by Jane Stain
But what was she doing over here on this side of the wall? This strange woman was wearing enemy clothing and had come into Pictland by herself.
Was she a spy?
Or worse, a charming female assassin?
As she continued to chew him out, he studied her, telling himself he had to keep her at arm’s length. Well, he would until he knew more about her. She seemed so… innocent. Guileless. Passionate. Full of a vibrancy absent from all the women he had ever known, this one had a story to tell, and he wanted to hear it.
There must be an innocuous explanation for her attire, surely, because Breth wanted to know more about her. He knew he ought to throw her over his shoulder and run with her to the wall and pitch her over. But despite himself, he was fascinated.
The fact that a woman he had never met before in his life was uncharacteristically furious at him didn’t hurt his attraction for her at all. Not in the least. Unlike any other woman he had known — including his mother — she was letting him know she was angry at him.
Women just didn’t do that.
Not so you could hear them.
Not on purpose.
She took the helmet off and tossed it on the ground, where it make a thunk noise that startled her, making her jump. And all the while, she berated him, trying to pass off her startled leap as a hop toward him and failing in a most attractive way.
Her hands were planted firmly on her hips when they weren’t brushing her hair out of her face, her deep brown eyes were full of fire, she kept tossing her curly brown hair out of her way but it kept flopping into her face anyway and making her cheeks red in a pretty way, and her angry mouth ran the whole time.
"Why don't you watch where you're going? You could have killed me with your clumsy feet. What kind of person kicks a woman in the head when she's lying in the middle of the road..."
At this point, she looked all around, plainly surprised to find herself in the forest on his side of the wall. But she didn’t let that stop her vicious verbalism.
"Well you could have killed me, you know. You really need to be more careful. Didn't your mother teach you to be careful around other people? Lack of consideration is not a good trait in a person..."
While she nagged at him, Breth studied this odd stranger more closely, looking for clues that would tell him where she came from and what she was up to.
She was a bit too well-fed for his liking. The daughter of someone prosperous, no doubt. Certainly not from Pictland, or he would have seen her before.
She was afraid, judging by the way she never looked at him.
Yet she was curious about him, because her eyes kept trying to study him, and then she would make them look away. She would gulp when she made herself look away.
But he admired her refusal to cower. He marveled at it. And so he let her berate him. It wasn’t costing him anything, not with no one around who could tease him about it later.
He wanted to ask her how she knew his language, but she wasn't letting him get a word in edgewise, still covering her fear by going on and on about how careless he was and how his mother hadn't raised him correctly.
It was hard not to laugh, she was so helpless and yet so ferocious.
Like a kitten.
But an extraordinary kitten.
Her fingernails were long and clean, her hands so smooth as she gestured at him in anger that he longed to find out what it felt like to hold someone's hand who had never worked in the fields. She wasn't a beauty, but her features were miraculously unscarred by weather. If he hadn’t heard her speak with such worldly experience, he would have thought her barely of fertile age.
She must have lived inside somewhere safe and warm all her life. Yes, perhaps she was even nobly born, but of what people it was difficult to surmise. She had the eyes and skin of the migrant Jews, but also the hands of the Saxons, the battle stance of the fierce Norse, and the temper of the red-headed Gaels.
She was endowed well enough in all the right places...
What was he thinking? His dear Caitlin was barely nine moon cycles dead. He should mourn her a bit longer before…
He smacked himself in the back of the head and then tried to pass it off as scratching under his hair.
He had to keep control of himself, which meant his thoughts as well.
Perhaps she was the concubine of the barbarian chieftain, being a lady and all. But she sure didn't speak or act like a lady, let alone one who had run away from her captors.
He sniffed, unable to believe what he smelled, now that he was close to her. The better to study her was all.
Was that ale on her breath?
And would she ever run out of breath to scold him with?
"Well don't you stand there gawking, show me to the nearest town. And tell me where in Heaven’s name we are. Quit being so impertinent and start being useful, if you want to make it up to me for kicking me in the head like a dolt so that I don’t take you to court and... That’s weird. I can’t think of the word I want there. It’s when you… You get a… Well never mind. You know what I mean…"
Biting his cheeks to keep from making her realize her tirade was more comical than frightening, he sheathed his sword on his back and raised his hands up in an ancient sign of peaceful surrender.
"I refuse to take you to the nearest town, but I’m headed to where my clan is stationed. Will that suffice, kitten?"
On hearing the words ‘clan is stationed,’ she turned every which way with such a forlorn look on her face that he almost felt sorry for her, but not quite. After all, she wore the tunic and helmet of the savages who had killed his Caitlin.
She had pluck, though. Her eyes finally rested on him, but with a quizzical look that wasn't as forlorn as a moment ago. The effect was slightly ruined by the blush that rose in every visible bit of her skin, but she was resolved to be in command. It was so unlike anything he’d seen before in a woman that he couldn’t help admiring her.
"Very well, take me to your village, then. You have me at a disadvantage. I can’t remember how I got here or even where here is, but I have to assume I'm in Scotland, since you speak of clans and are wearing that ridiculous blue war paint. Don't you know it was the Picts who painted themselves blue with woad? That was two thousand years ago. Really, I would think someone who lives here ought to know that. It's the first thing you learn when you read any ancient Scottish history at all. Of course, most of the history was written by the Romans. They were partial to their own side of the story, but a recent retranslation says it wasn't even woad but crushed blue glass that the Picts rubbed into their skin and scarred themselves with..."
She kept going on.
And on.
And on.
He wondered if she was daft. That was the only explanation for the crazy things she was saying.
Growing weary of her endless jibber jabber, he turned and started walking toward his clan.
"I'll be going now."
She spoke much longer than he thought she would before she realized how helpless she was and started following him with careless running steps which scattered rocks and pieces of bark and twigs in their clumsiness.
Not only was she a kitten, but a house kitten at that. No experience with the outdoors.
At long last, Breth allowed himself to smile.
Five
Marcus Androlocles Severus, a distant cousin of Emperor Hadrian, got out of the too-small bath and waited impatiently while two female slaves dressed him in his white woolen toga, wrapping it around his corpulent body and then carefully draping it over one of his shoulders and fastening it with a brooch.
Looking in the inadequate burnished bronze mirror, he had one of the female slaves comb and oil his long curly brown hair while the other one trimmed and buffed his fingernails and toenails, then fitted his golden sandals to his feet.
On his own, he donned all of his gold chains and polished his jeweled rings before he left his chambers to inspect his fort with the kind of care expected of him by
the emperor ― may he live forever and be worshipped in the manner he deserved.
Ugh. When would he be done with this remote island full of savages and return to the mainland, where there were vineyards and wineries and so much more of the finer things in life? Unlike here. Here was just grass and trees and stony mountainous ground unsuitable for farming.
He grinned as he ran his finger over the top of the armory cabinet, certain he would find dust that needed cleaning — but he was disappointed.
He could at least find mirth in the fact that he, and his own, had deprived the local savages of the arable land to the south, having driven them north of this wall his fort’s men guarded.
He saw a clump of soldiers at their ease in the next room. That wouldn’t do at all.
“You there!”
They looked up at him but didn’t move.
What impertinence! He was going to…
Oh wait. They were that new squadron who had arrived just this morning, fresh off the ship and unaware of how he wanted things done here.
He indulged himself in his most patient smile. He would educate them.
“Yes, you! All of you! Get up and get over here.”
They got up, but they only started walking over.
He threw his arms up in a dramatic gesture of impatience and strength. Educating them might prove too difficult. Maybe it would be better to make examples of them. The other men were well-educated by now to what he preferred, but a reminder now and then couldn’t hurt. Couldn’t hurt him or his reputation, that was.
Well, on second thought, he didn’t want to work up a sweat so soon after he had just bathed and been dressed. He would try one more time to educate them.
“Run over here as if your lives depended on it, because they do!”
Seeing sense at last, the new squadron did indeed run over the rest of the way, and when they got there, they properly bowed.
Oh well. Educating them hadn’t been too difficult after all. But now that they were here, they needed a task.
Inspiration struck.
“Follow me.”
He marched them outside into a corner of the courtyard, where some local Picts he had enslaved were erecting another lookout tower. He turned to his new squadron.
“You lot will take over construction here. And see to it that these Picts haul those bricks for you from that pile over there to a new pile right here where you can reach them. Supervise them one-on-one. You can’t be too guarded against these savages. Given an instant’s opportunity, they’ll slit your throat.”
The squadron nodded and looked over the construction site, angling for a way to get up and resume the work as they discussed the task at hand amongst themselves.
“I know masonry, I’ll go up.”
“I do as well. Anyone else?”
“No? Well then the rest of you choose a savage each and supervise them carrying the bricks over.”
One of them addressed Marcus.
“Even with that large pile moved over here, there won’t be enough bricks. What then?”
Perhaps this was getting too difficult after all. Longing to get back to his chamber in the innermost sanctum of the fort where he could lounge on his padded chair and be massaged by his female slaves while being served all the delicacies that were to be had in this drab land, Marcus huffed an exaggerated huff and rolled his eyes in his most impatient way, putting his hand over the side of his face.
“Then we’ll have the slaves make more bricks, obviously.”
Meanwhile, the Picts were putting down their masonry tools and descending the scaffolding they had erected. Just as the last one’s foot touched the stone floor of the courtyard and the two masons among his new squadron prepared to go up, the scaffolding rattled and shook.
One of the men in his new squadron pushed Marcus down onto the cold stone of the courtyard floor.
How dare he!
But before Marcus could open his mouth to insist that the man be flogged fifty times with the lash to his bare back and then hung by the neck until dead, too large heavy clay pots of mortar hit the paving stones where Marcus had been standing a moment before. The clay pots shattered, and the mortar flew everywhere, splattering gobs in his freshly oiled hair and on his freshly washed face and undyed wool toga.
Feeling indignant at having been pushed to the ground nevertheless, Marcus got up without even dusting himself off or flinging the mortar off of him. He pointed to the slave who had gotten off the scaffolding last and spoke to the soldiers of the new squadron who had just come out here with him.
“Don’t just stand around. Find a rope and hang him from the scaffolding until he is dead. And then make sure these other slaves finish this work here, cleaning this up and hauling all those bricks over here.”
He waited while this commenced and then looked up at the two who had climbed the scaffolding.
“Quit gawking and resume building this tower!”
They hopped to it.
Satisfied, Marcus headed back to his chamber with an anticipatory grin. It appeared he was in need of another bath.
Six
Cradling the helmet in her arm as if it were a baby, Jaelle frantically ran through the forest to catch up with the naked Pict.
Jumping Jehoshaphat!
She had time traveled. Without John. Well, with the help of his helmet. But she didn’t need John in order to time travel! She had done it anyway, had gone all the way back to the time of the Celts. And she had met one who was a Pict.
This.
Was.
Awesome!
And to top it all off, the helmet had done some sort of magic on her and made her able to speak so that the Pict understood. And she understood what that gorgeous man said, too. She hoped she would remember his language after she returned home, because no one in her time knew Pictish. It was a lost language, only alluded to in the carvings of a few surviving stones.
But arg!
She flushed all over in embarrassment, glad the Pict had rushed on ahead of her and couldn’t see her right now.
Why had her mouth run on and on at him as if he were a man she had met in her own time at the museum, spouting off all her bookish knowledge and acting like she was in control when she obviously was not?
Well, she knew why.
Because the Pict was naked!
In the buff.
Wearing nothing but blue clay.
As she ran and thought about it, she gradually realized that yelling like that had been a form of defense. Instinctively, she had tried to give the incredibly toned and strong man so much to think about that the idea of taking her by force didn’t even occur to him. She could see that now.
So even as she ran after him, she wondered at the wisdom of doing so. Men from this time were not known for their chivalry.
But he had been decent so far.
And he was a known commodity. The next man she met might not be so nice. And if she was with this first man, he might stand up for her against the others.
Anyway, she had the helmet. If things got scary, she would just put it on and go home.
Biting her tongue every time it tried to go off on the man who rushed on ahead of her, she followed him like that for a while, never quite catching up so that she wouldn't have to look at him. Well, who was she kidding? So that he wouldn't catch her looking at him and see just how flustered it made her that he wasn't wearing any clothes.
She had read about the Picts in the Roman history books, of course. She had known intellectually that the Romans had fought naked warriors painted in blue woad. But books hadn’t come close to preparing her for naked flesh and blood right in front of her eyes.
Huffing a bit for breath because he walked so fast and had such long legs that were shapely and covered in all this blue stuff and fascinating…
Well, she felt like she really had to stop and speak to him.
"Please tell me we're almost there and I can sit down soon."
He stopped, turned arou
nd, and laughed. But it wasn't a mocking laugh. And it wasn't unkind, just amused. His face crinkled up in an attractive way when he laughed. Even from this far away, it affected his whole countenance and made him not scary at all but rather someone she would like to get to know…
Well that was a stupid thought.
Of course she wouldn't be here long enough to get to know anybody.
Right, but she could enjoy him a little bit. He seemed like that sort of person. Wise. And surprisingly kind and understanding, for a walking killing machine. Her eyes kept staring at his magnificently naked body with nary an ounce of fat on it and every part exquisite.
She knew she should get moving. Should say something. But she was spellbound. He was that much eye candy.
But then the laughter stopped abruptly and he became once more the scary man, scowling at her and throwing his hand back the way they had come.
"You shouldn’t come home with me, now that I think about it. You're dressed like one of those invaders who are bent on driving my people off our land. We’re at war with them, and of course you know that. I’m not sure what you're doing here. Perhaps if you can give me a good explanation, then I will bring you with me and vouch for you. But I have to warn you I've just about resolved against it."
Desperate for him not to leave her here alone, Jaelle pleaded with him with her eyes and scrunched her lips up over on one side of her face to show him she was thinking.
And she was.
On the one hand, she was super curious about this man's home. Not much was known about the Picts at all. If she could know even a little bit about how they lived and was able to document it with archaeological evidence, she would be famous and employed the rest of her life, regardless of any lack of official schooling. It was the kind of break she had been dreaming of her whole life.
But on the other hand, this man looked fierce. Even without the sword on his back — which she had no doubt he knew how to use like it was an extension of his arm — he looked like he could kill a bear and skin it in the space of five minutes ― with his bare hands. He was a hundred percent human but fully confident in the wild just like an animal.
