by N. M. Browne
‘Stop it, child.’ Who would speak to me in my own language and call me child? I am ready to fight. ‘Hush!’ It is a woman’s voice. A plump hand finds my mouth and covers it. It smells of foreign perfumes, but I obey. I bite back all my questions and my urge to stick her with my sword. I am panting, my rasping breath echoes.
‘That’s it. Just take your time. Here, take off your armour and put this on.’ Her lips are close to my ear. She pulls me deeper inside the chamber. It is stiflingly hot. She thrusts something soft into my hand – fabric. ‘They are looking for a man, cariad. Here, give me that sword.’
I hesitate. Would an enemy disarm me in this way? I don’t know. ‘Do you want help or not? The men are looking for a soldier. You can’t escape them if you stay a soldier.’
She makes sense. I give her my sword. It is hard to let it go. I have to force my fingers to uncurl and release it. A door clicks shut and I almost cry out and then I hear her fumble with flint. I resist the urge to help. A pinprick of orange flame flickers and flares to lighten the darkness. It is the Brigante whore.
‘Trista?’ she says and I feel myself sway and falter as the blackness comes.
I don’t think I’ve been out long. When I open my eyes, she is leaning over me. Her skin sags slackly. She is old. Her eyes are outlined with black lines and her eyelids shimmer blue like a dragonfly’s wings. Even so there is something familiar about her.
‘I didn’t mean to shock you,’ she says, still whispering. ‘I almost didn’t recognise you until I saw your reaction to this.’ She pulls something from a thong round her neck and holds it in front of me. It is the wolf’s-head ring. ‘I thought you were dead. I thought all of you were dead.’
I still don’t know who she is. And maybe the doubt shows in my face.
‘Have I changed so much? Trista, it’s me, Cassie, Gwyn’s sister.’
I take the ring and peer at the inner surface where it is marked by a scratched design – the same mark as could be found on a hundred or so well-kept sheep in the hills of home – Gwyn’s. I slip it on to my thumb. Gwyn was a big man, with hands the size of the hams we hung to smoke in the roundhouse rafters; he wore it on his forefinger. I gave it to him.
‘How did you come by it?’ I might be crying.
‘That Parisi pedlar. I was going to buy it back from him later. When I saw you looking at it, I knew it was you even after all this time and I had to get it back for you.’
She is weeping openly now, my would-be sister. Her tears are stained black from the dark stuff round her eyes.
‘He fought well, Cassie, but we were outnumbered. They took me. I didn’t abandon him.’ I show her my brand and try not to flinch as she presses her long-nailed finger into it.
I don’t ask how she came to be here, consorting with these foreigners. I don’t care to know. We embrace and I let her help me remove my soldier’s clothes. She washes me with warm water from a bowl and gently dresses me. She puts a thin veil over my ravaged hair and paints my eyes as she has painted hers and still I don’t ask her how she has come to this.
‘You can’t stay here for long,’ she says. ‘I’ll be busy later but you could hide in here till morning and then we could see about getting you away.’
There is a knock on the door and I start groping around, hunting for my hidden sword.
‘Stop that! Sit down there on the couch and leave me to sort this out.’ She opens the door and I fight the urge to cover my entire face with my veil.
Two soldiers are at the door. They push past Cassie. They say something to her that I don’t understand and she simpers. Sitting still is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, but to stand would be to reveal my height.
The men speak to me. I don’t like their tone of voice. One of them, with split skin above a broken nose, caresses my face with hard, callused fingers. If I had a sword, my face would be the last thing he ever touched.
‘Steady, Trista, smile, love, you can be shy, but try not to look murderous,’ Cassie says in my own language. I bare my teeth and hope it looks enough like a smile to pass.
The men do not linger. Cassie says something to them and they grin. She winks and gestures so that the bangles on her arms jingle and rattle and they leave laughing raucously.
‘Marcellus took quite a fancy to you,’ she says and I recoil.
‘I can’t stay around here, Cassie. I can’t pretend to be . . . this.’
She sighs. ‘It isn’t all it seems, Trista. I’ll find you something to eat and then I’ll explain.’
While she is gone, I find my weapons, which she has hidden under a pile of skins under the couch – the only piece of furniture in the room. I arrange everything on my shield so that I can leave quickly if I have to. I want to strap my longsword to me but I can see that it would detract from my disguise. Where is Morcant? What will happen to him when he transforms back? I didn’t think to pick up his weapons and clothes: there was no time.
Gwyn would die of shame if he could see Cassie now. He never had much patience with her; he didn’t like women much, not even me.
Cassie returns with food and I try to eat decorously, but I am too hungry. Cassie has nothing and I wonder if it is her own food that I am taking, but she is as plump as a pigeon and I can feel all the bones of my ribs. She speaks softly: ‘We had no one to defend us with all the warriors gone. The Parisi came and took whatever they wanted and we all ran to seek protection where we could get it. My babies did not survive that winter. I was looking to find someone who would fight the Parisi and avenge you all – instead I found Caratacus.’
It’s a name I’ve heard before. I wipe grease from my face with the back of my hand. ‘Who’s he?’
‘He’s a tribesman from the south. He’s been fighting the invaders his whole life and he’s still fighting them over in the west. I send him information when I can . . .’
‘What? You’re a spy?’
‘Yes. You need not look so shocked. You don’t have to wear a sword and look like a man to be useful, you know.’ I am about to laugh until I realise that she is serious. Cassie – a spy? ‘Where are you headed – once you get away from here?’ she asks.
I pause between mouthfuls. ‘I’m going to Brigantia, to Cartimandua’s court. I thought I would offer her my sword. Da always claimed we were kin.’
She makes a noise I’ve never heard from her before, something between a snort and a laugh. ‘If you are on the run from Rome, I wouldn’t risk a visit there.’
‘What do you mean?’
Cassie looks bleak. ‘It’s not clear that she puts loyalty to her people above her own power. She rules with the consent of Rome and that makes her eager to satisfy her foreign allies. If she found out you were on the run from Rome, I’m not sure she would admit your kinship; it is distant enough.’
I don’t know whether Cassie is telling me the truth or if she merely wants to use me for her own ends.
She continues, ‘Give your sword to Caratacus, Trista, and fight for all the tribes against Rome. And if you will not give him your sword at least take a message to him for me.’ I’m too surprised to speak at all for a moment. I don’t want to go chasing round the country for some upstart Chief I’ve never heard of. Why would she ask it of me?
‘I am sorry for all your losses, Cassie, and I’m truly grateful for the help you’ve given me, but the Romans are no more my enemies than the Parisi. It wasn’t Romans who killed my family and Gwyn. It wasn’t Romans who enslaved me . . .’ I sound more bitter than I’d intended.
Cassie hands me a red pottery beaker of sweet water and nods her understanding.
‘You’re young yet – you’ll see,’ she says. ‘If they have their way, there will be no Brigante, no Parisi, only Romans and then the rest. We’ll all have to obey their laws, worship their gods, pay taxes to their coffers and never be free again.’
I don’t say anything.
‘Say you’ll take the message.’
‘I’m sorry, Cassie, I . . .’
<
br /> ‘Then I demand that you repay your blood debt. It is my right. My price is that you take my message to Caratacus.’
What is she talking about? Before I can ask she carries on.
‘I know you killed Gwyn. The Parisi pedlar – he saw you. You killed my brother and I’ve saved you so you are doubly in my debt!’
What would she have had me do, leave Gwyn in agony? I see again the pleading look in his eyes and listen to the scream he never wanted me to hear. Even my time as a slave has not erased that memory. I’m about to argue but stop myself in time. Cassie doesn’t need to know how he suffered. It does not change her rights of reparation.
‘Are you sure about this, Cassie – a blood debt?’
She nods. Her face is hard under her makeup. She is nothing like the woman I remember.
‘All right. You’ve made sure I’ve no choice. I’ll pay the debt. Tell me what I need to remember.’
‘Nothing,’ she says with pride. ‘I’ve learned to scribe – as the Romans do.’ She pulls something from her breast – a fragment of bark, marked with scratches. It means nothing to me. I’ve been trained to remember, even though I’m no bard. I don’t trust what I can’t hear spoken.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘The Romans don’t rely on the memory of messengers. They use these marks here to stand for words so that the person who gets these marks will know the words I want to say.’
‘And this Caratacus can make sense of them?’
She nods.
‘Can’t anyone who has the knack of it read those marks?’
‘Yes. That’s the point.’
‘Then the message could be stolen from me and given to someone else.’
‘You will not let them,’ she says firmly. I think she is disappointed that I’m not more impressed by her acquisition of this new, pointless skill. I take the small sliver of pale bark but, lacking her assets, I’ve nowhere to hide it.
‘You’ve done well to have learned this Roman trick,’ I add as warmly as I can because I would be dead without her help and I’ve probably not been grateful enough. Her look is cold.
‘Perhaps it would be better if you left at once. The Parisi pedlar has a cart . . .’
I interrupt her. ‘If he was at Ragan’s Field, he’s my sworn enemy!’
Her retort is fierce and exasperated. ‘Have you never heard that your enemy’s enemy is your friend? He’s against the Romans – that’s all that matters. Tribal disputes aren’t important any more.’
I bite down my furious response. She was not at Ragan’s Field. She did not see her family slaughtered.
‘Here are some coins for your journey.’ She hands me a small pouch of clinking coins then indicates my weapons and soldier’s clothes lying in the middle of the floor. ‘I can’t keep these here.’
As if I’d let her! My cloak is not military issue but a worn plaid that ought not to mark me out as the rogue legionary. I turn it inside out to show its brighter side. I strap the sword belt tightly around my hips and I stow both the sack of coins and the strange inscribed bark within my belt pouch. She tuts; it must look ridiculous. The shield, spear, mail and other stuff is too bulky to be smuggled away easily. She frowns. ‘Here, take this.’ She empties the wicker basket in which she carried the food and gives me one of the skins from under the couch with which to cover my load. Even so, I realise with regret that I will have to leave my spear and shield behind.
‘You will find Caratacus by the River Sabrina at Caer Caradoc out west. I know that the gods will bless you, for what you do will help save all of us.’ I have no such certainty, but I kiss her painted cheek and hug her. She saved my life. I don’t need my gift of prophecy to know that she plays too dangerous a game and that her life in the fort is unlikely to be a long one.
As I step out into the night, my basket over my arm and my weapons hidden under my cloak, I know that I will never see her again.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Trista’s Story
There are armoured soldiers outside the bathhouse. It is obvious that they are still searching for me. I stoop a little to disguise my height and keep my eyes modestly lowered. Perhaps it would be a better disguise if I were bolder.
There must be fifty men or more checking the vicus. I am a woman just going about my business, an innocent bystander, curious about what is going on. I try to walk with an unhurried feminine gait.
One of the soldiers detaches himself from his cohort and wanders over to speak to me in his own language. He is carrying a burning brand to light his way. The flames dance on his armour, reminding me of the massacre of the fort. They throw the shadows of his face into stark relief, giving it a demonic look. His dark eyes glitter and I fight the urge to draw my sword. He speaks again. I can tell nothing from his tone and I have no idea what the words mean, but I gamble that it is nothing bad and force myself to raise my eyes to his. I attempt to smile. He moves closer, enclosing my waist with his arm, making it harder for me to reach for my weapon. Is that deliberate? For a moment I think he is going to accost me, then as he moves in closer I realise he intends to kiss me. He smells powerfully of fish and onions. He keeps talking, a steady stream of meaningless syllables. I ease the small dagger from his sword belt, still smiling. It is a sturdy leaf-shaped knife that glides silently in its sheath. The hilt fits perfectly in my palm, smooth as an easy promise. Luckily for him someone calls him away. He pinches my cheek with callused fingers, gabbles some nonsense and moves on. I make myself breathe. One more moment and I would have stabbed him.
I head back down the slight incline towards the glowing fires of the camped traders. The basket is heavy but I try not to let it appear so. I cover my face with my veil and slip into the darkness, away from the soldiers’ torches. I am lucky that a wisp of cloud, like sheep’s wool caught on a briar, covers the moon.
I find the Parisi pedlar squatting by his fire, spitting a brace of birds. He’s not big, but has the lean, wiry look of a man who can take care of himself. The Roman knife is still in my clenched hand. I kneel beside him, laying my basket on the ground, and press my knife hard against the Parisi’s ribs. I want to kill him. He was at Ragan’s Field.
‘Make a sound and I’ll spit you like the Parisi pig you are,’ I say. He tenses. I feel the tautening of his muscles under his tunic and I know that this one will fight back. I’ll have to impose my will on him quickly before he has time to think. ‘I need your mule and your cart. In return I might let you keep your worthless guts inside your skin.’
He gets slowly to his feet. With my left hand I remove his sword belt. It clatters to the ground – a mistake. The sound is loud. I expect to hear soldiers surround me, calling out their threats, rushing at me so that I am surrounded. I count ten heartbeats. Nothing happens. The pedlar is likely to have other weapons hidden about his person but I don’t have time to search him. I need to keep him moving, keep him unsettled. I prod him again and keep my voice hard. ‘Keep your hands where I can see them. We are going to walk towards the cart and you will give no sign that anything is amiss or I will kill you before you can summon help.’
I haven’t thought this through. He will have to harness his mule and that is such a strange thing to do at this time of night he’s going to attract attention. Why would a pedlar leave the vicus at dead of night with a woman?
‘I hope you know what you’re doing with that dagger, cariad.’ The pedlar’s voice is confident, his accent so like that of the Chief’s that I find myself growing angry at its sound. I know that he has been taken in by my dress, that he thinks he can take me; he is waiting for his chance.
I press the knife viciously against his back. Fear and anger are making me jumpy and overeager: a small amount of blood seeps through his tunic. I pick up my basket. He doesn’t say anything else but guides me to the cart past other firesides, other traders. Clever.
They greet him, or I think they do, as none of them says a word I understand. I move my knife to his side and sidle up clo
se to him, so that our hips touch. I lean against him so that my mouth is pressed against his ear.
‘Put your arm round me,’ I hiss, ‘like we’re lovers.’ His grip on my shoulders is firm. I giggle loudly, or at least that’s what I try to do. I was never one for giggling so the effect is not quite what I intended. Anyway, it works, people laugh and whistle, and I try for that giggle again. We weave through the encampment a little drunkenly but I keep the knife steady. I see the Roman soldier who accosted me earlier. I duck down and I bury my head in the Parisi’s neck and stagger even more obviously. The Roman does not approach.
We reach the cart. The Parisi may have a weapon hidden there. I have to give him space to hitch the mule; it is his best chance of grabbing a knife and turning on me. The clouds clear from the face of the moon and the night becomes brighter. I unsheathe my longsword. His eyes widen when he sees me. Any tribesman can recognise a warrior from the way they hold a sword. I’m a warrior and now he knows it. He doesn’t make me prove it. I force him to sit beside me on the narrow seat. ‘Head west,’ I say. ‘You’re coming with me.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Morcant’s Story
She waits for me in the hidden places of the forest. How could I have forgotten her?
It is good to leave behind the confusion of the man stink, to leave behind the noise that fills my ears but tells me nothing I need to know. I run from the fires that distort the night and stench of smoke to the cool of the dark and a world of scents and senses. I run to her. She has tracked me all day, leaving behind the Old One, becoming a lone wolf for me. The scents of her journey cling to her fur. I drink in the history of her long day. It is in my nose and on my tongue: the battle and the spilled blood, the river and the great cold, the forest, the man-place of cut trees. She has watched and waited. When I thought I was alone, she was always there. I let her guide me, teach me how to listen to the scurrying of small creatures, to track their distinctive smell, follow her lead and make the kill. Blood. Meat. My mouth is full of the taste, my belly is full of the goodness, my nose is full of the she-wolf. She delights in my success as if I were her cub. I’m not her cub. I know what she wants of me and am happy to give it. She is mine to hunt for and to defend, as I am hers.
