“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 24
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 loyalty 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 th
is room.
“I love learning new ways to heal.” The knowledge of the Druids was vast and went back countless generations. How ancient was the knowledge of the Romans? “My grandmother was a revered healer. I knew I wanted to follow her path when I was but three summers old.”
His lip quirked, clearly amused that she had been so strong-minded at such a tender age. “How fortunate you were permitted to follow your heart’s desire.”
Although he smiled, there was something in his tone that intrigued her.
She threaded her fingers through his as they cradled her hip. “Did you not always wish to be a great Roman warrior, Tacitus?” She’d taken it for granted that he was following his choice of career. But then, what did she truly know of a Roman’s choice of career?
“My career was preordained before I was even conceived.” He gave a short laugh but he didn’t sound especially amused anymore. “My mother wishes me to secure an excellent military record and then progress to the highest echelons of the Senate.”
It was the second time he’d referred to his mother in such a manner that clearly showed how deeply he respected her. While she admired him for it, she couldn’t help wondering about his father. “And what does your father wish for you?”
He gave her an oddly haunted look, although she couldn’t imagine why her question appeared to wound him. “That is my father’s wish.” There was a hollow note to his voice that pierced her heart. “My mother’s dearest desire is that I please him.”
Nimue couldn’t tear her gaze from him. It was wrong that his evident familial conflict touched her so, but it did. And the fleeting glimpse of vulnerability that had flickered in his eyes at the mention of his mother’s dearest desire tormented her. Why was he so torn between his parents’ ambitions for his future when both his mother and father appeared to be in accord?
“But what do you want to do with your life, Tacitus?”
He stared at her and she had the strangest certainty that no one had ever asked him that question before. She held her breath, prayed to her Goddess that Marcellus wouldn’t appear yet, and willed Tacitus to tell her his deepest, darkest secret.
“I intend to go into law,” he said at last and she frowned, bemused. That didn’t sound so terribly rebellious or shocking to her. “And for that, naturally, I need an excellent military record and influential support from members of the Senate.” There was no mistaking the edge of contempt in his words. It was obvious the fact he was required to follow his father’s designated career path, in order to secure his own, rankled.
She tried to see it from his view, but couldn’t. As a matter of course, Druids learned all aspects of their culture that had evolved since the time of Creation, including the intricacies of their laws. An acolyte specialized according to their special gifts and the will of their heart, but it didn’t stop them from becoming an esteemed scholar in more than one discipline.
And then something occurred to her. “Your father doesn’t wish you to practice your laws? Is it not an honorable career in Rome?”
“No, it’s an honorable career path. But whereas my father wishes me to use my time in the courts as a stepping stone in my political advancement, I intend it to be far more than that.”
“More?” Enthralled, Nimue leaned toward him, delighting in the evocative scent of leather and forests and horse that emanated from him. “What do—”
Her question lodged in her throat as the door swung open and Marcellus entered. She swallowed her disappointment, along with the haunting certainty that the moment had been lost forever.
Tacitus would never confide in her like that again. Because she could no longer delay making plans for the queen’s escape.
“And how is my favorite patient?” Marcellus shot Tacitus a grin, clearly daring him to respond, but Tacitus remained silent, although his fingers tightened against her hip.
“I’m recovering well.” Should she mention that she had taken the opium? It was, after all, the reason Tacitus had insisted they come to see the healer.
“Nimue had a bad reaction to the opium.” Tacitus glanced at her and she understood what he was saying. Marcellus could know she had taken the opium, but not her method.
Marcellus’ grin faded into a frown. “Were you nauseous? Disoriented?”
“Yes,” Tacitus said before she could respond. “I merely want you to ensure that she is suffering from no lingering aftereffects.”
Any other time she would have taken offense at the way he answered for her. But since she was not entirely certain how much to confide in Marcellus, she decided to hold her tongue. The look Tacitus shot her conveyed that he was both surprised and relieved at her forbearance.
Marcellus continued to ask questions as he examined her shoulder and the back of her head where she’d hit it on the rock. Surely he would question why she’d taken the opium now when there was no need? But he didn’t.
Finally he pronounced her well enough and she gave a silent sigh of relief. There was something she wanted to ask of him. It was the reason she hadn’t argued when Tacitus had suggested they visit Marcellus. And although there was no need—after all, she would be leaving soon and what did another night or two truly matter—she wanted to make the most of the time she had left with Tacitus.
“There’s something else.”
The two men turned and looked at her and she gave Tacitus a reassuring smile, since the alarm that flashed in his eyes was oddly endearing.
“It’s unconnected to my injuries. But it’s a matter that I’ve wanted to speak with you about for some time.” Since she’d met Tacitus, and although it was only six days it somehow seemed she had known her Roman for so much longer than that.
“You didn’t mention any other problem.” Tacitus sounded irked by the fact and she gave him a comforting pat on the arm before turning back to Marcellus. Who had a look of combined disbelief and barely concealed amusement warring for dominance on his face.
“I would dearly like,” she said, “the means to prevent conception and cleanse my womb of—”
“Nimue!” Tacitus sounded as if he was being strangled. “I’ve taken care of this.”
She glanced at him and then couldn’t look away. The expression on his face suggested she had just grievously insulted his honor when all she’d been trying to do was make things easier for them.
Once again she reached out and curled her fingers around his biceps. Goddess, she enjoyed touching him. How dreadfully she would miss this contact. “I know. But I don’t like the feel of that…” What had he called it? “Condom. And it’s an odious task to perform when we should be thinking of nothing but each other.”
This time it was Marcellus who choked. Tacitus simply stared at her in what looked like rising horror. She slid her hand along his arm and threaded her fingers through his. What had she said that was so terrible? Tacitus was her lover and Marcellus was a healer. It wasn’t as if she had shared such intimacies with his servants or strangers, was it?
“Alas,” Marcellus sounded like a fist blocked his throat. “I’m not conversant in such feminine matters.”
Aghast at such lack of basic knowledge, Nimue stared at him. “But understanding the cycle of the moon and her power over her children is one of the fundamental teachings for healers.” Certainly, the moon governed women in a more noticeable manner but men were just as bound by her rule. She was, after all, the One who presided over fertility—and provided the means for counterbalance.
“Gods.” Tacitus gripped her arm and swung her around. “Marcellus is a physician in the Legions, Nimue. He has no need for such understandings.”
“If you have no objection, Tacitus,” Marcellus said, “I would be interested to hear what Nimue has to say. I’m always open to new ideas.”
Nimue nearly spluttered at the thought of such knowledge being new but instantly realized what the healer had just revealed. A willingness to learn. Was it possible she would be able to trade knowledge with him after all?
“V
ery well.” Tacitus’ voice was stiff. It was obvious the concession gave him great pain. “But I insist on absolute confidentiality in this matter.”
“You have it.” Marcellus turned to Nimue and there was no mistaking the anticipation in his eyes. “Would you care to visit the herb gardens?”
The herb garden, situated in a paved area in the center of the four-sided Valetudinarium, was impressive. With Tacitus hovering beside her, a dark scowl on his face, she traded tidbits with Marcellus in exchange for acquiring the herbs she needed.
As well as a couple she didn’t. But the impulse to take the plants that induced sleep was overwhelming, and since they were also useful in pain relief Marcellus didn’t query when she added them to her pile.
She wasn’t entirely sure why she needed them. She had no intention of using them on Tacitus in order to facilitate her escape. To do so would somehow be an insult to her honor, although she didn’t investigate that emotion too closely. Shouldn’t she be prepared to use every weapon possible to gain the advantage?
When they finally left Marcellus, the sun had dipped low in the sky. A sudden burst of loud, raucous laughter ripped through the cocoon of tranquility that had settled around her and she swung about. A group of legionaries lounged against the wall of the prisoners building, jostling each other and trading coarse jests.
Horror crawled along her spine as she watched one of the Romans saunter up to the door and enter. Instinctively her hand went to her shoulder, searching for an arrow, but her bow was no longer her constant companion.
“Nimue.” Tacitus’ voice was low. “Come away.”
Rage boiled in the pit of her stomach. “It’s wrong, Tacitus.” Her voice was as low as his, although the legionaries appeared oblivious to their presence.
“I know.”
His simple agreement, without any attempt at justifying the situation, pierced through her outrage. She looked up at him, in the dying rays of the sun, and saw a hard gleam in his eyes as he glared at the legionaries.
The Druid Chronicles: Mystical Historical Romance Page 79