by Jules Watson
Instantly Samana straightened, pushing her lush breasts out against the fine linen of her dress, brushing the green silk scarf to her shoulders to show off the shining black of her hair, the curve of her neck. She knew well how to make her dark eyes flash, and she did it now as she bowed to the messenger and moved gracefully back into the room, for all the world as if she were a Roman wife welcoming a Roman official into her husband’s house. ‘Welcome,’ she murmured throatily.
The messenger, pale and sick though he was, started, and his greedy gaze swept her from head to foot, lingering over the out-thrust curves of breast and hip. ‘Lady,’ he responded, as he swept past.
Agricola showed no softness before his men, and his main audience chamber reflected this. Apart from the map tables and high stools, there was only one dining couch – its cover stained – one low dining table and two rush chairs covered in worn rugs. The three-legged braziers and numerous oil lamps were a necessity in this cold, dark land, but any other signs of ease had been banished to the bedroom. As she so often was, Samana thought wryly.
Agricola was going through tedious lists of supplies and requisitions with his quartermaster, but he immediately dismissed the soldier and swivelled on his camp stool. His face, always carefully devoid of emotion, for once registered surprise at the messenger’s appearance, and Samana knew that she had been right about the man’s importance. Or rather, the importance of his master.
The newcomer bowed his head, then straightened, drawing from his belt a package wrapped tightly in oiled linen and leather. ‘Gnaeus Julius Agricola, Governor of Britannia and commander of Our army in the province,’ he intoned, holding out the tube of leather. ‘Greetings from Our Divine Emperor,’ he paused dramatically, ‘Caesar Domitian, son of the deified Vespasian.’
At the words, Agricola leaped to his feet, and Samana took one step forward, her hand to her mouth.
‘What did you say?’ Agricola demanded, snatching the message. ‘Domitian?’
The messenger smiled smugly, pleased to play his role in the little drama. ‘My sorrow indeed to convey to you the sudden death of Titus, eldest son of our glorious Father Vespasian. My joy to announce the succession of Domitian, his brother, second son of our glorious Father—’
‘Yes, yes, I know their bloodlines!’ Agricola snapped, running his hand through his clipped, grey hair. Yet Samana, so attuned to him, saw the sorrow in his eyes masked with another swift thought as he turned his back, hastily unwrapping the protective coverings and breaking open the wax seals.
With his usual economy, Agricola unrolled the parchment sheet and tilted it to the lamplight, scanning it for the pertinent details. Then, abruptly, he threw it down on the table. ‘Great Jupiter!’
His voice betrayed shock, and dare Samana believe … excitement? Then Agricola seemed to come to himself, turning back to order the slave to take the messenger to the bath-house and bring him wine and food.
Samana waited, quivering silently, until the man was led away, and then rushed to Agricola’s side, tugging on his arm. ‘My lord, what is it? What has happened?’
Alone with her, Agricola let the fire flare in his face, and instantly it stripped away the many careworn years of outdoor marches that had been carved into his weathered skin. ‘The Emperor Titus, may the gods honour him, is dead.’ He paused, breathing hard. ‘He was a worthy man, like his father, yet my grief has already been assuaged by his successor, Domitian. The new emperor allows me – nay, orders me! – to undertake the subjugation of all Alba. At last!’
Samana’s breath stopped. She swallowed. ‘Subjugation?’
Agricola’s dark eyes burned in the lamplight, yet seared straight through her and fastened instead on thoughts of his real, and only, love: conquest. ‘Lady,’ he said hoarsely, ‘our time of waiting is almost over. For two years have I stayed at heel, like a cur who knows no better than the master. My hands tied, my feet bound, stuck at a frontier of my own making, while the tribes in the north taunted me. The Emperor even took my men away to defend the eastern frontier! But no more. No more!’ He slammed one fist into his palm as he paced the room, energy rippling along every lean muscle beneath his simple tunic and soldier’s cloak. She had never seen him betray emotion like this. ‘Now I have the god-given leave to advance, to win all Alba for the Empire!’
Samana was still, though a similar fire was surging along every fibre of her body. Only her chest moved, rising and falling so fast she panted. For when Agricola won Alba, then would she have her reward, her secret dream: riches and lands beyond measure, and the power and title that came with it, a title no one had ever held – Ard-Ban-ri, high queen of Alba.
And revenge, too, on those who had thwarted her. That scornful bitch Rhiann, of course. And Eremon of Erin, who had used and then rejected her body, as well as the allegiance she offered.
She repressed the fiery, confused swirl of rage and desire that still surged at Eremon’s memory, and instead curled her arms around Agricola’s restless neck and pressed her body against his. There was some time until the messenger returned for his evening of political talk, and Samana knew she must take every chance she had to bind Agricola to her. And he was so alive at this moment, reeking with a raw excitement that belied his forty years. She rubbed, catlike, against his chest, and – yes! – Agricola’s eyes did seem to come back into the room, to rake over her as a starving man would eye his food and, despite the hour, she knew he would take her right here and now, perhaps against the dark wall, where no one could see. She licked her lips, leaning up on her toes to him …
There was a cough outside, and a shadow fell over them from the open door. ‘Commander?’
Abruptly, Agricola pushed Samana away and strode to the door, leaving her panting and furious. Another messenger, Goddess curse him, and this one a rider, who had come far and fast, by the muddy, sodden look of him.
This time the message was verbal and hastily given. The Novantae, a tribe of remote south-west Alba, had rebelled. Forts had been attacked, and a fleet of hide boats had crossed the straits to raid Roman-held lands in Britannia.
In the past, such news would have brought a grim anger to Agricola’s brow, a fury reined in and only betrayed by white lines around his mouth and eyes. But now, he almost laughed in the messenger’s face. ‘Rebellion, is it?’ he crowed. ‘I’ll show them with my own sword how far they’ll get with that! Now there is nowhere within Alba that they can hide from my vengeance, nowhere that is not laid open to the might of our new Emperor’s army!’
The weary messenger, his helmet under his arm, was unaccustomed to such outbursts from his commander. His face cleared in a relieved grin.
‘Send for my legates!’ Agricola cried to him. ‘And my tribunes! I want them here in half an hour, for we must make the men ready to march soon. What say we go south for some sport, eh?’
At once forgotten in a flurry of barked orders and running slaves, Samana caught up her woollen cloak and slipped out of the door, unnoticed by Agricola, whose lust had vanished as quickly as it came.
Outside, in the biting wind that came off the bay, she flung her cloak around her shoulders and stabbed the brooch-pin home. But beneath the anger, it was fear that beat in her belly. For she was realizing that sexual favours, no matter how expert, how exquisitely targeted to one man’s tastes, would always pall in time. She had become complacent, when in fact she must continue to seek ways of being useful to ensure that Agricola’s favour continued.
And of course, she must also take heed of any other avenues to safety that presented themselves. Catching her breath, she tapped one fingernail on her teeth, looking down the path to where smoke rose from the beehive-shaped bath-house, the only brick building in the camp. Then a small smile lifted her mouth, and she glanced back. A few officers were already hurrying up the path to the headquarters, buckling on their swords, donning their crested helmets. Agricola was inside, and she forgotten.
Samana set off down the stony path between the rows of tents, the
soldiers parting before her but never meeting her eyes. She didn’t care what she was to them, or what they thought of her secret exploits. Like a spider in a web, she must cast threads out in all directions, and not rest too heavily on one.
Soon she was close enough to smell the wood burning in the furnace beneath the bath-house. Inside, the sleek messenger would be sitting in the steam, scraping the dirt from his oily skin with a strigil, unwinding from his travels, thinking, no doubt, of Rome. He was a slave, yet some slaves enjoyed a high rank, and this one looked as if he wielded influence. She could always scent such things.
After a casual look around, Samana ducked inside the bathhouse, listening carefully. But there was no low murmur of male voices from the hot pool inside, or the changing alcoves. The soldiers were drilling hard now that leaf-bud had arrived, and would not be released for such pleasures as bathing until evening. All was silent, wreathed in thick, opaque steam.
Samana took a few more steps as she discarded her cloak and unwound her wrap, folding it carefully and stowing it in a niche in the wall. It would not do to spoil so fine a silk.
CHAPTER 7
‘What are you doing, boy?’ Colum cocked one eyebrow at Aedan, a glint in his eye. ‘That’s a song to send any man to sleep!’
Aedan, crouched on a stool at the edge of the fire-shadows, straightened, his pale cheeks flushing. But as Finan and Colum both let out a chuckle over their fidchell game, the bard raised his chin. ‘I’m composing, as it happens.’
‘What, a lullaby? Play a jig, man!’
Aedan opened his mouth for a retort, then thought better of it and, sweeping his curling, dark hair over his shoulders, removed himself and his harp to the farther reaches of the King’s Hall. From the gloom near the storage alcoves, a soft strumming resumed.
‘Good,’ Eremon muttered to Conaire, on a hearth-bench by the fire. ‘I’ve had my fill of noise tonight, no matter how pleasant.’
The feast had been rowdy, as would be expected for a mourning feast turned to celebration. Yet, after making stilted conversation with Tharan and his cronies, juggling cups of ale with platters of roast deer, pig meat and buttered salmon, Eremon was relieved when everyone finally retired, leaving only his men and the women in the Hall. Now the low chatter was broken only by the snapping logs in the great fire pit and the click of pieces on the fidchell board. Even Fergus, one of the most boisterous, had disappeared on some amorous exploit.
‘We ride out to the eastern border tomorrow.’ Eremon took a small swig of ale from his bronze-rimmed cup, pacing himself as he had done all night. ‘We must know if the Romans have poked their noses out of their camps yet.’
‘Finan has the training in hand.’ Conaire stretched out his long legs to the fire with a sigh. ‘I could do with some hard riding, brother – and some fighting too, aye?’
‘That will come soon enough.’
‘Although …’ Conaire’s eyes drifted to the other side of the fire, where Caitlin’s golden head was bowed over sewing with Eithne.
Eremon followed his gaze, and clapped Conaire on the thigh. ‘She will be in good hands,’ he said. ‘Remember that Rhiann cured you once, from an injury far worse than breeding!’
Conaire grunted in agreement, massaging the old scar in his groin, the product of a meeting with a boar’s tusk.
As if Eremon’s words had called her, Rhiann suddenly returned to the Hall from her house, a shallow bowl in hand, her cheeks pink from the night air outside. As she resumed her seat on the cushions beside Caitlin, Didius leaped to serve her more mead, but she waved him away with a gentle smile. It was that smile which arrested Eremon, for since their argument it had taken him a full day to stop being surly, and she, showing great wisdom, had left him alone. But now …
She had unbound her copper hair outside, and had donned a fine dress for the feast, a long-sleeved shift of purple linen and sleeveless robe of deep blue, embroidered in gold and pinned on each shoulder by mare-shaped brooches. The dress fell in loose folds to her feet, hinting at the curves beneath, subtle because of her height and fineness.
Rhiann laughed now at something Caitlin said, throwing back her head. Her laugh always surprised Eremon, too – so rich and throaty. And with that thought came a powerful surge of lust that burned his veins.
He drank again, his hand trembling slightly. Gods, but after all that time of wanting, he had finally joined with her on the Sacred Isle, and it had been magical. And since then … nothing, for they had had no chance to be alone. Yet the need Eremon had repressed for so long had broken free that night of the rite in an eruption of love and lust, and their two soul-flames had joined among the stars. There was no way, now, that he could contain all that again. And yet, what did she want?
Amidst all that had happened, Eremon had not forgotten what Rhiann had told him on the beach, about the raiders. Indeed, below everything else, it gnawed at him as an unreachable ache. So she will be scared. He knew that, must prepare for that. But how did he get past those memories? What if she felt those men when he touched her? There were things to consider when a woman was a virginal maid. But how could he banish ghosts? She loves me, but may not want me.
Gamely, he tried to swallow down the anxiety along with his ale. Yet it stuck in his throat, and would not be dislodged.
‘Here.’ Rhiann handed the horn cup of cooling brew to Caitlin, and shook out her damp hair, for the rain was still pattering down on the thatch outside.
Caitlin drank and grimaced, resting the cup beside her on the rushes. ‘Urgh!’
‘Urgh indeed.’ Rhiann tucked loose hair behind her ears, sighing as the tension of her uncoiled braids eased. ‘But it will strengthen your womb.’
‘It was just the normal expecting sickness.’ Caitlin flicked out her fingers as Rhiann peered into her patient’s eyes. ‘Honestly, do stop looking at me like that!’
‘You should get to bed and rest,’ Rhiann murmured.
Caitlin tried to toss her braids defiantly, but as they were wound about her head, her jerky nod did no more than make Eithne smile as she glanced up from her sewing. ‘You’re not really going to be like this for the whole five moons, are you?’ Caitlin demanded of Rhiann. ‘Once I’m back on my horse and in the fresh air I will feel fine!’
‘Horse!’ Rhiann’s eyebrows rose. ‘And just what do you expect to be doing? Riding the borders with Eremon’s men again? Hunting for deer with your bow? Or perhaps raiding a Roman fort?’
Caitlin sucked in her lip as if considering. ‘Yes, well, why not? Although not a Roman raid, of course, that might be too dangerous.’
Rhiann broke into a laugh that was echoed by Eithne. Even Didius gave in to a tentative smile, looking up from the stone loom-weight he was boring. In the days of Rhiann’s absence he had taken refuge at Bran and Aldera’s house, for he never spent time near Eremon and his men without Rhiann. He had combed his beard and braided his thatch of black hair in Epidii fashion, and the colour had returned to his round cheeks.
Rhiann smiled at him, but just then she sensed eyes on her, and she looked across the fire and met Eremon’s gaze. The bones of his face were stark with a hunger her belly recognized, and as it lurched she realized that tonight they were going to their marriage bed, as if for the first time.
For the bed of furs in the alcove above had always been a cold place. Once Eremon was made war leader Rhiann had formally moved into the Hall with him, yet in reality she had often slept in her own house – and he in other beds if they were available. When they did share a sleeping place, they lay with their backs to each other, the gap between their bodies a symbol of the distance between their hearts.
Rhiann started now, realizing that her thoughts had made her blood beat faster at her temples. This husband was alive and real, and could no longer be kept at bay, far from the inner recesses of her heart, or her body. And she didn’t want him far away, she didn’t …
She forced herself to look at Eremon again. Conaire was talking animatedly to Rori on his ot
her side, but Eremon’s eyes rested on Rhiann, as warm as the touch of his hands. A knot of panic tightened in her, because she didn’t want to fail him, and her eyes blurred as she turned her cheek away, cursing herself.
‘A stór.’ Suddenly Eremon was before her, holding out one hand, in his other a lit pine taper. Rhiann stared at the tiny, spitting flame and took Eremon’s fingers, letting him draw her to the stairs, which led to the gallery above. The sound of Aedan’s harp, the farewells of those well loved, all passed her by in a haze of woodsmoke and firelight.
As they climbed, the darkness took them, each bedplace along the gallery a pool of shadow, the fire-glow drifting up through the opening in the floor to dance on the sloping thatch. The bed boxes themselves, filled with heather and bracken, were surrounded by wicker screens and hangings on all sides, to afford some privacy. Yet sounds still carried, and there was always the sense of people close all around, breathing in the darkness.
When they reached their bedplace, Rhiann’s limbs froze of their own accord, as Eremon touched the taper to the rush wick in the mutton-fat lamp. In the little pool of flickering light, he carefully took off his empty belt and laid it over his scabbard on the cherrywood chest at the bed’s foot. He sat down on the fur covers to slip off his boots and unlace his trousers, and then he was before her in just his tunic, unpinning her dress with gentle fingers until it fell to the ground.
Fear was rising in Rhiann’s throat, choking her, a fear that did not listen to her reason, that she loved him with all that was in her, that he was a man who would never hurt, never take what she would not give. The roof, sloping low over the bed, seemed to press down on her, and she realized she was clutching at the folds of her shift with rigid fingers.
With still no word, Eremon took her hands and eased them flat against his own breast, wrapping her in a warm circle of arms. When she at last slid her palms around his back, he sank to the bed, the bracken and feather mattress crackling beneath their weight. ‘Mo chroi, my heart,’ he murmured, pressing her face into his chest. ‘Do you think I’ve forgotten what you told me not one moon ago? Do you think I would take you, all unwilling and terrified, like those men did?’
