempt to smile. He moves closer, enclosing my waist with his arm, making it harder for me to reach for my weapon. Is that deliberate? For a moment I think he is going to accost me, then as he moves in closer I realise he intends to kiss me. He smells powerfully of fish and onions. He keeps talking, a steady stream of meaningless syllables. I ease the small dagger from his sword belt, still smiling. It is a sturdy leaf-shaped knife that glides silently in its sheath. The hilt fits perfectly in my palm, smooth as an easy promise. Luckily for him someone calls him away. He pinches my cheek with callused fingers, gabbles some nonsense and moves on. I make myself breathe. One more moment and I would have stabbed him.
I head back down the slight incline towards the glowing fires of the camped traders. The basket is heavy but I try not to let it appear so. I cover my face with my veil and slip into the darkness, away from the soldiers’ torches. I am lucky that a wisp of cloud, like sheep’s wool caught on a briar, covers the moon.
I find the Parisi pedlar squatting by his fire, spitting a brace of birds. He’s not big, but has the lean, wiry look of a man who can take care of himself. The Roman knife is still in my clenched hand. I kneel beside him, laying my basket on the ground, and press my knife hard against the Parisi’s ribs. I want to kill him. He was at Ragan’s Field.
‘Make a sound and I’ll spit you like the Parisi pig you are,’ I say. He tenses. I feel the tautening of his muscles under his tunic and I know that this one will fight back. I’ll have to impose my will on him quickly before he has time to think. ‘I need your mule and your cart. In return I might let you keep your worthless guts inside your skin.’
He gets slowly to his feet. With my left hand I remove his sword belt. It clatters to the ground – a mistake. The sound is loud. I expect to hear soldiers surround me, calling out their threats, rushing at me so that I am surrounded. I count ten heartbeats. Nothing happens. The pedlar is likely to have other weapons hidden about his person but I don’t have time to search him. I need to keep him moving, keep him unsettled. I prod him again and keep my voice hard. ‘Keep your hands where I can see them. We are going to walk towards the cart and you will give no sign that anything is amiss or I will kill you before you can summon help.’
I haven’t thought this through. He will have to harness his mule and that is such a strange thing to do at this time of night he’s going to attract attention. Why would a pedlar leave the vicus at dead of night with a woman?
‘I hope you know what you’re doing with that dagger, cariad.’ The pedlar’s voice is confident, his accent so like that of the Chief’s that I find myself growing angry at its sound. I know that he has been taken in by my dress, that he thinks he can take me; he is waiting for his chance.
I press the knife viciously against his back. Fear and anger are making me jumpy and overeager: a small amount of blood seeps through his tunic. I pick up my basket. He doesn’t say anything else but guides me to the cart past other firesides, other traders. Clever.
They greet him, or I think they do, as none of them says a word I understand. I move my knife to his side and sidle up close to him, so that our hips touch. I lean against him so that my mouth is pressed against his ear.
‘Put your arm round me,’ I hiss, ‘like we’re lovers.’ His grip on my shoulders is firm. I giggle loudly, or at least that’s what I try to do. I was never one for giggling so the effect is not quite what I intended. Anyway, it works, people laugh and whistle, and I try for that giggle again. We weave through the encampment a little drunkenly but I keep the knife steady. I see the Roman soldier who accosted me earlier. I duck down and I bury my head in the Parisi’s neck and stagger even more obviously. The Roman does not approach.
We reach the cart. The Parisi may have a weapon hidden there. I have to give him space to hitch the mule; it is his best chance of grabbing a knife and turning on me. The clouds clear from the face of the moon and the night becomes brighter. I unsheathe my longsword. His eyes widen when he sees me. Any tribesman can recognise a warrior from the way they hold a sword. I’m a warrior and now he knows it. He doesn’t make me prove it. I force him to sit beside me on the narrow seat. ‘Head west,’ I say. ‘You’re coming with me.’
Chapter Fifteen
She waits for me in the hidden places of the forest. How could I have forgotten her?
It is good to leave behind the confusion of the man stink, to leave behind the noise that fills my ears but tells me nothing I need to know. I run from the fires that distort the night and stench of smoke to the cool of the dark and a world of scents and senses. I run to her. She has tracked me all day, leaving behind the Old One, becoming a lone wolf for me. The scents of her journey cling to her fur. I drink in the history of her long day. It is in my nose and on my tongue: the battle and the spilled blood, the river and the great cold, the forest, the man-place of cut trees. She has watched and waited. When I thought I was alone, she was always there. I let her guide me, teach me how to listen to the scurrying of small creatures, to track their distinctive smell, follow her lead and make the kill. Blood. Meat. My mouth is full of the taste, my belly is full of the goodness, my nose is full of the she-wolf. She delights in my success as if I were her cub. I’m not her cub. I know what she wants of me and am happy to give it. She is mine to hunt for and to defend, as I am hers.
Then here, where we feast, I catch the pungent female odour of the two-legged female and I remember: I am not whole as the she-wolf but a broken unnatural thing. It hurts to know this, but I can’t ignore it. It is like a thorn in the soft pad of my foot. I am a two-legged creature as well as a four-legged one and my pack is both the she-wolf and the two-legged female. I owe loyalty to the hunter and to the fire-maker. I can taste the two-leg’s smoky, spicy scent in the wind. I should run after her. My she-wolf does not want this. She nips me and growls, but follows anyway, as I knew she would. It is up to me to keep my pack together. I know that finding the two-legged female is important and worth the anger of the she-wolf. She needs me.
She is not hard to find. She travels noisily. She is with a male whose scent I remember from earlier in the day. He smells of the smoke of campfires, of the loamy earth of many places, of the taint of metal, of blood and of ash.
We are not far away when my two-leg, the fire-maker, Trista, screams. The fur on my neck rises and I run as if I flee from fire. My she-wolf is not more than a pace behind. We are fleet of foot and fierce in fighting. The male will not do her harm. He has the sharp tooth that will bite her. No. He has a dagger that might cut her. She is already fighting him, struggling to get at her sword. Kicking out and screaming at him.
‘Cassie’s wrong. You’re not on her side. You’re the midden-born pox-ridden Parisi scum I knew you were!’ Her scent is overlaid with fury. She might beat him on her own, but it isn’t certain.
I growl. I want to tear out his throat and gnaw at his innards. I could snap his neck with my jaws, shred him with my teeth. I want to taste his warm blood. I will not let him get to Trista. He turns to me and I smell his fear. He runs. I start after him but the she-wolf is cautious. We’ve eaten well and she has no interest in a chase without a kill. She doesn’t kill what she can’t eat. She doesn’t think men are ever worth the chase. I can see that in the way she hangs her tail and tilts her ears. We will let him go. For now.
‘Morcant!’ Trista smells of crude perfumes, of oil and the hot tang of the bathhouse. She does not smell of blood. She’s not hurt. I taste the skin of her arm with my tongue. She is salty and sweet at once.
‘I’d like to weave a basket with his guts,’ Trista says. She is rubbing her wrist, where he must have twisted it to wrench her weapon from her hands. I know that she is irritated that he bested her. ‘I didn’t think you’d come back. Thank you.’
Her voice trembles and water comes from her eyes. I remember that this means she is distressed. She is not the only one: my she-wolf retreats.
I am torn between the two of them because they both want me. I hesitate. Trista surprises me by burying her face in the fur of my back. I feel the whole weight of her pressing down on me. She does not usually behave this way. It is as if she is sick or injured and I can’t leave her.
‘It’s all gone wrong, Morcant. I don’t know what I’m doing.’ It’s hard to hear what she is saying as she is mumbling into my back.
I can’t do anything to help her. I have no arms to hold her so I twist my head and manage to lick the bare flesh on her neck to let her know that I am here and listening. It is odd that her skin is so smooth and bald; it tastes of perfume there, sickly and sweet. I do not react.
The man who got away will bring more men. I know this and she must know it too. She needs to keep moving so that they can’t catch her. I make a noise that the wolves know means ‘Danger, keep running.’ She pats my neck as if it were a cry for attention. I nudge her but she sinks to the ground.
‘I can’t go on. I need to sleep.’ She would never make these pitiful sounds of weakness if I looked like a man and the more I am with her the more like a man I feel. My she-wolf has loped away in disgust. Can her keen nose detect from my scent that I am becoming more like the two-legged hunters she despises?
The mule thrashes around in his harness. There is some good eating on him. His frightened noises rouse Trista from her hopeless state. She stands up again and wipes her face on her shawl so that all the paint she is wearing smears across her face. It changes her look but not her smell. She mutters soothingly to the mule and I find myself oddly relaxed by the gentle calm of her tone. Perhaps this too is her gift. She sees what is not there, she lights fires and she gentles restless beasts. She releases the mule from the hard burden of the cart. I don’t like this cart. It is cluttered with the objects of the pedlar’s trade. I can smell old blood on the clothing and the lingering trace of fear that has worked its way into the very weave of the cloth. I wonder where the pedlar acquired these wares. He has spent time in places best avoided. His things leave a bad taste in my mouth.
Trista pulls the cart off the track and under a tree. Her strength surprises me. She is not weak. She tips the cart to make a barrier against the wind and makes a camp for herself a little off the track. She takes little time to gather damp sticks. No sooner than she lays them on the ground, she kindles a flame. I am not afraid of this fire because it is hers. She made it and she can control it. Though the scent of the burning wood makes my eyes water and fills my nose with the heat and a pungent odour of scorching, I am drawn to lie by her side.
She runs her hands through my fur, and I don’t even snarl. She is Trista and she can do whatever she likes.
Chapter Sixteen
I touch the thick fur around Morcant’s neck and, when he does not snarl, I grow bolder and stroke the luxurious coat on his back and flanks. I can feel the pump of his heart beating through his skin as if he has been running. I want to bury my head in his pelt but I resist. His fur smells of the hounds of home, of my father’s hearth and of childhood. His breath smells of blood and I don’t mind. I’ve grown used to that smell.
‘Morcant.’ I surprise myself by whispering his name again. The fire’s orange embers flare into yellow flame and I feel his powerful muscles tense under my hands, ready for flight. His eyes are silver mirrors of light. I do not mean to say it but I do. ‘Don’t go.’
He nuzzles his heavy head against my chest as if he truly were one of my father’s dogs, almost knocking me over. Cautiously, I brush the fine, soft hair above his eyes with my fingers and he closes his eyes. Encouraged, I scratch the tufted fur behind his ears. He settles down beside me. I groom him as well as I can, using my nails and freeing the small twigs and dried pine needles that have caught there. I pat his strong back and he acknowledges me with a flick of his tail. I sleep, breathing in the stale scent of his breath, matching my own breath to his rhythm, and I sleep well.
It is some time after dawn when I finally awake to find myself staring into the clear grey eyes of Morcant the man. His hair is plastered damply to his head. He is filthy and naked and the skin of his neck and bare shoulders is tinged with blue. He is shivering. Has he been waiting for me to wake up?
Grudgingly, I unwrap my cloak from my own shoulders and throw it at him. It is raining again, a relentless chill drizzle that soaks through even the thickest wool.
‘You were right,’ he says through chattering teeth, ‘it’s just like you said. I’m a shape-changer.’ I nod and bank up the fire to warm him. Without the cloak I am shivering too. Cassie’s garments were not designed for warmth.