by Alex Faure
They lay like that, unspeaking, as their breathing slowed. As he returned to himself, Darius didn’t feel the usual peace that suffused him after lovemaking. He felt instead a sense of shame. What he felt for Fionn couldn’t be denied—nor, it seemed, could it be done away with. Yet how could he feel this way for someone who had done what Fionn had? It wasn’t just about Rome—it was the shark-like ease with which Fionn had put his plans in motion, the ruthless intellect behind his fair Celtic features.
What are you? He gazed across the space between him and Fionn. The lantern had gone out, and the room was all shadow. The other man lay still against the bed, his pale hair a smudge, his face turned towards Darius but indistinguishable in the darkness.
Fionn, of course, could see Darius perfectly. He reached for Darius, and Darius pushed him away.
“Get out,” he said.
Fionn said nothing for a moment. “Why?”
“Why? Because I can’t bear to look at you. What you did—” Darius bit off the words. “Get out.”
“We both know you don’t want that.” Fionn rolled onto his side, tucking his hand beneath the pillow. “Why do you do this, Darius? Why do you deny what you feel for me?”
Darius felt like snatching the pillow away and suffocating him with it. “Your servants will discover us in the morning,” he said through gritted teeth. “Won’t they be disturbed to find their king in a Roman’s bed?”
“Mmm. Probably.” Fionn watched Darius with his reflective silver eyes.
“Gods.” Darius rose and threw open the door that connected their chambers. He couldn’t make out much of Fionn’s room in the darkness, but he saw against one wall an enormous bed laden with furs and cushions. He stalked back to his bed. Fionn let out a smothered cry as Darius scooped him up in his arms. He seemed too surprised to struggle as Darius marched into Fionn’s room.
Darius dropped the king of the Volundi, destroyer of Rome’s hopes for Hibernia, unceremoniously onto his bed, then marched back to his own chamber, slamming the door behind him. He lay down and waited, rage boiling inside him, along with other emotions he didn’t care to name.
Fionn didn’t return.
Chapter Ten
Darius awoke the next morning to a gentle knocking. He rose, pausing only to pull on his trousers, and opened the door. Two servants stood in the corridor, their heads bowed respectfully.
The woman motioned to the large pot of hot water carried by the man, and Darius nodded. They bustled in, lighting the fire in the hearth and throwing open the shutters. It was a clear morning, but the air held a chill characteristic of northern autumns. Darius had a moment of panic as he remembered the carelessness with which he and Fionn had discarded their clothing, but as he surveyed the room, he saw nothing of Fionn’s. His own clothes were in a pile beside his bed, as if he had dropped them there himself.
Fionn had been in the room that morning before Darius awakened. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that, but he was at least relieved that the man had some instinct for self-preservation after all.
The servants were joined by two others, who dragged out the large iron basin in the corner of Darius’s room and filled it with water that smelled of wildflowers. It was a vaguely familiar scent that Darius associated with the riverside cave where he’d spent so many days—the flower must have been in bloom at the time. The servants left food on the table—porridge, tea, and a wobbly yellow substance that turned out to be some sort of egg, possibly from a goose, only half cooked.
The servants bowed themselves out and Darius thanked them in their language. They seemed pleased by this.
He ate first, for his stomach was growling. Despite the delicacies on offer at the nochtefeast, Darius hadn’t eaten much, lacking much of an appetite. Now he ate every scrap, even the egg, which wasn’t bad at all, despite its bizarre method of preparation.
He bathed, scrubbing himself with a bar of hard soap. The servants had brought towels with them, and shown him that the carved wooden trunk in the corner of the room contained a variety of clothing items, from socks to tunics to a heavy wool coat, all of which were roughly in his size. Darius didn’t have to wonder if he was being housed in luxury by Celtic standards—he knew, having seen the village and how the Volundi lived.
After he’d bathed and eaten, he was at loose ends. In that sense, despite the wealth around him, his situation was little different from when he’d been under guard in the roundhouse. He itched for something to do, some purpose to fulfil. After years of soldiering, he was ill-equipped to deal with an absence of routine.
Darius drummed his fingers on the windowsill, absently surveying the village below, the lake painted with mountains. He reminded himself that he was here only temporarily. Once Agricola and Fionn concluded their negotiations, Darius would be sent back to the Roman forces in Britannia. And Fionn would be left with a tidy sum of gold to finance his coming war with the Robogdi.
Darius’s hand clenched on the sill. Fionn, he knew, still hoped that Darius would choose to stay. That was why he’d gone to all the trouble of making Darius his lanachai. Darius didn’t understand how Fionn could be so blind to human nature, that he would imagine Darius could countenance remaining with the Volundi after what Fionn had done. But given that Fionn’s own human nature was dubious at best, Darius supposed he shouldn’t be surprised.
Would he have stayed if his eyes hadn’t been opened last night? If Fionn hadn’t revealed himself as the brutal mastermind behind Rome’s defeat? Darius searched himself, and found he didn’t know. He’d never had any intention of staying. And yet the idea of never seeing Fionn again left him short of breath.
Darius cursed softly. He loved Fionn with a desperation that frightened him. It was a love that inhabited his body and soul. And yet, at the same time, he despised him more than he had ever despised another person. If Fionn was standing before him at that moment, Darius might have struck him.
How could one man be so utterly infuriating?
Darius forced himself to release the windowsill, which was cracking under his grip. His gaze fell upon the open-air banquet hall by the river where the village had feasted last night, which seemed to function as an informal village square. A number of men were assembled there, along with at least a dozen horses. And among them, he could just make out—unmistakeable to his eyes even at such a distance—the silvery flicker of Fionn’s hair.
His door opened, with no forewarning knock this time. He turned, surprised, and found himself face-to-face with a distorted mirror image of Fionn.
“Hello,” Brigit said in the forest tongue. Her gaze was amused as she surveyed him. “Lovers’ quarrel?”
Darius flushed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said stiffly.
“Don’t you?” If anything, her amusement seemed only to grow. She strode into Darius’s room as if it belonged to her, casting her gaze over bed and breakfast and clothing. “My brother is in a fearsome temper this morning. Something seems to have dampened his mood since the festivities last night. And there you stand, looking pale and peaky. Am I wrong? Are my powers of deduction failing me?” She regarded him with raised eyebrows and innocent blue eyes.
Darius was flummoxed. Dealing with Brigit was not exactly like dealing with Fionn, but their presence had a similar vibration. “Whether you are wrong or right is not my place to reveal,” he said finally.
She laughed. Then, to his increasing befuddlement, she clapped him on the shoulder, rather like Sedd was given to doing. “Don’t worry,” she said. “My brother never stays angry for long.”
Darius could only sputter. Brigit poured herself a cup of tea—using Darius’s mug—and settled on the edge of the bed. “Come, come. Tell me what happened.”
Darius stared at this brazen girl, gazing up at him expectantly. Something he didn’t fully understand compelled him to say, “He told me what he did.”
“Ah.” She sipped the tea. “And you didn’t take it well, I gather?”
Darius
sat warily in the chair across from the bed. “Would you take it well, if someone told you he was the cause of your people’s destruction?”
“But Rome hasn’t been destroyed,” she said almost idly, her expression thoughtful. “Your empire towers over the rest of the world, and will continue to do so whether or not it has Araiah. We’re nothing to your emperor.”
She said it simply and without rancor. Darius felt his face heat again under her cold gaze. “My men have been humiliated. I don’t know what your people believe in this regard, but where I am from a man has a right to die with dignity.”
“They were humiliated,” she agreed. “And I suppose you see yourself as enduring the greatest humiliation, don’t you? Commander Lucilius.” She said it slowly. “You were in charge of the campaign here. And Fionn beat you. Fionn, a lowly barbarian prince.”
“He—I—” Darius stopped. He felt off balance. “Agricola was in charge of the campaign.”
“Agricola isn’t here,” she said. “Has he ever set foot on Araiah? No? You were in charge of that mighty fort. You were Agricola’s right hand. You were the one who could have stopped the destruction of your forces, who could have seen through Fionn’s designs and put in place a mechanism to stop him.”
She leaned forward. Her voice continued, relentless. “You think your men died because of your mistakes. And it’s worse than that, isn’t it? The man responsible for their deaths was right under your nose. He was in your bed. You had any number of chances to kill Fionn, and you never took them. If you had done so, thrust your dagger into his back one night in that cave after you made love to him, your men might still be alive. Rome might still have its foothold in Araiah. And no one—not the emperor, not Agricola—would know the depths to which Rome has been reduced on these shores, under your leadership.”
“Stop.” Darius’s voice was ragged. He felt like a leaf in a storm, a frail, battered husk. He gripped his knees as Brigit’s words rang through him.
To Darius’s shock, he felt the brush of Brigit’s hand on his. It was like and unlike the touch Fionn had given him last night. It was not sexual, and yet there was a sense of kinship about it, of mutual understanding.
“Darius,” she said.
Darius met her eyes. They were so unlike Fionn’s. For a moment they just sat there, regarding each other.
“You could not have stopped my brother.” There was a finality about her tone. “My brother is unstoppable.”
“No man is unstoppable.”
She leaned back, raising an eyebrow. “You know him. Do you truly believe that?”
Darius didn’t reply. Brigit’s words were still reverberating through him like the painful aftereffects of drink. And yet with the pain came a strange sense of release. As if something, some private shame, perhaps, that had burrowed deep inside him had been excised.
“Have you ever lost before?” Her expression held no malice, only curiosity.
He let out a long sigh, lowering his head onto his hand. “Not in any way that matters.”
She nodded. “No wonder you rose so high in life.”
He gave her a weary, wry look that made her smile. “You think I laugh at you,” she said. “But you have to understand that while Rome is your world, a pleasant lake in which you may comfortably swim, to us it is like the stars above—unknowably vast, filled with mystery and danger. And you are one of the brightest of those stars, you and that mighty general who favours you so. You have seen the world, subdued lands we are not capable of conceiving. Fionn will never admit it, but he is impressed by you.”
“He hides it well,” Darius said dryly.
Brigit smiled. “Would you expect anything less of him?”
He gave her a long, frank look. “You baffle me.”
“Thank you,” she said with a warm laugh that Darius could help echoing. “It’s every woman’s desire to be mysterious, Darius Lucilius. Or are Roman women another species entirely?”
He smiled. “You have your separate charms, but in this, I will admit that you are alike.”
She returned the smile. “Now, come. You will wish to speak with my brother before he leaves.”
She stood, and Darius followed her out the door. “He’s leaving?”
“He will be absent only a few days. He is to visit our largest villages and gather our warriors. We suspect the Robogdi are readying to attack in force.”
“What have your scouts told you?”
“Scouts?” She gave him a blank look. “We don’t need scouts to tell us their intentions. You were there when they attacked our king.”
Darius bit his tongue. Tactically, it would have made far more sense for the Volundi to ascertain the Robogdi’s movements before they began assembling warriors anywhere. He found himself surprised that Fionn, with his gift for strategy, hadn’t considered this. Yet Darius had often observed that the Celts in general gave greater thought to offense than they did to defense. It was one of the reasons why the Britannian tribes had been so frequently at war before Rome subdued them; they could conquer territory, but not hold it. He supposed it was possible that Fionn had similar blind spots. Even the cleverest of minds could not wholly escape their upbringing.
Brigit was watching him with a sly look. They had left the palace behind, and were on the winding track down the mountain. “If you have a suggestion, I’m sure my brother will be happy to hear it.”
Darius didn’t reply. Several Celts were now within earshot, stepping out of roundhouses built into the lower slope of the mountain, and he didn’t think it wise to continue conversing in the forest tongue.
Brigit seemed to be of the same mind. She greeted each person she passed with warmth, and they responded in kind. Darius, watching her easy social graces, wondered if there were any among the Volundi who wished it was her, and not Fionn, at the helm of their tribe. As much as Fionn seemed to inspire loyalty among his people, it did not strike Darius as a loyalty built upon warm feelings, but awe and intimidation. And Fionn, by his own admission, had no love for the company of others.
Brigit led Fionn to the village stables, which were set back from the lake among the rolling hills to the south. There stood Fionn, along with Kealan, Sedd, and a handful of other warriors. Sedd greeted Darius warmly. Fionn only gave him a brief, unreadable look, and turned back to his conversation with one of the stablekeepers.
Brigit motioned to Kealan. The man obeyed, though he cast Darius an irritated look. Darius had wondered if perhaps the previous night, as well as Darius’s designation as the lanachai, might have melted some of Kealan’s frigidity towards him, but it seemed that Kealan was the sort of man who nursed his grudges with tender care.
Brigit spoke to Kealan in rapid Hibernian. He nodded and went to speak to Fionn. Darius guessed that Brigit had summoned him, though Fionn took his time in complying. Finally he gave his final instructions to Sedd and the stablekeeper, and made his way with Kealan to where Brigit and Darius stood out of earshot of the others.
Fionn was the picture of Celtic kingship in his wolfskin cloak and severe expression. Beneath the cloak was some sort of heavy leather garment that would ward off arrows. That was about all it would be good for, and Darius found himself wishing that the Celts were evolved enough to produce chain mail of the kind standard throughout the Roman army. Fionn didn’t even wear greaves, nor a helmet, nor anything to protect his neck. For a leader at war to ride afield dressed thusly was beyond Darius’s comprehension, though he knew that foolhardy bravado was common among Celts.
Brigit spoke to Fionn, then motioned to Kealan. He said to Darius in Latin, “The princess suggests that the king inform you of his plans regarding the Robogdi.”
Fionn regarded Darius with barely suppressed coldness. Two blemishes had formed on his forehead overnight, marring his milky skin. This made Darius unaccountably pleased. Perhaps it was because he liked seeing a sign that human blood ran in Fionn’s veins. Or perhaps he was simply in a mood to be pleased at any ill luck Fionn experienced, incons
equential as it was.
Fionn spoke to Kealan. Darius wondered if he would ever grow accustomed to hearing Fionn speak the Celtic language. It had more poetry in it, somehow, than when Kealan spoke, and Darius found himself grasping for understanding. He had listened to enough direct translations by now to understand a few words: warrior; nights; travel. He made a note to update the Hibernian dictionary he was compiling, then he wondered what he was doing. He was leaving soon, wasn’t he? He had no need to make any serious attempt at learning Hibernian.
“The king says they ride to the neighbouring villages to assemble their warriors,” Kealan said. “They bring them back to Glenvaneach. They send messengers to distant villagers with the same message.”
Darius didn’t bother with any respectful preamble. “Am I to accompany you on this mission?”
Fionn raised his eyebrows when Kealan translated that, and gave a short reply. “Do you wish to accompany him?” Kealan said.
Darius frowned. “I am your lanachai, am I not? Is it not your custom to keep me close to you? Until I am ransomed to Agricola, I understood I was to be at your side.”
For some reason, Fionn’s expression darkened when Kealan translated that. Brigit said something to Fionn in a low voice. She beckoned him away from Darius and Kealan and they spoke for several minutes, rapidly and quietly. At the end of the exchange, Fionn dismissed Brigit, motioning her to the stables. She left, casting a troubled look in Darius’s direction.
Darius had no idea what that was all about, though he didn’t much like the glint of cold satisfaction in Fionn’s eyes when he returned to their side. He could see quite clearly that Fionn’s malicious streak was firmly in control that morning, and he braced himself with an inward groan for whatever storm was approaching.
“What is it?” he said, his own temper rising even as he tried to clamp it down. “Am I to play servant to you or something? Or is it that the lanachai’s traditional mode of transport is on the back of a pony?”
