Authors: N. M. Browne
Morcant looks at my coloured silks and scowls. ‘Why are you wearing that thing?’
‘I met someone I once knew. She helped me escape.’
I don’t want to explain. Now in the dawn light I can’t believe I let her force me into this stupid mission. I don’t care about Caratacus. Every time I close my eyes, I see things that are not there. Morcant bleeding, fire blazing, the Parisi pedlar burning from the inside. I move as if I’m balanced at the edge of a precipice, as if at any moment I could fall into a pit of endless visions. I feel as if my very soul is shaking.
I stretch out my hands in front of me – they tremble like an old woman’s. It is perhaps as well I have no spear for I’m not confident that I could throw it straight.
There are some things in the bottom of the cart – a sack of spare clothes, an end of cheese, as well as the Parisi’s wares.
I hand the sack of clothes to Morcant who wrinkles his nose. ‘It smells of the Parisi.’
‘It’s that or freeze,’ I say. I want my cloak back. He makes the sensible choice and dresses while I rummage through the pedlar’s assortment of metal goods. They are so poorly made that almost all of them have rough, unfinished edges – anyone wearing one of his torques would have nicked the skin of their neck in no time. It is a wonder that he did any business. I can’t find anything else that belonged to my people, the family and friends slaughtered in battle at Ragan’s Field. He was there all right. He told me that much when I had a knife in his guts, but there is nothing in all these trinkets worth keeping.
Morcant looks different in the Parisi’s spare clothes. There’s one thing for sure: no one would believe him to be a Roman any more. I half expect to see tribal tattoos snaking up his arms, but his arms are bare, almost hairless, with only the small wolf mark to show his loyalties. He sees me looking at it and laughs. ‘It couldn’t fit me better, could it?’
He rubs his stubbled chin with a grubby finger. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t believe you – before. I don’t know, but this . . . thing only happened to me when I was a child and I thought it was a dream. It’s never happened like this.’
Perhaps that’s true. I know he thinks I have something to do with his change. I can see the thought written plainly on his face, but he doesn’t say anything. The wolf is sleeping and this is Morcant’s gentle time. He helps me right the cart.
‘Trista. I can’t be like this.’
‘What do you mean?’ I say carefully.
‘I can’t be the beast. I can’t feel what he feels, live the wolf’s life. It’s all wrong . . .’ His voice is so quiet I have to lean towards him just to hear. He looks haunted, desperate.
I put my hand out as if to touch him and then pull it back.
‘But the things you can know as a wolf – the smells, the sounds. Isn’t that worth it all?’ I can’t forget the moment I touched Morcant and experienced the world through the nose and ears of the wolf. I don’t have the words to describe the sensations. Such insights would give a warrior such an advantage.
Morcant doesn’t feel the same way. He shakes his head.
‘You don’t know what it’s like! I’ve got no control. One moment I’m me, the next I am lost. I find myself in places and I can’t remember getting there or worse, I’m the beast and I think and feel and . . .’ he pauses, lowering his voice so that I strain to hear him, ‘and I act like a beast . . .’
This time it is he who reaches out to touch my hand. I know exactly what it’s like to have no control, to be lost. I’ve lived my whole life that way. Would I give up my seeress’s gifts if I could?
‘Morcant, you’re new to it. You get used to it.’
‘No, no.’ He shakes his head fiercely. ‘The druids know about such things, don’t they? They can cure me of this affliction, can’t they?’
‘I don’t know. Your ability is a gift of the gods. Even the druids do not set themselves against their will.’
‘Help me, Trista. Take me to the druids.’
He squeezes my hand and looks at me earnestly: something hard in me softens. No one has looked at me like this before.
‘You could go to the Sacred Isle, to Mona, but the druids there may choose not to help you.’ Who knows what druids will do? They are as hard to predict as the weather and as powerful.
Morcant is smiling at me as if I’ve promised to cure him myself, and I haven’t. I can’t go to Mona.
‘You’ll come with me?’
There is a look of almost puppyish enthusiasm on his face. I adjust my sword belt.
‘I can’t go to Mona.’
‘Why not? Maybe the druids could help you too?’
‘No, Morcant, they won’t. If you go, you’ll go alone.’ I don’t want to tell him about the blood debt or my promise. I don’t want to tell him that my father ran from Mona and still had nightmares about it years later. It is the centre of our religion and the only place I know where people might understand his plight. He lets go of my hand.
‘Where will you go?’
I don’t want to answer. I shrug and wipe my face. My hand comes away stained with colour. I had forgotten the paint that Cassie made me wear. I dampen the corner of my cloak in a puddle of rainwater and scrub away at my face with it.
‘You’ve missed a bit.’ Morcant uses his fingers to wipe the pigment from my face. ‘It makes your eyes look huge,’ he says, and I don’t know if that is a good thing or not.
I find it hard to pull my gaze away from his. He has an injured look, like a whipped hound, and I feel myself beginning to flush. He turns his attention to his fingers. I’ve never noticed how strange fingers are! They are so dextrous, so flexible, so sensitive. He touches my cheek with the tip of his forefinger. He brushes my skin so lightly I shiver. I don’t dislike the feeling.
‘I’d hoped you’d stay with me – the beauty and the beast!’ He laughs a little wildly as if some part of the beast remains with him even when the wolf is asleep. He doesn’t need to make fun of me.
‘We should go,’ I say. ‘We need food. Maybe there’s a village somewhere near? Unless you can hunt?’
He looks aghast at the suggestion. Perhaps it is because I was raised as a warrior and grew up with hounds that I admire what a wolf can do.
I kick mud over the fire and cover our tracks with a tree branch. I put on my mail and helmet to save the bother of carrying it. I know it looks ridiculous with my draped tunic and thin-soled lady’s sandals but the kit is easier to wear than it is to carry. Morcant looks at it enviously.
I leave the cart and the pedlar’s ill-made trinkets but I take the mule, holding his halter. He keeps well away from Morcant. As we walk, I tell Morcant an edited version of my rescue by Cassie, but I’m on edge. If I were a Roman, I wouldn’t let us escape.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘I think we’re being followed. It’s a pity the wolf is asleep – we could use his sharp senses.’ Given the way he feels about the wolf, I probably shouldn’t have said that. He tenses.
‘I don’t need the wolf!’
‘Shhh!’ I hiss at him. I can hear something – a snapped branch a way back, behind us. I’m sure of it. There it is again: the sound of someone moving. I glance back at Morcant to find him glaring angrily at me. His eyes are tinged with yellow. The wolf is back.
Morcant stops walking to listen. His shadow wolf cocks his ears, tilting his head, testing the air. Morcant the man does much the same. I am right. There is something there. I feel a familiar weakness and I pray to the god that cursed me with the gift of prophecy – keep my vision clear for a time at least.
The tree coverage is not dense here. The ground is uneven but essentially flat.
Morcant’s face looks grim. ‘They’re Roman. Any bright ideas?’ he murmurs. With the wolf awake his tone is sharper.
We are poorly armed and he hasn’t even a spear.‘We fight?’ I say.
‘There are eight, maybe ten, men?’
‘Then we die.’
‘And what’s the point of that?’
‘Warriors fight. It’s what we do.’
His yellow eyes are quizzical. ‘Wolves don’t fight battles they can’t win. They submit and bide their time.’
‘I’ll not surrender.’
‘Then we hide.’ He does not expect me to argue and I don’t, but I can’t say I like the idea. My blood is already pumping, ready for the fight. Morcant guides me into the thickest undergrowth which is still sparse. He ducks down into a half crouch, moving with an easy, loping grace. I feel awkward. I’m not good at stealth. I take off my helmet, pull my cloak over my mail and Morcant signals for me to cover my hair. He pulls me down on to the damp ground and I lie flattened in the grass. There are still patches of snow lingering. I don’t see how we can be missed.
I strain to hear the sound of approaching footsteps. They are closer and I can hear the chink of metal against metal, the low whisper of voices. We wait.
Chapter Seventeen
The men are no more that a couple of long strides away. I can see their clean-shaven cheeks, scent the residual oil from the baths on their skin, the old-wine stink of their breath and the rotten smell of their long-ago breakfasts. They are a scouting party, probably sent to track and pursue us, but I can tell by the way they are moving that they think their task pointless – another stupid army drill. We did a lot of them in the Ninth. Their talk is of women and home. They are not paying too much attention to their surroundings.
I think we’ll get away with it. I think they’ll pass us by. Then Trista’s stupid mule wanders into view – still wearing his halter. Mules do not stray into forests on their own and the men are instantly alert. It is not one of the many army animals; it does not bear the brand of the wolf. I watch the Decanus check carefully. It’s the Parisi pedlar’s beast and not only are the bridle and halter of native design, but they are bright with ribbons and jangle with all the Keltic charms attached to the harness for good luck. Mithras’ balls! Why didn’t we tie up the mule? The Decanus issues a terse command, but it’s barely necessary. The men shut up, straighten up and become soldiers. I can see them scanning the land with practised eyes, instantly ready for action. They remove their shields and arrange themselves into a better defensive formation. Stupid, pissing mule.
The men unsheathe their swords and start to fan out warily to look for the mule’s owners. Our hiding place will not bear careful scrutiny. They’ll find us and Trista will fight and then she’ll die because, in spite of her time as a slave, she doesn’t know how to submit. The stink of Rome is so strong I almost sneeze. I start to crawl backwards away from the men. I hear Trista gasp and whisper something, yanking at my cloak, but I’m not listening and the cloak comes away in her hand. She stifles a cry as I lose all that encumbers me. I try to do it silently. The sweaty wool of my tunic flops to the ground with barely a sound. I step out of it, keeping my body low. I slink forwards so that my belly almost scrapes the ground. I have to leave Trista behind.
I can smell deer nearby and I know that the thought of fresh venison will distract these men as nothing else could. Unfortunately it distracts me too. I picture myself biting into the succulent flesh of a doe and I find myself salivating. I have to think of something else, of my need to redirect these men so that Trista might get away. I haven’t much time. The men are shouting to each other, frightening away all the wild animals and the other, dark things of the forest that I try not to see. The Romans know exactly what they are doing. One of the men is walking in Trista’s direction. His eyes are fixed on the ground, his sword is out. I break cover and run.
Someone cries out, but my ears are back and I’m running so fast I know they won’t catch me.
All the men’s shouting has woken my mate. Her musk calls to me and I let her know that I’m here and needing her. She is still angry with me – I can see it in her stance – but she does what I ask and we two herd the deer back towards the Romans. The deer are skittish and reluctant to head where we want them to go, but they fear us more than they fear the men. One of them is lame and we might be able to take it down. I know the she-wolf is thinking the same thing. I have to concentrate on Trista, her special scent, her fighting spirit, her need for me, so that the painful emptiness in my belly does not distract me.
The she-wolf is fleet-footed. I have to work hard to match her. She has already isolated the weak doe, but the deer is too big for her to take down on her own. She needs me too and even the prospect of meat will not tempt her to go within sight and spear range of the men: she was hit once by a glancing spear-blow and will not risk it again.
I hesitate. I think we could take the doe, but these beasts can run and the chase might take us miles from this place. I have to go back to the place I left the female, I mean Trista, to be sure she is safe. I make a sound that is between a howl and a bark to tell the she-wolf that I’ll be back. I run beside the herd, still driving them with my powerful scent, but keeping my distance so that the Romans will see them before they spot me. I find what shadows I can and stay in them, trusting to the subtle shadings of my own pelt to keep me hidden in this place of winter greys and browns.
The herd is not large, but their hoofs are loud in the forest and I know that there is not a man in the army who doesn’t love a haunch of venison.
I see Trista at once, still cowering in the undergrowth. The shawl that should cover her head has fallen down so that her bright hair shines like a fiery beacon if you know where to look. One of the soldiers is so close that I think he must have spotted her. I drop to the ground watching. If he gets within a spear’s length, I will pounce.