by N. M. Browne
Morcant is blue with cold when we reach the steep bank at the river’s other side. I can hear his teeth chattering as he hauls himself out. I wish I’d thought to strip the Chief of his fine, fur-lined cloak. I would have nothing of his, but there is no reason why Morcant couldn’t have benefited from our victory.
Morcant glares at me and I remember to look away as he wipes himself dry and dresses himself as quickly as he can in dry clothes from his pack. I hear the distinctive bark of Bric across the river and the Chief’s scream. I was wrong – he is still alive.
When Morcant is fully clothed, we head for the deep wood, where two people and a pony might lose themselves.
‘Do you think there are more of them to track us?’ Morcant asks. They are the first words either of us has spoken since the skirmish.
I shrug. ‘I’m surprised anyone survived the massacre. He might get help from other Parisi tribes.’
Morcant is impatient.
‘I can guess as well as you can. You’re a seeress – can’t you foresee it?’
I try to answer him but I am already tumbling into the darkness.
‘Trista!’ Morcant’s voice is sharp. It brings me back to the moment. Thank all the gods I was only gone for an instant. The pony tosses its head and skitters out of Morcant’s way as he tries to come closer to me.
‘What happened? I thought you were going to fall off!’
I am slick with sweat and my heart is racing with the shock of his voice calling me back.
‘I was having a vision – nothing that helps us. Something I have been seeing since childhood.’ His look is questioning; even the wolf, looking at me with one paw raised as if to run, is curious. ‘I keep seeing a man imprisoned. He is no one I know . . .’ It’s too difficult to explain. I have visions all the time and most of them make no sense. We have more urgent problems.
‘You can’t see if we will be followed?’ I shake my head and Morcant’s expression tells me clearly what he thinks of my gift. He’s right.
‘The Chief is still alive. If he can, he’ll follow us. He’ll want his revenge for what we did,’ I add. Perhaps I should have finished him when I had the chance. If he survives his wounds, I know I’ll never be free of him. ‘I could let the pony go? That would set a false trail.’
He doesn’t reject the idea so I dismount stiffly and slap the pony’s skinny rump to send it on its way. It finds some grass emerging from the melting snow and begins to graze.
‘Chase it away, will you?’ I ask Morcant and at his approach the terrified beast runs crashing through the trees.
‘That might confuse them,’ I say. I am beginning to wonder if maybe the Chief’s fate is bound up with my own, that there is some geas upon us. Such things can happen.
The two of us stumble on for a while before it becomes clear that we both desperately need to rest. Although I hate to show weakness, I call for a break. The look of relief on his face suggests that he is as keen to stop as I am.
I light another fire. It may well draw the attention of our enemies, but without it Morcant will be chilled beyond recovery. We squat down beside the fire together and I make another potch of grain and root.
‘You know this is not the way to Armorica?’
He grins unexpectedly, showing sharp, very white teeth. ‘Armorica, Brigantia – one place is much like another to an outlaw.’
‘I thought you had family.’
‘My mother is dead. I’m as much a Roman to her kin as I’m a Kelt to my father’s. A mongrel doesn’t get much of a welcome anywhere.’
I spoon the hot food into my mouth so that I don’t have to reply. He’s as rootless as I am.
‘What about you?’
‘I’m kin to the Brigante Queen – according to my father anyway. She might have need of another warrior.’
‘Then you’d better get used to fighting with Rome.’ I am about to ask him what he means when he asks a question of his own.
‘Why were the pony and the dog so alarmed by me?’
‘You know the answer to that,’ I say tartly.
He has taken off his boots and is warming his feet, holding his toes so close to the blaze that he risks losing them. His feet are long and thin and I resist a curious urge to take them in my hands to warm them.
The wolf is dozing and Morcant is calmer with the wolf asleep. I notice that his strange eyes are now more grey than yellow: the gentle man is back. His voice is so soft I have to strain to hear it. He doesn’t look at me. ‘I almost believed you, about the wolf. Back there, when we were fighting . . . there was a moment . . . with the dog . . .’
He warms his foot and leg bindings, holding them to the flames. ‘How could it be possible? How could a man have two natures?’
It’s a good question. How can a woman see the future, light fire without flint? How can bards remember a thousand tales and a Chief murder and rape without conscience? The world is full of good questions and I’ve no answers to any of them. I listen to the crackling of the fire, the wind rustling the treetops, Morcant’s steady breath.
‘I don’t know how or why. I don’t know what whim of which god such a thing serves.’ I finish the last of my food and scrape the pot with my finger to avoid his earnest gaze. ‘I’ve seen you change, Morcant. I swear it. And tonight you will transform again.’ I shiver. I wish it weren’t true but it is. I will be as much at risk from him tonight as I was last night. I’ll have to be ready.
He is very close beside me. He looks stricken. It’s not easy being touched by the gods. No one knows the loneliness of it better than I do. I reach out to clap his hunched human shoulder. As my fingers brush his skin, I get a jolt of strange force. I leap back away from him. The wolf starts to full wakefulness and growls at me, but Morcant’s human eyes have already flashed a warning. For a moment I am assaulted by sensory information and I see what it was like for Morcant to stand before the Old One, the pack leader. The Old One growls a warning, telling him in the set of his ears, of his tail, that Morcant is not welcome. The Old One’s scent sings of his virility, his power. The others are hostile and watchful, waiting to see what comes next. Then there is the she-wolf, the butt of the pack, exuding musk, signalling her interest with the set of her tail, her eager eyes.
I am stunned, unable to move or speak for a moment. It is another world, a revelation of subtle scents and sounds. For a moment I had the chance to see, but now am blind again.
‘What did you see?’ Morcant is aggressive. The wolf’s thick pelt bristles and his eyes bore into me as if he knows that I experienced his rejection from the pack.
‘Have you seen my children?’ Morcant’s smile is what anyone would call wolfish, and there is no warmth in his eyes. I shake my head.
‘I’ve seen what you can do, Morcant. Your senses are a gift. You must be able to smell anyone pursuing us. Are there men on our trail?’
‘Are you insulting me?’ The look in his eye makes me reach for my blade, but then the man flares his nostrils as the wolf sniffs the air. Morcant shakes his head and looks as sheepish as a wolf can.
‘There are men around, but I don’t think they are tribesmen.’
That is no comfort. If they are men of Morcant’s legion, fresh from murdering my fellow slaves, we may be in even worse trouble.
Morcant doesn’t say anything else. He must know that ordinary men lack his sense of smell. Now is not the time to discuss it. I don’t want to meet any men and neither does he. We put out the fire and collect our packs. Mine seems heavier by far than it did this morning.
CHAPTER TEN
Morcant’s Story
We keep bearing north for Brigantia. I set a brisk pace. We are both exhausted but there’s no point in giving in to it. We need to get away from the Parisi lands.
I’m certain that I can smell people, some distance behind us, but the Chief’s men are not my only worry. I fear that I’m being stalked by a wolf. It is probably only Trista’s wild talk, but I can smell the distinctive musk of a she-wolf.
‘I think we are being followed,’ Trista says after a while.
‘Two men,’ I say, ‘maybe three.’
‘You were not going to say anything?’
‘They were a long way behind.’
We move closer instinctively and check our weapons. Wet and cold weather can play havoc with steel. As she bends down, Trista lets out a cry. I think at first that she’s been hit by a spear, though I heard nothing. She falls and her pack opens and spills with a clatter of copper against iron ground. I can’t see any injury but her face is bloodless, so pale she that looks like an unpainted marble statue. I pull her helmet from her head and her red-gold hair spills around her, like dark mead. Her eyes move beneath closed lids as if she dreams. Her breath is shallow and rapid. She is as tall as I am and weighed down with her heavy mail and shield, but somehow I pull her upright and get her over my shoulder.
I half drag, half carry her to a nearby tree, as the dead are taken sometimes from the battlefield. I know that she has gone to the place of visions, that she is perhaps possessed by the spirits of the gods. I want to run. I can hear the men now and they are not far away. I don’t want anything to do with the uncanny, with the dark spirits of the tribes and their thirsty, blood-craving deities, but I can’t leave her. She is a dead weight and I dump her down too roughly. She doesn’t even respond to my manhandling. Oh, by Mithras’ balls, I can’t defend us both. I unsheathe my sword anyway and plant my spear next to me. I drop my pack next to Trista and ready my shield. I strain my ears and hear fragments of conversation – in Latin. It’s my own people and not the Chief. I almost laugh with relief. Then I remember. I am a deserter from their army and the penalty for that is death. When was I supposed to report? I can’t remember.
Trista groans – the sound is horribly loud in the silence. She struggles to sit up. There’s blood in her hair where her neck snapped back and her head hit the frozen earth. The Romans are almost upon us. I scoop up Trista’s helmet and thrust it back on her head.
‘Romans are coming – pretend you’re ill and cannot speak.’
She nods and I wonder if she needs to pretend. She’s not focusing properly and her face is now the grey-white of the melting slush.
I brush twigs and mud from my cloak and straighten up. I am not a deserter, but an incompetent scout who’s lost his way. Another scouting party comes into view. They smell of fatigue and blood. I don’t think I’m the only one to have run into trouble. They eye me warily. I spot the Decanus, the man in charge, right away. He’s a stocky Lusitanian with the swarthy looks of his countrymen and a reputation as a brawler.
I salute him: ‘Gaius Agrippa Morcant reporting, sir – scout of the Ninth. We ran into a bit of trouble with the natives and Triss here is injured – blow to the head – can’t speak.’ He recognises me too and something in his manner relaxes.
‘Pox-faced Brit-shit tribesmen! You’ve heard about Caratacus and his rebels? They’re all at it now. We’ve all had trouble lately. Can your mate walk? We’re heading back to camp now.’ His small group has been hunting down survivors of the hill fort massacre. The thought makes my stomach sour and I struggle to keep my expression under control. He makes some rapid introductions that I don’t take in and his men help support Trista as she staggers to her feet. At least her height and lean build make her a convincing enough man.
‘Bastards who attacked Julius – we sorted them out,’ he says. I can smell the acrid smoke of the fire still clinging to him and I’m repulsed. Of course that’s why Trista’s hall was attacked! I hadn’t connected the scuffle in which Julius was injured with the punitive raid on the Chief’s fort. I should have done: we are on a war footing and our commander believes in letting the natives know who’s boss. One Roman injury is worth a hundred or more Keltic deaths. It is one way of getting respect quickly – or so the Prefect believes.
Trista looks at me wild-eyed and suspicious. I can’t translate for her, not here and now. She allows herself to be helped and I hope that they don’t notice the flash of her Keltic longsword under her cloak or the flash of fury in her eyes when two men grab her arms. Does she know these are the men responsible for what happened at the fort? I hope not: I don’t know what she might try to do. We have walked together, fought together and endured together but right now she is a stranger to me. I can only hope she has the wit to keep her mouth closed and her sword sheathed.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Trista’s Story
I am going to be sick. My guts quake and roil as they always do after a vision. Is Morcant taking me prisoner? He is speaking that guttural gibberish he spoke with Lucius and though I strain to listen I cannot even distinguish separate words. What is he saying about me? Should I draw my sword and end this now? I’m not sure my hand is steady enough. At best I could take the man nearest me, but I would die soon after. Anyway, I can’t fight; instead I turn my head away from the armoured men and vomit into the tree roots.
The hands that grab and brace me are gentle enough and I’m not acting when I slump against one of the soldiers. This vision is hard to forget. It was full of violence, which isn’t unusual, but in this vicious battle Morcant lies bleeding; blood spurts and stains his naked torso. The ghastly pallor of his face, the look in his eyes are both disturbing, but what shocks me most is my distress. He’s not of my tribe – he’s not even fully a man – and I don’t even know if he is on my side, but I can’t shake the terrible sense of loss I felt at this vision of his death.
I try to place the vision in time and space. Will it be soon? Will it be now? Here? I have spent my whole life fearing what I have seen and worrying about what have I not. I did not foresee the death of my tribe, my family, my betrothed – what else have I not seen? My betrayal by Morcant?
The men speak to me and, by their tone, not unkindly. I stare back at them in a daze. Morcant has not betrayed me. Yet.
I let the strange foreign sounds wash over me. It would be good for them to believe that I am all but finished, that I have no strength left: it is not so far from the truth. I fall into something very close to a walking doze and just manage to keep my half closed eyes, fixed on the shadow form of the wolf, wide awake and walking with Morcant.
I notice a change in all the men as we approach their camp. They stand more erect, they hoist me more upright, and the low murmur of their conversation ceases so that I can hear the noise of men labouring, sawing, shouting, bustling. I can even here a female voice high-pitched and raucous, laughing.
Fear rises like a bad taste to my mouth. I’m as sure as I can be that someone will know that Morcant did not leave their camp with a tall man called ‘Triss’. What has Morcant told them about me? I try to catch his eye, but I can see by the tension in the body of the wolf that he is too busy playing the role of the eager young soldier to risk looking my way.
We are waiting at the entrance of a well-constructed timber fort, so new that you can still smell the sawdust in the air. It is surrounded by a deep ditch and a high palisade. It is by far the biggest encampment that I’ve ever seen. Armed men parade on a raised platform behind the wooden walls so that they tower above those of us still on the ground. They could spear us where we stand. Scented steam shrouds a large wooden building outside the palisade. It is larger even than the Chief’s roundhouse and the laughing woman is standing outside it. Her ample bosom is decorated by rows of beads and her thick hair coiled into an improbable tower of plaits upon her head. Our eyes meet and I look away. I don’t know her, but she is Brigante. I am ashamed because I can guess her business here. She shouts something I choose not to hear. I don’t blame anyone for doing what they have to do – the gods do not always bless us with choice – but her evident enthusiasm irks me. These men kill tribesmen.
I keep my head down and stumble as I walk. My face is beaded with sweat. I pray my escort think it is fever, not terror, that troubles me.
There are signs that some kind of walkway is being constructed but for now the ground is muddy, rutted fro
m the passage of many mules and carts and strewn with straw. It is very noisy. There are too many people. The air smells of cooking and the resinous scent of newly cut wood. There are other scents I don’t recognise: alien spices, the taint of elsewhere, perfumes which transform this piece of Parisi country into an outpost of some foreign power. A market is under way. Someone has hung a brace of hares from the timber frame of a wall-less hut and there are shellfish too, past their best, and a couple of plump partridges. All the sound and bustle is hard to take in after the quiet of the last few days. I haven’t seen so many unfamiliar faces since the battle of Ragan’s Field. I can see that the wolf is ready to run and so am I.
The soldiers start talking excitedly again and I guess that this market is something new. A tall blonde man from one of the southern tribes is sharpening knives while beside him a woman urges my companions, in a variant of my own language, to taste the fine wine she has hauled from across the sea and the barley beer she has freshly brewed. The beer, at least, smells of home. A man is selling crude torques of base metal, bangles and brooches of copper, tinned to look like silver. He taps one of the soldiers on the shoulder and starts trying to sell him a brass wolf’s-head ring. For a moment I can’t breathe. My escort dismisses it, though it is a finer piece than the rest.
When the pedlar turns his attention to me, I just grunt and hope that is enough to send him on his way. I see the faded tribal tattoos snaking up his right arm and my guts churn. He is Parisi, like the Chief, and I want to draw my sword very badly – and let the gods guide my revenge. Nothing good can come from such Parisi scum. He thrusts the ring under my nose. I feel my temper surge out of my control, a wave of fury that carries me with it. I forget that I am supposed to be a sick foreigner, unable to speak our native tongue, and snarl under my breath: ‘You come any closer and I’ll have your arm off, you whelp of a pox-infested cur.’ I see surprise in his blue eyes but he backs away.
Thank the gods my escort aren’t paying me much attention but are concerned with the fort and the men guarding it. The guards’ upper bodies are all encased in polished metal – as if they are not men at all. Although the sun is not strong, it glances off their armoured bodies and I’m dazzled by it. Men speak to me. I close my eyes, affecting confusion. More men come and lift me bodily. I dare not open my eyes. I stay very still until I feel myself being lowered on to some kind of raised pallet.
