“The Veterinarium?” She sounded out the Latin word, although she knew full well what it meant and how to pronounce it.
“For the horses,” he said, as if explaining to a small child. “It’s next to the Valetudinarium where our physician attends to the sick and injured.”
“You have greatly eased my mind.” She lowered her gaze to his chest so he wouldn’t see that she was anything but subservient or grateful in reality. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I must return to Tacitus’ quarters.”
“It’s been a pleasure, my lady. I’m sure we’ll meet again very soon.”
She offered him a perfunctory smile and watched him stride away. Then she looked in the direction the Roman had pointed out to her.
Seeing the owl just now had been more than a reminder to curb her words. It had been Arianrhod’s way of telling Nimue that the Roman could help her. And he had. Surreptitiously she glanced around, but apart from the seamstress, no one took any notice of her.
She could discover where the queen was being held and let her know that Nimue was working on an escape plan. Heart thudding against her ribs she walked purposefully toward the Veterinarium. If she looked as though she had every right to be in this part of the fortification then she was less likely to be stopped. At least, she hoped.
She saw the building she was looking for by the legionary standing guard outside. She took a deep breath, tilted her head in a regal manner and strolled toward the door. The legionary looked her up and down, and clearly liked what he saw if the appreciative grin on his face was anything to go by. Would he be so lax if she had her bow and dagger?
“I am under the tribune’s protection.” She spoke in Latin and while the words made her feel more like a slave than ever, the effect on the legionary was dramatic. He straightened and took a step back from her, as though to get too close would condemn him to punishment.
Perhaps it would.
“I wish to speak to the prisoners.” Nothing would induce her to call them slaves.
The legionary frowned. “Why?”
Why did he think? She forced a smile to her lips and hoped he didn’t come from Gaul. Otherwise he’d never fall for her deception. “Because they are my friends.”
He glanced around, then clearly came to the decision that she couldn’t possibly pose a threat. “Very well.” He turned and unlocked the door. “But only for a few moments.”
Nimue took a deep breath and stepped inside. She was taking a risk but there was little else she could do. If one of the women or children recognized her and decided to betray her, all would be lost. But she trusted her Goddess and if the reaction of the legionary was anything to go by, then Arianrhod was by her side.
The conditions were not nearly as bad as she’d feared. They were clean, if sparse, and from a cursory glance it didn’t look as if her people had been brutally whipped or been left in chains.
As a couple of the women approached her, she realized something else. The Briton queen and princess weren’t there and panic shot through her. It hadn’t occurred to her that they wouldn’t be here and yet it should have. After all, they hadn’t traveled here on foot with the rest of the captives, had they?
“My name is Nimue.” She spoke softly, in the language of Cymru, certain that the legionary was trying to eavesdrop. “Where is the Briton queen?”
The women eyed her with suspicion and one of them curled her lip. “How did you escape our fate?” Her words implied that she had a very good idea how Nimue had escaped, and despised her for it.
Her stomach knotted in distress to know that, in truth, the woman was right. Nimue was nothing but a Roman tribune’s whore.
But she didn’t feel like one. She would never feel like one, not when it came to Tacitus.
There was no time to mourn what could never be. She ignored the woman’s hostile glare and pulled the gown over her shoulder so her wound was visible. “I was shot and captured.”
The women stared at her injury and their hostility faded a little. The one who had spoken before finally met her gaze again. “The Briton queen has never been with us. She and her daughter are in the building next to this one.”
Relief surged through her. She’d feared the Romans had taken the queen somewhere else. She thanked the women and just as she was about to leave, a small child caught her attention. She was clinging to one of the women’s legs, and her huge eyes stared up at Nimue in silent entreaty.
Guilt speared through Nimue’s breast. How could she leave this child—all the children—the Romans had captured? How could she leave behind the women? But how could she hope to save so many? They were bedraggled and would be caught the moment they set foot outside their prison.
But there had to be something she could do. Her first priority was to the Briton queen but she would not—could not—forsake her countrywomen. She would ask for Arianrhod’s guidance. Surely—
Her thoughts were severed by the sound of the legionary’s voice addressing a superior officer. Please don’t let it be the commander. Trepidation licked through her and with a feeling of dread she glanced over her shoulder.
And saw Tacitus glaring at her.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Tacitus stared at Nimue as disbelief thudded in his chest. It had never occurred to him that she would seek out the other slaves.
But he should have. Nimue had made it plain that she resented her enslaved status. He reeled in his sense of betrayal, because logically he knew she hadn’t betrayed him. After all, he hadn’t specifically ordered her not to visit the slaves.
No. And the reason he hadn’t was because he hadn’t believed such an order necessary.
She looked at him and the fact she appeared as if she had every right to be there stoked his ire. “Come here.” His voice was low, even, and although Nimue did not bat an eyelash, the legionary by his side suppressed a shudder.
Let him shudder. Let him imagine Tacitus was about to unleash fearful punishment upon his errant slave. The notion turned his guts and he spared the other man a lethal glare before once again focusing on Nimue.
She came toward him and once she stood before him, the legionary hastily locked the door.
Tacitus had the mad urge to grip her arm and drag her back to his quarters, as though he was an ignorant slave master who had no control over his property. Instead he marched several paces then stopped, waiting for Nimue to catch up with him.
She stood by his side, as silent as a good slave should be. The thought of Nimue doing anything that a good slave should was laughable.
Except laughing was the last thing he felt like doing.
“What do you think you were doing?” He glared down at her but she refused to cower. Did he really want her to?
“You didn’t say I couldn’t visit my countrywomen.” Pride infused every word and he battled the urge to shake her. Didn’t she understand that by going behind his back she eroded his authority? Didn’t she realize that it was only his authority—his heritage, rank and honor—that protected her from the fate that awaited her countrywomen?
“How many times have you visited them?” Every day he’d imagined she went to the market, taking the air and exercise she so desperately craved. But had she, instead, spent that time with the other slaves? And why the fuck hadn’t his seamstress told him?
“Today was the first time.”
The anger simmering beneath the surface of his patrician façade cooled a little at her response. He knew he should doubt her word. Knew she could say anything, do anything, to alleviate his concerns but somehow he knew she spoke the truth.
He knew it, because Nimue wouldn’t bother to lie to him in such a matter. She clearly found nothing wrong in what she’d done. He took a deep breath, exhaled slowly.
All she had done was visit the other slaves. If she’d asked him, would he have allowed her to? Why was he so irate by her actions?
But he knew why. It was because he’d imagined her doing one thing during the time he wasn’t with her, and
she had been doing something quite different. Something no other woman he had met would dream of doing without first asking his permission.
Yet again he faced the fact that Nimue was nothing like any other woman he had met. And as much as he’d managed to delude himself as to how she might behave in his absence, the proof of his misplaced trust had just played out before his eyes.
He didn’t have time to take her back to his quarters. Didn’t have time to try to analyze what it was about Nimue that so corroded his reason. She was only a woman and her actions shouldn’t plague his mind the way they did.
It was good advice. He knew he’d be unable to follow it. “Return to my quarters immediately. We’ll discuss this matter when I return this evening.” His voice was harsh but he experienced no sense of satisfaction when she stiffened at his tone. She made no response but merely turned and walked to where his seamstress waited. Unease shifted through him. He had the feeling he should’ve been more specific in his order but what could she do once she was confined in his quarters?
The thought should have reassured him. Instead, inexplicably, it only increased his sense of unformed dread.
***
Nimue returned to Tacitus’ quarters in silence. The seamstress’s frosty attitude confirmed that any small advance she had made in gaining the woman’s trust over the last few days had irrevocably shattered.
Not that she cared about the seamstress’s trust. It was the look on Tacitus’ face as he’d ordered her back to his quarters that haunted her mind. Why had he chosen that very moment to pass the prisoners’ building? Why hadn’t Arianrhod distracted his attention?
She didn’t want Tacitus to distrust her. It was a foolish thought because no matter how much they enjoyed each other’s company they were enemies. They would always be enemies. But she craved his admiration in the short time they had left together.
Once she escaped the fortification, Tacitus would despise her. But at least she wouldn’t be here to witness it.
Once inside Tacitus’ quarters, the seamstress folded her arms and glared at Nimue. Her message couldn’t be plainer. Not that it mattered. Nimue had no wish to engage her in conversation or sewing. She needed to answer Arianrhod’s command and take the opium.
Although she hadn’t encountered this Roman opium before, it had to possess the same magic as the sacred preparations the Elders used in order to enter the realm of the gods. Why else would Arianrhod have kept encouraging her to take the opium?
That she would be alone when she ascended into the higher realms while under the influence of the gods’ magic elixir terrified her, but she didn’t have a choice. If Arianrhod didn’t think her capable of undertaking such a sacred rite, then surely the Great Goddess would not have summoned her.
Nimue couldn’t imagine what Arianrhod wanted to command of her, that she couldn’t convey during Nimue’s normal daily worship. Neither could she imagine why Arianrhod hadn’t answered her when Nimue silently begged for guidance. But it was not her place to question. Only to obey.
She picked up a lamp and went into the bedchamber. With trembling fingers she tipped the tiny amount of sticky opium into a small bowl. Tacitus wouldn’t be back until that eve. She had plenty of time before she had to face him again.
She sat cross-legged on the floor by the wall opposite the door. From this position she was concealed by the bed should anyone casually open the door and glance into the room. Not that that was any great advantage, since if one of Tacitus’ servants took it into their head to look for her, and couldn’t see her, they would certainly investigate further and discover she was communing with her Goddess.
She’d face that problem should it occur.
Frowning, she prodded the opium mass with her forefinger. It was wrong to ascend into trance without appropriate rituals and incenses. But since it was also wrong for an acolyte to attempt such a thing on her own in any case, Nimue decided the lack of appropriate preparation was likely the least of her concerns.
She took a deep breath to still her erratic heartbeat and placed the bowl over the oil-filled lamp. It fitted snugly, as if the two pieces belonged together, and through the intricately carved openwork on the sides of the lamp she watched the flame flicker around its wick.
A sweetly pungent aroma drifted in the air and she wrinkled her nose with distaste. But since she would get nowhere by holding her breath she forcibly relaxed her muscles and inhaled deep into her lungs.
The Roman room vanished in a whirlwind and before Nimue had time to even gasp, she was plunged into an eerily familiar setting. A sacred oak glade surrounded her, and the silver moon descended in the starry sky. Fascinated Nimue gazed upward, and then looked back at the glade. And remembered.
This was the night of her initiation into womanhood.
Joy radiated through her and she embraced the feminine power that pulsed in tangible waves through the glade, strengthening not only the Druids but all the tribes of Cymru; reaffirming their position in the hierarchy of creation.
Nimue opened her arms, felt the magical potency of her foremothers surge through her blood. This night was hers. This night she had been chosen, and she would dedicate the rest of her life to the blessed Arianrhod.
And then her mother had taken her into her arms and whispered a secret so great, so terrible, that every dream Nimue had ever cherished trembled on a precipice of betrayal and despair.
Desperately she pushed her mother’s arms away, struggled to be free. Yet even as the agonized look on her mother’s face faded into the shadows of the forest, Nimue knew she would never be free of the burden that now crushed her heart.
From an incalculable distance came the haunting call of a single owl. Nimue turned, wildly searching for her beloved Goddess, but the glade was now deserted and even as she strained her eyes to see through the encroaching shadows, the night grew darker still.
Dread gripped her and she looked up to the sky. The moon was obscured by storm clouds, black and angry looking, and even Arianrhod’s starry wheel was entirely concealed from view.
“Arianrhod, hear my prayer.” The words fell from her lips but they were soundless, trapped inside her mind, and terror uncoiled deep in her breast and slid with malicious intent through her veins.
Why did her Goddess not come to her? Hadn’t Arianrhod herself called her to this place?
A shadow splintered from the forest that surrounded the glade. For one glorious moment Nimue thought her Goddess had heard her plea. That she had taken pity on her petrified acolyte and would offer her comfort. But as the shadow approached a new fear gripped her, one that dug talons of terror into the core of her being.
It was not Arianrhod who came for her. It was Gwydion, the Magician God, but what caused her to fall to her knees and press her forehead into the grass was the frightening certainty that this wasn’t the first time Gwydion had come to her in this sacred glade.
“Nimue, acolyte of my sister goddess Arianrhod, you have finally answered her call.” His voice was rich, melodic and again the petrifying certainty that he had greeted her in a similar fashion before gnawed through her senses. “Are you ready to prove worthy of the loyalty your goddess bestows upon you, despite the grave sin that pollutes your blood?”
“Yes, my lord.” Nimue kept her face plastered to the ground, too afraid to look at the great god who towered over her, illuminated by his own fearsome, glorious radiance. “I will do anything for my beloved Moon Goddess.”
She felt herself rise from the ground, although it was not of her own doing. Her body felt weightless, disconnected, and she feared the slightest breeze might send her through the Veil into the Otherworld. Desperately she wrapped her arms around her waist in a vain attempt to reconnect with reality, but instead all she could do was gaze into Gwydion’s fathomless eyes and fear for her sanity.
“Then fulfill your destiny and complete the vision of the High Druid Aeron.”
It was her dearest wish to fulfill the vision of that martyred Druid. She cl
ung onto that knowledge but couldn’t prevent the unease that washed through her mind, diluting her purpose.
Before she’d met Tacitus, she’d wanted to destroy every Roman who dared set foot in her homeland. But now she was torn. And if Gwydion suspected how her loyalties conflicted, he would strike her dead in an instant.
“My lord.” Her whisper barely squeezed through her constricted throat as the great god began to fade into the darkness of the forest. Nimue remained paralyzed, her body and mind severed, and fresh terror seeped through her blood.
Had the Magician God guessed her tangled thoughts? Was this her punishment, to remain forever in the Shadowlands between worlds?
A rush of wind and the soft brush of feathers across her face snapped her from her rising panic. Body and senses realigned; once again she felt solid earth beneath her feet and the dark outline of the sacred owl filled her vision and eased her heart.
Save them all. The powerful, feminine whisper weaved through her mind, and she clung onto the words even though she didn’t fully understand their meaning.
The owl soared upward and Nimue followed its path across the cloudy night. And then her reverential gaze froze. Light and dark combined, an unmistakable tableau created from the swirling clouds by the Moon Goddess’ sacred wings.
The form of a newborn babe.
Nimue gasped, fell backward, and hit her head on something hard. Tacitus’ bed swam into focus and she blinked slowly, trying to sort her pounding thoughts as she leaned against the wall and fought against the waves of nausea that threatened to consume her.
In a blinding flash of clarity, she understood. Arianrhod was telling her that not everything would be destroyed. That a new life would be created from the ending of the old. That it was her duty to save not only the Briton queen and her daughter, but all those taken captive by the Romans. To lead them back to the magical enclave where they could make plans for their future, before she continued onward with the queen to the land of the Brigantes.
Enslaved (The Druid Chronicles Book 3) Page 18
