by Jayne Castel
A candle for his parents and brothers. He couldn’t even remember their names these days. Yet lighting a candle for them reminded him that somewhere in the mists of time, he’d been part of a family. He’d belonged somewhere.
Then, once the candle had been lit, he slid in between the bank of candles and the wall, placed both hands upon a stone block, and pushed inward.
The ancient door opened, the soft rasp of stone against stone echoing through the alcove. Maximus hesitated, casting a glance over his shoulder. The chanting continued.
Turning back to the opening, he ducked his head and slipped inside.
XII
SLAYER OF THE BULL
MAXIMUS DESCENDED THE stairs in darkness before he reached a narrow tunnel where a torch hung from a bracket upon the wall, its golden light illuminating damp stone. Taking another, unlit, torch from the sconce next to the guttering torch, Maximus lit it and made his way down the tunnel to the cave beyond.
Carved out of the volcanic rock on which this town stood, this sanctuary was all Maximus, Cassian, and Draco had of their past lives.
Water coated the pitted stone walls—for there was a spring just behind the cave—the sound of dripping filling the space.
This place was a mithraeum, a temple of the ancient god Mithras.
The altar rose before Maximus, a slab of rock flanked by two long stone benches. Above it, a relief had been carved into the rock: a scene showing the god himself, slaying a bull. Either side of the altar stood two stone statues of the god’s torchbearers—Cautes and Cautopates.
Maximus hung his torch up on the wall and then lit a wand of incense. Kneeling on the chill stone before the altar, breathing in the woody scent of the incense, his gaze went to the closed iron box that sat before him.
Unsheathing his dagger, he sliced the blade across his thumb. Blood welled. Reaching out, he smeared it onto the stone altar, making the ritual sacrifice. Almost immediately, he felt the pad of his thumb itch as the bleeding stopped.
“Great God Mithras,” he murmured, his voice cutting through the hazy, incense-filled air. “Slayer of the Bull, Lord of the Ages. The wheel turns, and the Broom-star is again in the sky. Draw back the mists and grant three men of the lost legion peace … at last.”
How many times had Maximus uttered this invocation over the centuries—each time with hope in his heart? He hardly dared hope now, for they were still no closer to solving the rest of the riddle. They could make no sense of the words. And yet, with each rare visit to Stirling, Maximus made sure he traveled to this secret temple—a place where he, Cassian, and Draco left each other messages.
The three men had spent little time together over the years, each running from their own demons, chasing their own destiny. But their shared curse and faith in the Bull-slayer bound them.
Maximus’s gaze shifted once more to the closed iron box. His pulse quickened, a pressure building in the center of his chest. Would there be a message from one of them inside?
Rising to his feet, he reached forward and lifted the lid. His breath caught when he saw that there was a small scroll.
Hope flickered, like a guttering candle, in his breast.
Maybe, just maybe, one of them had discovered something.
He broke the wax seal, which bore the mark of the imperial eagle, and unfurled the message.
The words inside were dated, written in Latin, and to the point:
XV Martii MCCCI
Ego aliquid de valorem inventum omnibus nobis.
Statim veniet ad Dunnottar.
Cassian.
15 March 1301
I have discovered something of value to us all.
Come to Dunnottar immediately.
Cassian.
Maximus smiled, his fingers tightening around the parchment. Impatience thrummed within him.
What has he discovered?
He lowered the message before rolling it up and placing it back inside the box. Since the seal hadn’t been broken, he knew that he was the first to come here. Draco hadn’t yet made a trip to Stirling.
Turning, his gaze alighted upon the cloaked figure that now stood at the entrance to the cave behind him—the figure he’d known would be waiting for him.
The man’s cowled face was shadowed, although his gaze gleamed. “Good news?” he asked, his voice a low rumble in the temple’s silence.
“I believe so … I’ve lost track of the days, Norris. How long ago did Cassian visit?”
It was true. He knew it was spring, but could only guess that they were now reaching the end of March. He had no idea what the actual date was.
“No more than a week ago,” the hooded man replied. “There’s been no sign of Draco.”
Maximus stepped forward and removed the heavy pouch of silver pennies he wore upon his belt. He then dropped them into the guardian’s outstretched hand.
Maximus, Cassian, and Draco had carved this temple out of the rock themselves, using hammers and picks—long before Christians built their kirk atop it. But soon afterward, they realized they couldn’t remain in Stirling to keep the temple safe. And so, they’d hired guardians: torchbearers who served the three immortal centurions, generation after generation. And every time one of the three visited the mithraeum, they brought coin—so that these men and their families could continue to aid them over the coming years. They paid them for their service—and their silence.
Maximus had no need of most of the silver he earned from his trade. He required very little to live on. Over the years, he’d given nearly everything to the guardians.
With a smile at Norris, Maximus retrieved his torch and retraced his steps back up the tunnel. As he did so, he realized his step was lighter than it had been in a long while.
The market was even more vibrant and exciting than Heather had expected. It seemed as if traders from every corner of Scotland had converged upon the quay to sell their wares. As she strolled the length of Riverside, inhaling the muddy tang of the tidal river, Heather spied stalls selling all kinds of dried and preserved meats she’d never seen before, barrels of exotic-scented spices, an array of breads and baked goods, and pungent cheeses.
Surveying the crowd, Heather noted a number of armed warriors wandering amongst the locals. The sight both reassured her and put her on edge: they were Scottish soldiers at least, but their presence was a reminder of the shadow the English had cast over her country.
Stopping by a stall that sold bolts of brightly-colored cloth, Heather let the beautiful fabric distract her. She traced her fingertips over a bolt of gold-colored silk. How she loved all the different types of material one could buy—silk, wool, cambric, and linen—and the rainbow of shades they came in.
I wish Aila could see these. The thought of her sister made Heather stifle a pang. She’d often thought of Aila over the past few years, and wandering through the market made her remember all the times they had visited the market in Stonehaven, near Dunnottar, together.
I’ll see her again soon.
As she stroked a bolt of patterned green damask—ignoring the hopeful stare of the vendor—rough male voices drifted over the crowd.
Heather tensed, her gaze flicking right in the direction of the voices.
One of them was familiar.
Peering through the crowd, she caught a glimpse of a tall man with long auburn hair. He walked with a pronounced limp and was flanked by a group of armed warriors.
Heather’s heart leaped in her breast. Cory!
Judging from the mean look upon his face and the way his narrowed green eyes swept the crowd, the Galbraith laird’s son wasn’t in Stirling to enjoy the market.
Heat flushed through Heather. How dare he follow us here?
Her first instinct was to storm across to Cory and give him a piece of her mind, but then self-preservation checked her. Maximus had warned her to be cautious. She probably shouldn’t have come down to the market without an escort; she should have treated the threat Cory posed seriously.
&
nbsp; In situations like this, discretion was the better part of valor.
I’ll just slip away unnoticed.
Heather stepped back from the bolts of cloth.
At that moment, the crowd parted—the men and women providing a barrier between Heather and Cory moving away. And as he surveyed the market, he saw her.
Cory’s stride faltered, and he halted.
For a heartbeat, the pair of them merely stared at each other, frozen.
Heather was the first to recover. Gathering her cloak tightly around her, she spun on her heel and dove into the crowd.
Behind her, an angry male shout echoed through the market. “Heather! Stop!”
Heather didn’t look back, didn’t chance a peek over her shoulder. She knew that, despite his injured knee, Cory was only a few yards behind her. Fortunately, she was fast. Heather had always been quick on her feet, and she fled like a hunted hare now, racing down the quayside.
Shoppers—mostly women with baskets under their arms, or couples strolling arm in arm—blocked her path. Fortunately, there were few soldiers on this edge of the crowd, for one of them might have made a grab for her. Heather swerved around the shoppers, although once or twice she was forced to dig her elbows into folk in order to get them to move out of her way.
Disgruntled shouts now dogged her steps—but still she didn’t look back.
Any moment now, she expected to feel Cory’s heavy hand slam down upon her shoulder and drag her to a halt.
Yet it never came.
“Heather!” She could hear the rage in his voice, and to her relief, he sounded farther behind her than she’d thought.
Maybe she could lose him after all.
The crowds on the quay were both a hindrance and a boon, for although they slowed Heather’s flight, they also made it harder for Cory and his friends to follow her. As soon as she burst out onto the wide cobbled square at the bottom of the lower town, Heather felt dangerously exposed.
Heart galloping, she sprinted across the square and into the network of narrow streets beyond.
Please, dear Lord, don’t let this be a dead-end.
Heather didn’t know Stirling at all. How many of these streets led to stone walls where Cory could corner her?
But, fortunately, this one didn’t. Left, right, left, and left again—Heather kept running, and slowly the shouts of her pursuers died away.
Finally, Heather couldn’t run any farther. Her heart felt as if it were about to burst from her chest, her lungs were on fire, and sweat poured down her face. Slipping into an alleyway next to a bakery, she bent double, drawing in deep breaths of air.
And all the while, she listened for any sign of pursuit.
But—save her gasping breath—she heard no such sounds.
She waited a while, until her heart and breathing had slowed, until she was sure that Cory had abandoned the chase. And then—hand on the hilt of the knife Maximus had given her—Heather crept from the alleyway.
Dusk was settling over Stirling now, the last of the sun’s rays gilding the castle. Most of the streets lay in shadow.
Glancing over her shoulder, her nerves now stretched taut as if she expected Cory to jump out at her at any moment, Heather hurried up the hill toward The Golden Lion.
XIII
MAXIMUS THE MERCIFUL
MAXIMUS WAS SITTING with a cup of wine near the fire, when Heather burst into The Golden Lion’s common room. One glance and he could tell something was amiss. Her bosom was heaving, her cheeks were flushed, and strands of her light brown hair stuck to her sweaty brow.
Her gaze seized upon Maximus, and picking up her skirts, she bustled across the floor toward him. She wove in and out of the tables, ignoring the curious—and lewd—looks some of the customers were favoring her with.
“You look like you need this.” Maximus pushed the tankard of ale he’d bought Heather toward her she took a seat opposite him. “A trip to the market can be thirsty work.”
“Aye.” She grasped her fingers around the tankard, raised it to her lips, and took a deep draft. However, when she lowered it, Maximus saw the panic in her eyes.
“What is it?”
“Cory Galbraith,” she replied, her voice husky as she still struggled to regain her breath. “He’s here.”
Maximus tensed, his gaze sweeping around the common room. With the Riverside market and many soldiers in town, the inn was busier than usual. He suddenly felt exposed. “Where?”
“Down at the market. He has a group of men with him … around five or six of them, I think.” Heather took another gulp of ale. “They chased me through the town, until I finally lost them.”
Maximus’s mouth thinned. He’d anticipated Galbraith following them—but he hadn’t expected him to catch up with them so soon.
“Come on.” He picked up his cup of wine and rose to his feet. “We can’t stay downstairs … I wouldn’t be surprised if he spends the night visiting every inn in Stirling. I’ll have our supper brought up to your chamber.”
Heather broke off a piece of bread, her gaze lifting from the dish of stew before her to settle upon the man seated opposite. They sat at a narrow table before the fire in her room.
Since entering the chamber, Maximus had hardly spoken a word. He now wore a shuttered, brooding expression.
“Are ye worried about Cory?” she asked finally, breaking the weighty silence between them.
Maximus snorted before swallowing a mouthful of bread and venison stew. He then reached for his cup of wine. “I am … and about you.” He took a sip of wine, his dark gaze settling upon her. “I was prepared for Galbraith seeking his reckoning. But I hadn’t wanted you to be drawn into it.”
Heather met his eye. Now that she’d managed to escape Cory and was safe, the panic that had gripped her ribs in a vise had eased. “I got away … no harm done.”
Maximus frowned. “For the time being.”
Heather loosed an irritated breath. There’s that protectiveness again. Although she found it endearing on one level, it was also a little smothering. She wasn’t used to having a man look out for her.
They finished their supper in silence, and then Maximus rose from the table and crossed to the window. Heather watched him go, her gaze tracking him. She’d never seen a man walk like him: he had a predatory, stalking gait that made her breathing and pulse quicken.
Last night was still fresh in her mind, and she wondered if the memory of their passionate coupling was as vivid for him.
Behave yerself, Heather, she chastised herself. Last night isn’t to be repeated.
She didn’t need to complicate her life further. Dunnottar loomed like a specter on the horizon. Soon she’d have to face her parents.
Heather started to sweat. She could almost hear her mother’s crowing voice: I told ye this would happen. I knew ye would come crawling back here eventually.
Opening the shutters ajar, Maximus peered into the street below. Flaming torches hung either side of the entrance to the inn, illuminating the surrounding street clearly.
Forcing herself not to dwell on her mother’s self-righteous face, Heather focused on him instead. “See anything interesting?”
“No,” Maximus murmured. “Just a drunk taking a piss against a wall … no sign of your friends.”
Heather pulled a face. “They’re not my friends.”
Maximus turned from the window and rested his backside against the sill, crossing his long legs before him. As always, when his gaze settled upon her, Heather’s belly tightened.
Uncomfortable, she cleared her throat and rose to her feet. She then unbuckled the knife he’d loaned her and placed it upon the table. “Ye’ll be wanting this back.”
He shook his head. “Keep it. You shouldn’t be traveling during lawless times such as these without a weapon on your person.” He then patted the dagger that hung at his side. “I am well enough armed.”
Heather inclined her head, studying him a moment. “That dagger … is it the one ye sta
bbed Cory through the hand with?”
He nodded.
“I’ve never seen a blade like it … can ye show it to me?”
Maximus pushed himself off the window sill and crossed to Heather. He then unsheathed the dagger and handed it to her.
Heather took the blade, examining its bone handle and gleaming, leaf-shaped blade.
“It’s called a pugio,” Maximus said softly. “Every Roman soldier carries one.”
“It’s nothing like a dirk,” Heather replied. She noted how old this weapon looked: the bone handle was polished with age and use.
“No … the pugio is for stabbing your enemy repeatedly with. While a dirk’s long blade can kill in one thrust, the pugio creates a bit of damage first.”
Heather swallowed at the blood-thirsty description before she handed Maximus back his knife. “Well … that should have maimed Cory for life.”
His mouth quirked. “Not really.” He resheathed the knife before taking her hand and tracing a fingertip between two of the thin bones that stretched from the top of her wrist to knuckle.
His touch had an instant response upon Heather. She stilled, her breathing hitching. Did he have any idea what he did to her?
“I deliberately drove the dagger vertically, in between the bones,” Maximus explained. “If I hadn’t, the blade would have ruined his hand.”
Heather exhaled sharply. “Merciful of ye.”
She glanced up to see Maximus was smiling. “Maximus the Merciful,” he murmured. “I like the sound of that.”
His proximity was almost too much. It was getting hard to draw breath, and Heather was starting to feel hot and flustered. In contrast, the man before her appeared as cool and collected as ever. Did he ever lose that veneer of control? She was yet to see it.
He stepped back from Heather then, letting go of her hand.
Heather drew in a steadying breath. His touch had made her legs go weak and shaky. Her fingers traced the line on the back of her hand, where he’d just touched her. She could still feel the heat of his fingertips there, and it filled her with an aching want that made her chest hurt.
