The Forest King

by Alex Faure

“He knows you are the leader of the Romans here. He thinks you may fetch a price from Agricola. An important man like you.” Kealan’s voice held a sneer.

  So that was the reason Fionn had given his people for marking Darius out. “And how is it that he knows who I am?”

  “We know more about you Romans than you think,” Kealan said with a smirk. “Don’t you understand? We buy your translator’s loyalty long ago. He sends us regular reports about your leaders, your weaponry, your incursions into our lands.”

  It was no more than Darius had suspected, but still it came as a blow. “Alaine. Then he was also the one to set fire to our ship.”

  Kealan grinned, leaning back in his chair. “You work that out, do you? Yes, of course. Before it sinks, a group of our warriors sneak aboard and steal what weaponry we can. Most of the Romans already abandon ship and swim for shore. Not that many of them make it. We also make sure of that.”

  Darius reminded himself that this was not news, not really. He had known the Volundi had a diabolical knack for plotting. He knew about the loss of the Minerva. Still, it was a moment before he could speak. “King Fionn—I mean, Fionnwyn—seems young for leadership. I understand that the old king, his father, was recently killed.”

  “Six nights ago. Yes. A Roman shoots him with an arrow as he rides home after doing business with the Robogdi.”

  Darius did a quick calculation. King Odran had died shortly after Darius and Fionn had parted ways. Fionn would have been thrust into leadership soon after he returned home. What would he have felt, to be suddenly responsible for leading his people to war, and against an enemy he had lain with? Did he mourn his father? Darius couldn’t guess how an ordinary man would have felt, let alone an otherworldly creature like Fionn.

  “Our king may be young, but he is a great leader,” Kealan said. “He’s strong. Stronger than any Roman dog. He could cut down a dozen of you without pausing for breath.”

  Yes, and I’m sure that means he could also lead your people through a famine, or negotiate trade agreements, Darius thought, but wisely didn’t say. In reality, he had no idea about Fionn’s leadership skills. But he did know—in part from his own history—that youth and wisdom rarely coincided. He wasn’t surprised these Celts would consider Fionn’s prowess as a warrior enough to recommend him to kingship.

  “And how long am I to be kept here?” Darius said.

  “Until the king tires of you. Or your general pays us your weight in gold, and several times your weight in slaves,” Kealan said. “You think he will? The king wishes to know.”

  “I couldn’t say,” Darius said neutrally. He was in fact fairly certain that Agricola would pay to secure his release, if he learned Darius lived—he had done so in the past with commanders he was less fond of, and even lowly soldiers. It was not about sentiment. It was good for morale if the men knew their commander valued their lives. But Darius wasn’t about to beg to be ransomed; such a thing was beneath the dignity of a soldier of Rome.

  “We will see,” Kealan said with a scowl. He looked disappointed that Darius hadn’t proven Kealan’s low opinion of him by pleading.

  “What about the other men?” Darius said. “Will Fionn attempt to ransom them as well?”

  “The king has no interest in Roman worms,” Kealan said. “They will not fetch a price worthy of their keep. They are already given to the Robogdi. It is part of our agreement with them—they take all our captives.”

  “The Robogdi?” Darius said, horrified. “But they’ll kill them.”

  “I do not know that. They may choose a few of the tractable ones to keep as slaves.”

  Darius drew a steadying breath. “I misspoke before. Agricola frequently pays ransom for Roman captives—you have lived in Britannia, you know this. Should you retrieve the Roman captives from the Robogdi, he will reward you. Surely you see that there is nothing to be gained from allowing them to be killed.”

  “Do you not listen? They belong to the Robogdi. This is our agreement with them. Perhaps they will ransom them to your general.”

  Darius now knew that he had to escape as soon as possible. He had to rescue the Roman captives before the Robogdi killed them. And yet how was he to do that? He wasn’t even confident in his ability to find his way back to any of the ruined forts, let alone locate a Robogdi village.

  He thought of the men who had been dragged to this village with him—brave servants of Rome to a one, stoic and reasonable. They had not despaired, nor had they shown any undue weakness. And those men, those symbols of Roman greatness, were at the mercy of the most vicious barbarians Darius had encountered? He felt ill.

  Kealan was rising. “I go now. I send the doctor. If you have needs, you are to mention my name to the guard, and he will fetch me.” He paused. “The king tells me to say this.”

  “Yes, of course,” Darius said. “Thank you.”

  It was automatic. He meant little by the words other than to conclude their meeting. But the Celt’s face darkened, and he took a step towards Darius.

  “You do not thank me,” he spat. “You Romans come here, you kill hundreds of us, you try to claim our lands. You give power to Darini snakes and set us against each other. I give you nothing out of respect. Only because I love my king.” And with that, he was gone.

  Darius felt a small measure of relief at being free from the unpleasant man’s presence, though it seemed they were going to see a lot of each other in the coming days. Kealan was likely the only Latin translator in Hibernia save for the traitor, Alaine.

  Though Darius didn’t relish the prospect, he knew he would have to work on the man if he wanted to make his captivity bearable. Kealan’s hatred had seemed implacable, but Darius had faced down such hatred before, and won men over to his side, even made friends out of them. The prospect of doing so with Kealan was wearying, though.

  The rest of the day stretched on in tedium. Darius’s door was guarded at all hours, and he was visited by businesslike Celts who brought him food and emptied his chamberpot. The healer visited him later that morning—she was large and broad, with gentle hands. She cleaned the wound on his head, packed it with the same moss Fionn had used on his leg, and bustled out without a backwards glance at him. Darius wondered if cool efficiency was bred into the Volundi’s blood.

  Sometime later that day, Darius decided to test the limits of his captors’ tolerance. He knew the most difficult part of imprisonment was being left alone with your thoughts, and he’d had enough of ruminating over Fionn’s intentions, the collapse of the Roman position, and his own mistakes and misfortunes for one day. For a lifetime. He stepped outside, ignoring the guard’s jerk of surprise, and asked if he could go for a walk.

  After staring at him suspiciously for a moment with his hand on his dagger, the guard sent another Celt to fetch Kealan. Darius explained his request calmly, making clear that he expected to be escorted and that he didn’t wish to go far. Kealan heard him out, and then laughed in his face.

  “You think you can escape,” he said, still grinning maliciously. “I would like to see that. You would last one hour in the forests around here, Roman. I wonder how the wolves will like the taste of Roman blood.”

  “I don’t intend to give them the opportunity to expand their palates,” Darius said, noting irritably how Kealan’s words echoed something Fionn had once said. “I only—”

  “Unfortunately, Roman,” Kealan said. “The king does not give me the authority to allow you to kill yourself. Perhaps one day. I will watch.”

  Darius spent the rest of the evening in the roundhouse, watching the square of light from the window move about the room. The following morning, he was visited by Kealan again, scowling so deeply it looked painful.

  “Today, we walk,” he said. “Follow me.”

  So Darius, accompanied by Kealan and two of the largest Celts Darius had ever seen, was marched through the village. Kealan maintained his impressive scowl most of the way, while the other two Celts had an air of amused disdain, as if t
hey were indulging a charming but wayward child. Darius had the powerful impression that the child was not himself.

  He found that he was almost able to forget the guards’ presence. The village was a surprisingly pleasant place, even beautiful in its savage way. Roundhouses were arranged along the shore of the lake, which was cupped by the forbidding mountains, some trailing scraps of cloud. Piers jutted out into the water from which men were fishing, and there were also coracles drifting farther out, trailed by long nets. Behind the village, the mountain sloped sharply, dotted with more roundhouses and grazing animals. A small distance up the slope, with a commanding view of the village, was a large roundhouse complex that Darius guessed belonged to the king and his family.

  The green grasses waved, and the late summer sun was warm on Darius’s face. The wind carried the smell of snow from the highest peaks, a reminder that in this savage place, winter was never entirely vanquished. The Celts that he passed stared at him, some with hostility, others with a gloating sort of curiosity that was worse, in its way. But many seemed little interested in his presence, and Darius found himself wondering again at the nature of these people. Were they so used to victory at war that the sight of a foreign hostage was nothing out of the common way? There was an air of timelessness about the village, as if it had stood there for generations, reasonably prosperous and untouched by serious hardship.

  “What changed your mind?” Darius said to Kealan conversationally. “I thought you assumed I intended to feed myself to the wolves.”

  “My mind is not changed,” Kealan snapped, and Darius realized that Kealan, once again, was simply following orders. So, Fionn had found out about his request, and had ordered Kealan to do as Darius asked.

  Darius felt a pang, painfully strong. He had not seen Fionn since that brief moment when he first arrived in the village. And of course, it was unlikely that he would: Fionn was the leader of these people, and would have business that took him to the edges of his territory and beyond. Who knew what he and the Robogdi king were planning in the aftermath of Rome’s defeat? Perhaps they were in negotiations to continue their alliance. Whatever Fionn was up to, Darius would have no part in it. Nor, as a prisoner, could he expect a king to pay him the slightest attention.

  At the edge of the village, Darius found a row of smaller roundhouses that seemed in poor repair. Was this what passed for a slum in Hibernia? Several women stood outside one of the houses, smoking meat over a fire. Two naked children chased each other in circles, their skin pale as cloud apart from the places where it was sun-reddened.

  If it was a slum, it wasn’t much of one. Though the houses were not as fine as those closer to the village’s centre, none of them were actively falling apart. Darius stopped to watch several men and a broad-shouldered woman as they layered stones on top of each other. They seemed to be building a new roundhouse, though the progress was slow. The sun was hot and most of the men were not young. One nursed a bad limp.

  Darius stepped forward with a carefully bland smile. “May I assist?” He mimed his intentions.

  The labourers stared at him.

  “You may not,” Kealan said. “We do not need help from Roman dogs.”

  “Perhaps you don’t,” Darius replied mildly. “But you don’t speak for everyone in the village, my friend.”

  Kealan sputtered. Darius picked up an armful of the flat stones and hauled them to where a man sat with a pot full of some sort of primitive clay. He was old, with wiry grey hair, and leaned away from Darius. He relaxed as Darius simply set the stones down with another friendly smile.

  “I’ve nothing else to do,” Darius said, making a show of a relaxed shrug.

  The man seemed to guess his meaning. He let out a short laugh and yelled something at the other men. They watched Darius with narrowed eyes but did not attempt to stop him as he lifted another armful of stones.

  Darius worked steadily, shifting the stones from the base of the mountain to the old man’s side. One of the other men took a seat in the shade next to the old man and called out what sounded like cheerful insults to Darius as he worked. Darius replied with equally good-natured comments on the man’s indolence. His guards took it in stride, settling themselves in the shade and offering occasional assistance. Kealan simply stood and glowered.

  It was taxing work, but Darius was glad to do it. It felt good to work his body, to lose himself in the simplicity of physical labour. He worked for an hour or two, then stopped beside the old man and mimed helping him with the construction.

  The old man gave him another cheerful insult and waved his hand. He had grey eyes like Fionn, though not as bright, and a mouth full of missing teeth. He showed Darius how to place the first few stones, spreading the clay evenly across the bottom, and then Darius took over. The old man snorted and went back to his conversation. A woman brought him a glass of water and then hesitated, darting a glance at Darius.

  The old man jabbered something at her and she handed Darius a drink, too. He accepted gladly, using the Britannian for thank you. This was well-received. The old man slapped Darius on the shoulder and then spent the next few minutes correcting his pronunciation. The Hibernian thank you was essentially the same phrase with a lilt and a slightly different emphasis. Darius repeated it good-naturedly until the old man clapped him on the shoulder again. He crowed loudly to the onlookers while gesturing at Darius, as if at a dog that had learned a new trick.

  Darius didn’t mind. When the sun began its slow descent, he stopped his work and rose to his feet. He shook hands with the old man, who roared with laughter at the gesture and gave Darius another clap on the shoulder. He wondered if he’d have a bruise tomorrow.

  As he left, brushing the sweat from his brow, he drew a smile from the woman who had brought him the drink. She had the old man’s grey eyes and square face. From her age, Darius guessed her to be his daughter.

  He ignored both Kealan’s glower and the mild puzzlement of his guards. He removed his shirt and headed downhill towards the lake gleaming in the sunlight.

  “What are you doing?” Kealan called.

  Darius ignored him. He had noticed that, apart from the constant stream of insults and threats, Kealan didn’t seem to have the authority to mistreat Darius, or to forcefully prevent him from doing what he wished to do, short of attempting to escape. Nor did he seem the sort of man who would wilfully disobey commands.

  Darius crouched at the edge of the lake and trailed his fingers through the water. It was ice cold. Beautiful but inhospitable, like everything else in Hibernia. The mountains reflected in its surface were like knife points.

  Darius let out a long breath. He was covered in sweat and dirt, his muscles aching lightly from the exercise, and there was a recklessness in him born from the frustration of captivity. He dropped his tunic on the sand and drew off his boots.

  “What are you doing?” Kealan said again, his voice more shrill.

  Darius turned. “Would you care to join me? It might do you some good to get some colour into your skin. Though I suppose the fish may mistake you for one of them.”

  And he dove into the lake.

  Darius had swum in cold waters before—in Gaul; in Britannia; in the alpine lakes of Northern Italy. None compared to this. This was water so cold he felt himself momentarily frozen, like a fish in a winter stream. He surfaced with a gasp, every inch of skin electric with tingling. He laughed at the expression on Kealan’s face—if Darius had sprouted fins, he could not have looked more amazed. The other two Celts simply appeared puzzled. None of them made any effort to follow him.

  Darius swam out a few dozen yards, his blood singing in his veins. He regretfully turned back after that, knowing that he would be risking hypothermia if he stayed in any longer. He waded out, shaking the water from his hair. His body ached with cold, but it was a pleasant ache, and the hot sun now felt like a lover’s caress. A few villagers had gathered on the bank, including two very pretty women who looked to be around Fionn’s age. They were ey
eing him in a way he knew well.

  “Hello,” he said, flashing them a smile. Then he added in his broken Britannian, “Have I frozen to death? I seem to have found myself staring at two goddesses.”

  It was the best he could do, hampered by his limited vocabulary, and he had no idea if they understood him, but their reaction was immediate. One of the girls blushed. The other gave him a steady, heavy-lidded look that warmed his blood more than the sunlight. He found himself wishing that he had spent more time practicing his Britannian.

  Darius returned to his captors and put his clothes back on. Kealan was glaring at him. His two guards seemed to be suppressing smiles. Something had shifted in their estimation of Darius. They no longer made any attempt to hurry him as they walked back through the village, and it was left to Kealan to chivvy him whenever he paused to look at something.

  The third time this happened, Darius said, “I’m sorry, Kealan. Which of those two girls are you partial to?”

  The Celt sputtered. Darius added, “I can put in a good word for you, if you like. Or perhaps you would like me to teach you to swim? They seem to like that.”

  The Celt’s gaze was black. Darius suspected he would pay for all this at some point, but he found it difficult to care.

  “I could never be ‘partial’ to a woman who wishes to whore herself out to a Roman dog,” he spat.

  “I saw no whores among your women. But if they exist, I doubt they’ll be disappointed to hear that.” Darius’s voice was sharp. He had little regard for men who spoke disrespectfully of the gentler sex. All those women had done was make eyes at Darius—and Kealan would insult their honour for that?

  For the first time in days, some of the darkness had lifted, and Darius felt almost relaxed. The feeling was only partly due to the beauty of the women. It was mostly because, for a brief moment, Darius had felt like himself again—or a version of himself he thought he had forgotten. Not a captive. Not even a Roman soldier. Only Darius.

  Chapter Four