Authors: N. M. Browne
This time no one dies. I see only the face I’ve seen since I was a child. He is handsome as ever, naked and in chains. When I was little, before I was betrothed to Gwyn, I thought he was to be my husband. Now I don’t know what to think. The man in my visions is older – twenty at least and built like a warrior. His dark eyes seem to bore into my soul. I shiver. My visions are rarely useful. They did not warn me that everyone I loved would die or that I would be enslaved. They show only pictures of places I’ve never been, men I’ve never seen and wolves. I’ve had too many visions of wolves. If I could be rid of my foreseeing, I would. Each episode leaves me shaking and disoriented. I melt some snow in my hands to quench my inevitable thirst. I’ve been sweating under my clothes and now my sweat will begin to cool and if I don’t move, I’ll die here of the cold. It would be a gentler death than many.
I struggle to my feet. The vision of the bright enemy was useful. I must act on that and flee this place. I brush myself down, check my sword and start to walk. I have twisted my ankle but it isn’t serious and the pain sharpens my mind. It would be too easy to lie down in all this soft feathery whiteness, lie down and never wake. Perhaps the gods have spared me for a reason; I want to know what that might be.
Chapter Two
‘Get the fire going!’ I do what I can to obey. These are the first words Lucius has spoken since the fight yesterday. He hasn’t even called me ‘a half-breed Keltic bastard’. I didn’t think I’d miss that.
It wasn’t my fault the Kelts attacked. It definitely wasn’t my fault that the fat chieftain sliced through Julius’ arm. Yes, I was slow drawing my sword but that was shock not cowardice. I’d like to explain, but that isn’t how it works, not among soldiers.
Maybe Lucius has got us lost on purpose. He’s a dirty, ill-tempered runt but a good scout. Here in this wood anything could happen to a callow new recruit and no questions would be asked of a veteran with a solid reputation. I check my short sword and my knife. I don’t think I could take Lucius even in a fair fight and he’s not known for fair fights.
The snow is deep here and it isn’t easy to find wood that will burn. I find a suitable spot and unload my gear. It’s a relief to take off my pack. We had to let the others take the mule back to camp so we’ve had to carry everything we need. Without my kit I feel so light I could float. The snow has soaked through my scarf and cold water trickles down my back. At least my tinderbox is dry. I clear the snow from a flat patch of ground and use my axe to cut some branches, shaking away the snow. I hate these woods. My neck prickles as if we’re observed. Ancient forests can be home to all kind of dangers, threats to the body and to the soul. This time I’ll be ready. I’m not a coward.
The feeling of being watched grows as I build a fire and edge it with the few stones I can uncover in this bleached wilderness. It is worse now the wind has dropped and the snow no longer falls. The darkness is settling around us like soot on the snow and the silence and stillness lift the hairs on the nape of my neck. Somewhere a lone wolf howls and I shiver. My mother would say that someone walked on my grave, but she was an Armorican Kelt and steeped in superstition.
I fiddle around with tinder and flint but can’t raise a spark. My hands are shaking with the cold and with this terrible sense that something bad is about to happen.
It is there when I look up. It can only be a wraith, a ghost creature – tall, white and hooded, staring at me with hollow eyes. I cry out, but it sounds more like a pig’s squeal than a man’s voice and Lucius turns to me, startled. Even in the twilight I can see his lip curl in contempt.
I reach for my sword, but I know it will do no good against one of the shadow creatures of the deep forest. Lucius sees the creature and his reaction is swift and brutal. In three long strides his sword is against the creature’s throat. Before he slices through it, the creature speaks. ‘Please, I mean no harm.’ The voice is low and unsteady and it speaks the language of the tribes. I didn’t know that such dead things could speak in any tongue. Then the thing falls to the ground as if it were some mortal creature. It lands with a heavy thud on the snow as if it were flesh and blood. As I step closer I can smell the animal stink of the byre and the scent of woodsmoke mixed with the damp wool of its cloak.
‘It’s a man!’
‘What else did you expect, you gelded son of a pox-ridden whore?’
‘Don’t kill him!’
‘He’s Keltic scum like you – what else should I do?’
The man’s eyes flutter and open. His mouth works and then he speaks again.
‘Please . . .’
‘He might have information.’ It is the first thing that comes into my head, but we do need intelligence about the Keltic rebel leader Caratacus in particular and it is enough to make Lucius hesitate.
‘Disarm him and tie him up. Then we’ll see,’ Lucius says.
I have rope in my pack. I fetch it, almost tripping over my sword in my haste. Under Lucius’ unforgiving gaze I haul the man roughly to his feet. We stand eye to eye and I’m the tallest in the legion. The darkness shadows his face but something about his presence bothers me. ‘Do you have a weapon?’
He raises his arms so that his cloak falls back and even in the dusk I can see the scabs over a slave brand. I pat him down. He wears a sword belt that is very fine and obviously stolen. I don’t think his bulky shawl hides another weapon, but I have been told to be thorough in all my duties as a soldier. I slide my hands under the cloak to check that he doesn’t carry a hidden knife. I don’t find another weapon, but I find myself blushing.
‘I mean no harm.’ The low voice is sullen now. Not a wraith then but a thief, and more – a woman. I don’t need to share that information with Lucius. I wouldn’t trust him with a woman. I take the sword and on impulse fasten the sword belt around my own waist. The blade sits more comfortably against my hip than the short Roman gladius I carry.
‘What do you think you’re doing with that, you little bastard Brit? I’ll have the spoils,’ Lucius says, his harsh soldier’s Latin an offence against the gods of this place.
‘Of course,’ I say hastily, ‘I’m just wearing it while I tie him up.’
Lucius snorts but leaves me to it, busying himself with sorting through his pack.
‘Before you tie me, let me help light your fire.’ She speaks in little more than a whisper. It’s cold and the wood is wet. ‘There is a trick I know that will save you time.’ Did she see me fail before? ‘It will only take a moment.’ I believe her. Besides, I have the sword and, while I’m not the best of fighters, I couldn’t be bested by a woman. I place myself between her and Lucius’ line of sight. I have my gladius out and I will stab her if she makes a threatening move. She squats by the fire, as all tribespeople do. As I do. She waves away my offer of my tinderbox and does something with her hands that I can’t see. The light is fading fast. She didn’t lie – in moments the fire catches and the damp wood begins to burn. It is quite a trick.
When she stands up, she holds out her hands for me to tie them. Now I know she is a woman it is impossible to see her as anything else. The face the firelight shows is young and gaunt but not unattractive. Her wrists are bony.
I let her sit by the fire and her shawl slips from her head to reveal raggedly cut hair the colour of Keltic gold.
‘I am Morcant,’ I say, ‘and my comrade is Lucius.’
‘He is not your master?’
‘No. We are both soldiers of Legio IX.’
She doesn’t look as though she believes me, though she nods politely. My mother always said that it is not wise to give away your name, but I’m Roman now and have no truck with such views. The woman shares my mother’s opinion: she does not give her name.
I unpack the rest of my kit, finding my cook pot and food. It’s just travelling rations – bread, cheese and beans to cook up, but she can’t hide the hunger in her eyes as she watches me.
I give her some bread and she nibbles it, as if to make it last.
‘When did you last eat?’
She shrugs. ‘I’ve been walking since before dawn – I ate some broth yesterday.’ Lucius turns and sees me give the woman a piece of cheese. She needs it more than I do.
‘Mithras’ balls – what are you doing wasting rations on Brit shit?’ He tries to grab the bread from the woman’s hand and then when his hand touches hers he snatches his back as if stung.
‘What the . . .’
‘Tell him not to be afraid. I’m a seeress, that is all, and our touch can bring on a sharing.’ I don’t know what she means. The druid of my mother’s people never mentioned such a thing, but then he was old and ignorant as muck. Lucius is looking murderous. Before I can translate her words she speaks again.
‘Tell him I can see his wife with a dark-haired baby at her breast. She is sick, dying I think, but the baby is strong as is the little boy who stands by her bed. The boy will live.’
I don’t want to translate this but I do. I don’t sheathe my gladius though, just in case Lucius tries to kill her. I am a soldier of Rome now and of course I will do my duty, but I won’t let Lucius kill an unarmed woman at any hearth of mine.
Lucius turns silent when I translate her words. He stares at the fire as if lost. I think it might be all right and then he roars, ‘No! You lying piece of Keltic scum.’ His sword is out and he is about to gut her with it. His response is not unexpected, but mine is. I drop my shoulder and tackle him, which is stupid. Luckily, he is so surprised he doesn’t slice me as he ought to do. He lands hard on the snow with me on top of him. He is a veteran though, and he doesn’t let go of his gladius. I get to my feet in a flurry of snow. He is winded, which gives me time to plant myself in front of the woman as if to protect her. She’s nothing to me, but I don’t trust Lucius to stop at killing her. I’ll be next.
‘What by Mithras’ cock are you doing?’ He is gasping for air.
‘We haven’t questioned him yet. You know we had orders to question any captured natives about Caratacus.’ I let Lucius get to his feet, which is a mistake because he’s coming for me now. The woman is standing too, a looming presence behind me. She takes advantage of my confusion to wrest the longsword from my belt. She is quick as a snake or a warrior. Now I’m caught between the two of them. It happens quickly. Lucius charges me and I am too slow to use my gladius. Instead, on instinct, I put out my foot. It is a cheap trick that should not have worked on an old and canny veteran, but it does. Lucius trips and falls headlong into the fire. It was such a small blaze his bulk should have extinguished it with little damage; instead, from nowhere huge flames leap, wild and out of control. He screams and the fire consumes him. It is too hot for me to try to save him. The heat burns my face and singes my eyebrows. The woman cries out and both of us step back from the inferno – we have no choice. The smell is terrible. Lucius’ cry is like nothing I’ve ever heard. It is swiftly over and then the fire shrinks back almost to nothing and Lucius is a charred and blackened corpse.
I am trembling and I stammer when I finally manage to speak.
‘W-what in Lugh’s name h-h-happened?’
‘You killed him.’ The woman’s tone is accusing but her voice quavers too. She seems as shaken as I am.
‘Not me. You killed him with your fire.’
She shakes her head. We are both bearing unsheathed weapons. She holds the longsword like a warrior; I hold my gladius like a fool. I’m not about to kill her; I don’t know if she plans on killing me.
‘How did you do it?’
She shakes her head. ‘I didn’t.
You
tripped him!’ She sounds scornful and then adds more softly, ‘Perhaps the gods of this place do not like foreigners.’ We both look around. The wood beyond the glow of the killing fire is dark and sinister.
I unbuckle her sword belt clumsily and hand it back to her. Keltic women are not like Romans. I know that, in spite of the slave brand, she is of the warrior caste. I was wrong before – I could be bested by such a woman. She only hesitates for a moment before taking the belt. She watches me and sheathes her sword as I put away my gladius. The tension between us eases a little.
‘Do you often kill your own in your Legio IX?’ She pronounces the foreign words awkwardly, but that does nothing to dull the sharpness of her words. What small control I had of this situation is slipping away. I didn’t kill Lucius. It was an accident, that is all. I imagine explaining that to our Decanus, Marcellus, and then up the chain of command to our Praefectus Castrorum – a grizzled veteran of uncertain temper who served with Lucius in Gaul. I can see my father’s dream of my glorious army career turn to ash along with Lucius’ corpse. It is never going to happen now. I don’t think I dare return to our fort, even assuming I could find my way. Julius thinks I let him down in our earlier encounter with the Kelts and how can I account for Lucius’ death? I speak the tribal tongues – maybe I could disguise myself as a local Kelt and make my way to my mother’s people in Armorica? All this passes through my head in the space between the woman’s pointed question and my response.
‘I didn’t kill him and it’s not my Legio IX,’ I say and I know that I’m not going back.
Smoke is still rising from Lucius’ body.
‘I have to bury him,’ I say.
‘The ground is frozen solid, you’d be better building a cairn.’ She’s right of course, but I get out my spade anyway and then I hear the wolves howl.