That was why she’d been compelled to make the over-gowns. So that the prisoners wouldn’t look like slaves when they made their bid for freedom. So they had a good chance of blending into the local populace.
Something sharp dug into the palm of her hand and with odd reluctance she uncurled her fingers. She knew what she would find. And she was right. It was the shard of bluestone she’d taken before the battle. The shard Tacitus had so recently returned to her.
The Moon Goddess’ command could not be clearer. Time was running out and Nimue had to make her stand.
Chapter Twenty-Three
As Tacitus entered his quarters, he mentally stiffened his spine. There was no doubt in his mind that Nimue would be waiting for him, claws unleashed, ready to defend her actions earlier this day. He supposed he should be relieved that she hadn’t stood up to him when he’d accosted her in the slaves’ quarters. But Nimue was not a fool. She knew certain boundaries couldn’t be crossed in public. But when it came to just the two of them, she appeared to acknowledge no boundaries at all.
And curse the woman, but it was that very trait that so intrigued him.
He looked forward to her unorthodox conversation, the way she laughed at him, how she made no secret of what she truly thought even if she ran the risk of offending.
They had met only days ago and yet he could scarcely recall how he’d spent his free time before she came into his life. And with every day that passed the less certain he was that, when his tour of Britannia was over, he would be able to let her go.
The commander would never grant her manumission. Therefore he had no choice but to take Nimue to Rome with him. But it was a poor excuse for the truth. Because the truth had nothing to do with his commander at all.
Nimue drove him to the edge of distraction when they were together, and when they were apart she was never far from his mind. But today, instead of recalling the way she looked and gasped and the evocative scent of sex as she climaxed around him as he usually did, he’d been tormented by what she might be plotting next.
The thought of her in Rome staggered his mind. She would never fit into the role his society expected. Yet the thought of leaving her behind became more intolerable by the hour.
She wasn’t waiting for him, as she usually did, in the small living area beyond his office. He wasn’t sure whether to take that as a good sign or not. As he turned to make his way to his bedchamber, his seamstress appeared.
“Forgive me, sir.” She looked as harassed as she sounded. Gods. What had Nimue got up to now? “The Cambrian took me by surprise when she went to the slaves’ quarters. I didn’t know whether or not she had your permission to do so.”
He smothered a relieved sigh. At least Nimue had done nothing further to upset his servant. “Do not think on it. Nimue didn’t disobey me. All is well.” And now he was defending her. Yet he spoke only the truth. She hadn’t disobeyed him.
But she certainly must know that she had gone against his wishes.
The woman didn’t look reassured. “That’s a relief to me, sir, but I feel obliged to tell you that before she visited the slaves she conversed most intimately with the tribune—your esteemed cousin—in the marketplace.”
Blandus. Now he understood the sly glances his cousin had shot his way when they’d passed each other outside the commander’s quarters just now. He’d imagined it was because his cousin had discovered that Nimue had taken it upon herself to visit the slaves’ quarters without his permission. Not that he could imagine how his cousin had drawn such a conclusion. But the truth appeared even less appealing. Had Blandus attempted to coerce Nimue into a clandestine liaison? The very thought of it boiled his blood. How dare he?
“I see.” He strode toward his bedchamber and with every stride his irritation increased. It was one thing for Nimue to flirt and speak her mind with him. It was another thing entirely if she had done the same with his cursed cousin.
He pushed open the door, but she wasn’t reclining on the bed. Had he truly expected her to be? She wasn’t a Roman noblewoman and not once had she ever tried to mimic one. For some reason that thought irritated him further, although he didn’t know why. It wasn’t as if he wanted her to pretend to be something she wasn’t.
But if she wasn’t here, where in the name of Hades was she? Had she managed to evade his servants and the legionary posted outside his quarters and escape?
It was an outrageous thought. Of course she hadn’t. Such a feat was impossible. But the image of her standing in the slaves’ quarters when she had no right to be there, thudded through his mind.
He had the sudden certainty that if Nimue wanted to elude her watchers, she could.
“Nimue.” His voice was sharp, and relief stabbed through him when he caught a movement beyond his bed. He marched across the room and a faint, sweet odor drifted in the air that he could not immediately identify.
Then he saw her, sitting on the floor, her back against the wall, and shock punched through him. She looked up at him, her pupils strangely dilated, and in that same moment he registered the oil lamp in front of her and the burned residue staining the bottom of a small bowl.
He crouched beside her. “Nimue?” Relief that she hadn’t escaped mutated into alarm. Gods, what had possessed her to use the opium in such a manner? He should never have entrusted her with it. He’d assumed that, if she needed the pain relief, she would have diluted it with wine or water. Surely, with her healing knowledge, she knew that? Nobody but Oracles inhaled the fucking stuff. It was too dangerous.
“Tacitus.” Her voice was husky, as if she found it hard to speak. “I didn’t mean for you to find me like this. But I find… I cannot move.”
He glared at her to cover the flash of fear that whipped through him. Oracles and soothsayers were accustomed to taking the poppy to commune with the gods and to impart words of wisdom to their worshippers. But they had years of training, years of studying the ways of the gods and they understood how to protect themselves against evil shades that might try to enter their bodies while they were incapacitated.
Suppose Nimue had unknowingly entered that dangerous realm between the living and the dead? Suppose a malignant spirit had taken advantage of her innocence?
“What in the name of Zeus were you doing?” Without thinking, the name of the great god of his beloved mother’s people fell from his lips as he scooped Nimue into his arms. Her head lolled against his shoulder and the fact she didn’t protest at his action caused the worry to worm further into his chest.
He glowered around the room looking for the cloak he’d provided for her. Unlike the Roman gowns she wore it was a Cambrian garment, necessary for the chill weather, but he couldn’t see it anywhere.
Nimue stirred in his arms. She unclenched her fist and he saw a glimpse of the bluestone lying across her palm. “Arianrhod called me.”
He forgot about looking for her cloak and stared at her in disbelief. “What?”
Her eyelashes fluttered in an attempt to keep her eyes open. “I tried to find my Goddess. But she was…distant.”
A shudder crawled along his spine at her whispered confession. To his knowledge only those most intimate with the gods were allowed passage into the higher realms through sacred rituals and spiritual enhancing preparations. That was how it worked in Rome and he saw no reason why it should be different for the Celts.
Except the spiritual leaders of the Celts were Druids. And Druids were the sworn enemy of Rome, the scourge of the Emperor and were to be eliminated from every last dark corner of the Empire.
The few that had remained here after the Eagle had conquered their people had been driven from Cambria a year ago when a great devastation had ravaged the land.
His gaze fixed on the silver torque around Nimue’s throat. The other day he’d been taken by the elegant engravings on her bracelets and had found them oddly familiar. He recognized the same engravings, of the passage of the moon and detailed images of an owl, decorating the torque but that wa
sn’t why he had found them familiar.
It was because the engravings on her silver jewelry were the same as the exquisite embroidery of the medicine bag that had been discovered with the Briton queen.
He could try to deny the truth, the way he’d denied it from the moment the suspicion had first arisen. But there was no longer any doubt in his mind.
Nimue was the healer who’d been traveling with Caratacus’ queen. But it wasn’t that knowledge that caused his gut to knot. It was the horrifying possibility that Nimue might be more than simply a Celtic noblewoman with an admirable skill for healing.
He wouldn’t believe it. Nimue was not connected in any way with the hated Druids who, during the initial invasion of this western peninsula, had incited fear and uprising among the natives of Cambria.
“Tacitus, put me down.”
“I’m taking you to Marcellus.” He stamped through the doorway but no servants were to hand. Just because Nimue used the poppy in the same way the Oracles did, didn’t mean anything. Perhaps she’d merely mimicked a ritual she’d witnessed an ancient Druid perform. “Where in Hades is your cloak?”
“If you put me down, I’ll get my cloak.” Nimue no longer slurred her words or slumped against him, but neither did she struggle to escape. Of course she isn’t a Druid. Those heathen creatures were wizened with age and the burden of their barbaric rituals and brutal sacrifices.
He stopped glowering around the room and looked at her, secretly shocked. He’d expected her to protest about going to see Marcellus. To assure him that there was no need. Unease spiked and all thoughts of Druids faded into the depths of his mind. Did she also fear for her health? Somehow that possibility magnified his own concern a thousandfold.
Carefully he lowered her to the floor, holding onto her arms until he was reassured she wasn’t in danger of collapsing. She shot him a glance he couldn’t quite fathom—an odd combination of exasperation and amusement. He wasn’t sure whether to be charmed or insulted.
“Do you often put your life in danger in order to commune with your goddess?” Perhaps, after all, the Celts did such things differently from his own people. It made more sense than the other possibility. He watched her go back into the bedchamber, push the bluestone into one of her leather pouches and retrieve her cloak, which had slid onto the floor behind his casket. He followed her and swung the heavy material around her shoulders. The cold fear that had gripped him just moments before faded. Nimue’s eyes were focused; her balance restored and as far as he could tell no malignant spirit fought a battle for her body.
She was still going to see Marcellus, though. And he hadn’t yet discarded the idea of taking her to the temple located within the garrison and offer sacrifice for her safety, just to be on the safe side.
“My life wasn’t in danger.” There was a haughty note in her voice and his relief increased. With every word she uttered she sounded more like her usual self. How long would it take her to recall the way he’d ordered her back to his quarters earlier? He was sure she had no intention of letting that pass uncontested. “You weren’t supposed to discover me meditating. I wasn’t expecting you back for the midday meal.”
His relief vanished. He’d last seen Nimue shortly before the midday meal, but that had been hours ago. Was she truly unaware that it was early evening? “How long did you commune with your goddess, Nimue?”
She gave an impatient sigh as if his questions wearied her. “Not long. And the experience has left me famished.”
He pulled open the door and led her outside. She paused, a frown on her face, and glanced up at the sky as if the position of the sun puzzled her. He knew Oracles could spend countless hours in trance and then behave as if mere moments had elapsed. The look on Nimue’s face suggested that she had no idea how long she’d been insensible and couldn’t fathom why the sun had moved so far to the western horizon.
If she had inhaled the poppy before, she would know of its time-altering perceptions. If she was a Druid she wouldn’t look bemused by the fact many hours had passed since they had last spoken.
As they made their way toward the Valetudinarium he almost convinced himself. But one fact hammered in the back of his mind, an insistent refrain. Abruptly he stopped and pulled Nimue toward him, uncaring of who might see or later comment. “What possessed you to smoke the opium as if you were a priestess?”
Her eyes widened and for one eternal, tortured moment he saw guilt flare in her beautiful green depths. His chest constricted and heart slammed against his ribs in denial, and only years of rigorous training prevented him from reeling back in shock.
I’m mistaken. There was no guilt in her eyes, only confusion. And she was right to be confused because how could he think to accuse her of being a priestess? To even suspect she was in any way connected to the Druid cult that had once polluted this corner of the Empire could result in her death.
“I don’t know.” She sounded unsure, as if for the first time she was actually considering the matter. “My Goddess commanded it.” Still she did not sound entirely convinced and he gritted his teeth before he could ask any other probing question.
Since when did the gods—or heathen goddesses in this case—demand such things from their ordinary followers? It was the kind of command they issued to the devoted, to those who dedicated their lives to serving the gods’ obscure wishes.
To those who would know how to conduct themselves in the presence of immortals; those who were trained in the ways to channel demands from the deities to the common man.
Nimue was no Druid. But others might see her differently. He couldn’t take the chance that her ill-advised use of the poppy could be misconstrued. The less people who knew of it the safer she would be. And while he trusted Marcellus with his life, he would trust no one but himself with Nimue’s.
“Say nothing of this to Marcellus.” He kept his voice low, his gaze locked with Nimue’s and hoped that, for once, she would obey him without question. “Not everyone is willing to overlook the worship of foreign gods.”
He wasn’t including Marcellus, but let her believe so if it would ensure she held her tongue. Then he saw her frown, recognized the question in her eyes, and belatedly recalled what he’d told her the other day.
Rome embraced the gods of other cultures, so long as their own deities remained supreme. Would she remind him?
“I understand.” There was a hushed tone in her voice that convinced him she truly did understand. That did not ease his mind. “I don’t know what possessed me, Tacitus. Arianrhod has never commanded me to do anything like that before.”
Heedless of protocol he wrapped his arm around her shoulders and resumed walking. She spoke of her goddess not as if she were an unreachable deity to be worshipped from afar, but as though they were on intimate terms.
He tried to shove the word from his mind but it lingered all the same.
Priestess.
Was it possible to be a Celtic priestess yet not be a cursed Druid as well? The question hovered on the tip of his tongue but he swallowed the words.
He didn’t want to know.
Chapter Twenty-Four
As Tacitus led her into the healer’s dwelling, a surprisingly large structure, Nimue’s heart hammered against her breast and her stomach churned with nerves at what a foolish, irresponsible risk she’ taken.
But when she’d returned to her body, she’d thought only moments had passed while she had trembled before Gwydion and seen the mystical message in the cloudy sky. She had never intended for Tacitus to find the evidence of what she’d done, much less discover her in such a disoriented state.
She’d seen the question in his eyes. Yet he hadn’t accused her outright. Did that mean she’d deflected his suspicion? Or was it merely her own guilt at her reckless behavior she had seen reflected back at her?
Perhaps the thought that she was an acolyte, a Druid in training, had truly not crossed his mind. If it had surely he wouldn’t have wound his arm around her shoulders. His loyal
ty to Rome would demand he take her to his commander where she would be interrogated and tortured until they decided to crucify her.
The pit of her stomach knotted, causing familiar waves of dread to burn through her veins. She wanted to believe that Tacitus didn’t suspect her but she couldn’t fully believe it. Because if so, why had he warned her against telling Marcellus the truth of what she’d been doing?
As they entered the building a faint scent of astringent lingered in the air. Distracted from her troubling thoughts she gazed at the scrubbed floor and then looked up along the passageway. It appeared that many rooms inhabited this dwelling. How different it was from the sacred glades or simple huts where her people tended the sick.
They were shown into a small room that looked to be Marcellus’ private office. How dearly these Romans loved their offices, but unlike Tacitus’ one back at his quarters there were no detailed maps of the area on the wall. Instead there were astonishingly accurate portrayals of the human body.
Fascinated, Nimue stared, once again forgetting her current precarious predicament. She knew Romans had a better grasp of healing than her people gave them credit for, but it appeared their knowledge in matters of the internal body was also more advanced than she’d imagined.
If only she and Marcellus could talk as one healer to another. Less than a moon ago, she would have scorned the thought that a Roman might teach her anything when it came to the healing arts but now she was not so close-minded.
The thought might be sacrilege to her people but the thirst for knowledge was ingrained into the fabric of her being. Yet even as she harbored the fragile hope, she knew it was futile.
She wouldn’t be here long enough to learn anything of significance, even if she was permitted to barter her knowledge in exchange.
“Medicine intrigues you.” Tacitus’ hand slid along the length of her arm before resting possessively over her hip. She turned to him and didn’t even try to hide how fascinating she found the contents of this room.
Enslaved (The Druid Chronicles Book 3) Page 19
