With a deep breath, he gripped the arrow in her shoulder and snapped the shaft. She gasped and then her eyes rolled back and she descended once more into oblivion.
“Ten lashes?” Blandus said as Tacitus gently lifted the Celt into his arms. He hoped she remained unconscious until the physician managed to remove the rest of the arrow from her shoulder.
“What?” He glared at Blandus. The girl weighed next to nothing. So light, she could easily be a water sprite. What the fuck had she been doing, wandering alone in the aftermath of battle? She had wielded a dagger, but there had been no danger to his life. She was too small, too fragile to cause harm to anyone, let alone a warrior.
Blandus nodded at the girl. “The one who damaged her. Ten lashes?”
Tacitus stood, his attention on the pale face of his Celt. “He’s from your Legion. Your responsibility.”
Blandus jerked his head in confirmation, then reached out for the girl. It took a moment for Tacitus to realize his cousin was merely offering assistance while he mounted his horse. With grim reluctance he handed his charge over and then lifted her limp body and positioned her against his armored chest.
One arm wrapped around her, he angled his jaw in an attempt to keep her head upright. Her hair was soft against his throat and the faint scent of wild berries teased his senses.
He gritted his teeth and urged his horse forward. The Celt was soft and vulnerable and unconscious. It was depraved that he still found her not only intriguing but impossibly desirable.
Blandus drew alongside. “We’ll have to make our intentions known directly,” he said. “Even injured, this one will attract plenty of attention. I for one don’t want to lose out to your beloved commander.”
Tacitus shot his cousin a black glare. His commander was Blandus’ uncle, although no blood relation to Tacitus. He was, however, a lifelong friend of Tacitus’ father.
The thought of the commander touching this Celt was repugnant. But too easily imagined. The older man had an insatiable penchant for young girls, especially those with blonde hair. Already Tacitus could see the lust in the commander’s eyes. There was no doubt that, if he saw her, he would buy her before she even reached the market.
Blandus made a sound of impatience. “She’s an enemy of Rome, Tacitus. She was captured in battle. Her fate is sealed. Now are you interested or not?”
Tacitus tightened his hold around the Celt. Her breasts pressed against his bare arm, full and tempting, and the extent of her vulnerability was acid through his gut.
In the eyes of his countrymen, she was already a slave. It was inevitable and another wave of fury against the Gallian scalded his blood. She could have remained free. He would have ensured she remained free.
Now all he could do was ensure she remained out of the clutches of his commander.
“I’m interested.” The words seared his throat and he glared ahead, not able to trust himself to look at his cousin in case he followed with physical violence. It wouldn’t help the situation and it wasn’t as if Blandus was to blame.
Blandus punched his arm and Tacitus shot him a grim look. His cousin, who knew as much about him as anyone, and more than most, had an odd expression on his face. He knew of Tacitus’ reluctance—of course he fucking knew—but Tacitus was aware he still found it hard to comprehend.
“You need to get over this aversion.” Blandus’ voice was low, for Tacitus’ ears only. “It’s unnatural. I’m not saying you have to fuck every female slave you own but gods, Tacitus. It’s better than solitary relief.”
“I’m more than capable of finding women to serve my needs.” That had never been a problem. The only difficulty he had was taking a slave. Despite how many his father had offered him from the age of fourteen.
“True. But you won’t always have that opportunity. It’s not as if you’d have to take any of them against their will. Some of them are more than eager to share their master’s bed.”
“Shut up, Blandus.” Irritation spiked through him that he couldn’t gallop away from his cousin. The terrain was too uncertain and he didn’t want to risk injuring the Celt any more than she had been already. “Tell me. What would you do if one of your slave girls refused your advances? Reward her with a few coins, a pretty ribbon for her hair? Or relegate her to the foulest tasks on your estate?”
From the corner of his eye he saw Blandus recoil, clearly offended. And even through the fog that clouded his mind, Tacitus knew his accusation was unfounded.
Blandus might enjoy the favors of slave girls, but he never took what was not willingly offered. The trouble was, Blandus couldn’t appreciate the irony. How could a slave ever truly have the choice?
“It’s as well I know you,” Blandus said. “I trust you don’t speak of such things in general conversation. Your loyalty to Rome would be in serious danger of being questioned.”
Tacitus grunted. “The Emperor has my loyalty.” He imagined the Celt being shipped off to Rome and instinctively pulled her closer. Her exotic beauty would ensure she was bought for pleasure. They had spoken for only a few moments but he doubted she’d hold her tongue when faced with the prospect of slavery. She could end up beaten, branded. Forced to work in the fields. And end up being used by any man who so much as looked at her.
Two legionaries emerged up ahead and with an impatient hiss, Tacitus reined in his mount. They were from his Legion, and addressed him as their senior officer.
“Sir, we believe we’ve found Caratacus’ queen and daughter. The Primus is with them now.”
He forced his mind away from his Celt’s bleak future. A future he had no intention of her ever enduring.
“Good.” He turned to Blandus. “Would you take my stead? I’ll continue back with our captive.”
Blandus gave a sharp nod, but his eyes gleamed with appreciation. He had instantly caught Tacitus’ meaning. The argument was over.
“Secure a good enough price,” Blandus said as he prepared to follow the legionaries, “and when we’re done, I’ll sell my share back to you at cost. Then you can salve your conscience by granting her manumission.” He paused for a moment. “If they allow you such favor.”
Tacitus took her to the makeshift valetudinarium in the camp situated at the base of the mountain, not far from the river. But it was only a temporary camp, swiftly constructed before they’d marched on the enemy that morning. As soon as circumstances allowed, they would return to their permanent garrison, to the southeast of Cambria.
Once they returned to the garrison, the slave traders would arrive, and those captured during this battle would be sold.
He shouldered his way into the medical tent. Until they had breached the Celts’ roughly constructed ramparts, Romans had fallen beneath the missiles rained upon them. But once the ramparts had been demolished, his countrymen’s superior training and equipment had decimated the enemy without mercy. Tacitus knew that, considering the scale of the battle, Roman casualties hadn’t been harsh but enough needed treatment for their injuries that would ensure an unconscious Celt wouldn’t be seen until the morning.
“Marcellus.” He caught sight of the physician he sought. The man he’d known from childhood and the only one here he would trust with the Celt.
Marcellus, only a year older than Tacitus, strolled over, wiping his hands on a cloth. He eyed the girl with interest.
“Since when do Tribunes bring in the injured?”
Tacitus ignored the taunt. “She hit her head on a rock after the arrow impaled her.”
Marcellus studied her face. “Leave her over there.” He jerked his thumb to the left, where a regimented line of the injured lay on pallets. “We’ll get to her shortly.”
“No. You’ll treat her now.”
Marcellus finally tore his gaze from the girl’s face and looked at Tacitus.
“Why? Is she someone of import?”
“Yes. She’s mine.” But not officially.
Marcellus raised his eyebrows. “Your slave?” He sounded skeptical.<
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“Yes.” They both knew it was a lie. But Tacitus would pay well for the special treatment. They both knew that too.
“If you say so.” Marcellus indicated that Tacitus should follow him. “The conditions here are primitive but I’ll do my best.” He opened a flap in the side of the tent that led into what Tacitus assumed had to be an operating room. Except it wasn’t a room, it was another fucking tent.
With reluctance, he laid the Celt on the operating table, positioning her on a pile of cloths to reduce unnecessary pressure on her injured shoulder. Then he folded his arms and swept a condemning glance around. Primitive was putting it mildly. Barbaric was the term he’d use to describe the conditions.
Marcellus hitched open the flap and Tacitus heard him order for assistance, instruments and whatever else he needed. Then the physician turned back to him.
“You can go now,” Marcellus said. He went to the Celt’s side and sliced through the sleeveless leather waist tunic she wore over her pale green woolen gown. The leather had stopped the arrow from going right through her shoulder, which was a relief. Had she not been wearing the short tunic, her injury would be far worse. “I’ll send a messenger to inform you of the outcome.”
“I’m staying.”
Marcellus looked up, a frown darkening his brow. “This is my area of expertise, Tacitus. I don’t want or need you here.”
An auxiliary medic entered, bringing the requisites Marcellus had ordered. Tacitus’ lip curled. Did Marcellus really think he’d leave his vulnerable water sprite alone with two men?
“Just get on with it.”
Marcellus swore under his breath, but obviously decided this was a battle he was doomed to lose. He turned back to his patient and began to peel her stained gown over her breast.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Tacitus snatched the material and pulled it roughly over her breast. And tried not to think about the tantalizing glimpse of pale, luscious flesh or rosy nipple Marcellus had so callously exposed to view.
Marcellus jabbed his scalpel in Tacitus’ face.
“Shut up or get out.” He sounded irritated. “I’m a physician. I’ve seen naked women before without experiencing the animalistic urge to rut with them. Now do you want me to try to save this slave of yours or not?”
Tacitus gritted his teeth, clenched his fists and refolded his arms.
And managed to keep his mouth shut for the rest of the procedure.
Chapter 3
Nimue was back in the forest of her childhood, in the sacred oak grove, watching her mother give sacrifice to the most powerful Goddess of them all.
She looked up into the night sky. The full moon, as bright as if it were illuminated by a thousand candles, dominated her vision and awe filled her soul at the breathtaking beauty.
Arianrhod, let me be worthy.
Her mother beckoned Nimue to join her in the center of the glade where all the women of their clan waited. Heart pounding with a combination of fear and pride, Nimue obeyed. Instantly, the other women encircled her and removed her gown until she was as naked as them.
They raised their arms, chanted the ancient rites to their foremothers and gave thanks for the Goddess’ blessing upon Nimue.
Today, her first moon time had occurred. A great blessing indeed, to take the first step on the path of womanhood when the full moon glowed in a cloudless sky. A sign that Nimue had, without doubt, been accepted and chosen by the Goddess she adored.
This was the happiest day of her life. The proudest moment she had yet experienced. But something—something was wrong. Something had happened that had taken this moment and shattered it, destroyed it, tarnished its beauty and wonder forevermore.
Something that had changed the course of her life and twisted the future she had always believed her birthright. Just as surely as my destined path has been irrevocably altered today.
Jagged pain lanced through her body and the sacred grove shimmered, as if it had been plunged into a bottomless pool of glimmering water. She struggled for air, clawing through the grasping tendrils of fog that wrapped around her. For one tangled moment, she thought she saw a tough warrior above her, his hypnotic eyes gazing at her intently, trying to infuse her with additional strength.
Without knowing why, she tried to reach for him but her limbs were heavy and uncoordinated. Desperately she thrashed her head from side to side, trying to escape from unseen restraints. Then, from the dark corners in her mind, a shadow walked unerringly toward her. And then it was no longer a shadow as, from nowhere, a shaft of sunlight surrounded the figure. Disbelief speared through her as, without knowing how she knew, she recognized him as one of the most powerful gods of her people.
Gwydion, warrior magician, in all his youthful glory, smiled down at her. Terror froze her to the spot, but the god did not appear to mind her lack of reverence.
What does Gwydion want with me? She had always given him due reverence when she worshipped the gods of Annwyn on their sacred days. But he had never shown her any preference before. She had never experienced any special affinity with him, the Greatest of the Enchanters. To her knowledge, Gwydion had never bestowed his benevolence on a female Druid nor taken one as his blessed acolyte. That he had appeared to her now was utterly terrifying.
“Nimue, acolyte of my sister goddess Arianrhod, you are truly a chosen one.” His voice echoed in her mind, vibrating with power. She fell to her knees, holding her head, fearful her mind might collapse under the unwanted invasion. “The High Druid Aeron comes to you. Return what you have taken.”
Nimue forced her eyes open and peered up at the magnificent, glowing god. He extended his hand toward her, uncurled his fingers and showed her what he held.
Mesmerized, she stared at his palm. He held the shard of sacred bluestone she had taken from the magical enclave.
Nimue wondered at the lethargy that clung to her limbs and clouded her mind. A dull throbbing encased her shoulder and arm and her head was oddly light, as though it did not quite belong to her body.
Where am I? Scarlet and black flickered across her vision and it was simply too much effort to open her eyes.
And then a pinprick of awareness glowed in the welcoming embrace of oblivion.
I have to protect the Briton queen. The memory was jagged, bright as a Druid’s blade, and sliced through her languor with a deadly knowledge. Goddess, where’s the queen?
Unease stirred as fragmented recollections jarred her mind before coalescing into one shocking, indisputable fact.
She had been captured.
White fury steamed through her blood, once again obliterating the physical pain. Her body didn’t want to cooperate, but she dragged open her eyes. And saw the face of the one who had caught her so unforgivably unawares.
Her tongue felt swollen, her throat parched. But she focused on him, drawing on what little reserves she possessed and finally, while he continued to frown down at her in apparent incomprehension, she managed to locate her voice.
“Spineless Roman.” The words were little more than a wheeze, but she knew he heard. Knew he understood. Because his frown intensified and he looked as if he might take issue with her accusation. But she hadn’t finished yet. “How dare you drug me?” She hitched in a harsh gasp of air. “I’ll kill you for dishonoring me so.”
He continued to glare down at her. “Why has she awoken? Can she feel anything?”
She reached for his throat, but only her right arm appeared to belong to her, and even that did not fully obey her commands. Instead, the Roman took her hand in his, and if he had been anyone else, his touch might have been considered comforting.
“She’s not fully conscious.” The other voice sounded unconcerned. “She won’t recall a thing, Tacitus.”
The Roman’s large hand still held hers. A maelstrom of pain and humiliation disoriented her senses. But still she was aware of the strange tingle that attacked her trapped fingers.
A muted sense of alarm washed through her. She attempted
to pull from his clasp, but all she managed to achieve was for him to tighten his grip. But it wasn’t his arrogant possessiveness that caused her pulses to flutter or her heart to hammer against her ribs. It was the realization that his touch did not repel her.
Raw panic kicked deep in her gut, sloughing off the lingering remnants of whatever foreign drugs they had forced into her body. What else have they forced into my body? While she had been oblivious, how many of the enemy had raped her?
“Can’t you give her more?” Tacitus shot Marcellus a black glare. “She’s having a seizure.”
“No, she isn’t. She’s slipping back into unconsciousness. All she needs is some rest and then she’s all yours.”
“Filthy…coward,” the Celt gasped, her glazed eyes locked with his. “Taking me when I could not…couldn’t defend myself…”
“Go back to sleep.” He didn’t know if she could hear him or not. Despite Marcellus’ assurances that she spoke through the opium and neither understood the words she uttered or would recall them afterward, he had his doubts. She appeared lucid enough.
“Slice your balls from your maggot infested crotch… Putrefy your…rancid cock…”
With his free hand, he brushed her hair back from her face. Her eyes were losing focus and her nails were no longer gouging into his hand. There was no longer any doubt in his mind.
She spoke through the poppy. Not because her coarse language did not befit her evident status. But because had she been fully aware of her surroundings she would never have uttered such threats to her perceived captor.
For all she knew, it would be suicide.
“How soon can she be moved?” He had only a tent in this temporary camp but at least it was private. And he could set a legionary on guard to ensure her continued safety. Here, in the valetudinarium, he could ensure no such thing.
“Not before morning.”
Tacitus finally dragged his gaze from the Celt’s unnaturally pale face and looked at his friend.
The Druid Chronicles: Mystical Historical Romance Page 62