The Forest King

by Alex Faure

  He stopped at the table, then seated himself. Darius did the same. They gazed at each other across the distance.

  Fionn turned and murmured something to the reedy man. He spoke Hibernian, of course, and Darius felt all his attention focus on the sound of the strange, undulating language falling fluently from Fionn’s lips. He’d grown so used to speaking to him in their shared, mystical tongue that it was easy to forget it wasn’t Fionn’s native language, that there wasn’t a natural bridge between them.

  Fionn is one of them. Darius took in Fionn’s pale colouring, paler than the other Celts’ but still of a kind; his Celtic gestures as he spoke. Fionn was one of them. More than that. Fionn was their king. He couldn’t trust him.

  And yet he did.

  The truth struck him like a blow. He trusted Fionn, mad as that was. There was no point in denying it, any more than he could deny that he was painfully, irrevocably in love with him. He trusted him despite not understanding what drove him, despite being his enemy, despite what the Volundi and their Robogdi allies had done to Rome. In a strange way, these things were only the surface of what lay between them. Something existed in Fionn, deep beneath his half-truths and silences and foreign ways, that Darius understood. Something that called to a part of Darius that he had never known existed. Something that matched him, that found the small, empty place at his very centre and fit there perfectly, warmly, as if it had never been absent, only temporarily displaced.

  Of course, Fionn’s trustworthiness only extended as far as Darius himself. Darius knew that Fionn would mercilessly cut down any other Roman soldier, or seize any chance to humiliate Rome, because he had seen him do it.

  Fionn turned back to Darius. There was an assessing look in his eyes. He spoke again.

  “He wishes to know if you are well,” Kealan translated.

  “Yes,” Darius said. “For a man held captive.”

  Fionn raised an eyebrow when Kealan translated that.

  “He says that you Romans were good to your captives at Attervalis,” Kealan said. “He hopes you have been served just as well.”

  Darius felt his face heat. The only Celtic captives at Attervalis had been the whores, and there was only one way his soldiers had “served” them. Fionn shifted position just so as he spoke, and Darius found the sensations of that night rising unbidden in his memory. Fionn’s mouth against his; his nipples hard against his hands; his spine curving as Darius—

  “Very well,” Darius said. He hoped that his expression was adequately conveying to Fionn how dangerous he thought this was. “Your hospitality to an enemy captive has been impressive. Your king is a man of many talents.”

  The faintest of smiles crossed Fionn’s face as Kealan translated that. The reedy boy said something that had an edge of impatience. Fionn waved at him dismissively. Clearly, he was allowed to speak freely with Fionn, who tolerated his dissent.

  “The king would like me to make formal introductions,” Kealan said. “Commander Darius Lucilius, this is Fionnwyn Angheas, son of Odran and Elenvere, King of Luighne, Hemainy, and the Purple Mountains, ancestral lord of all Araiah.”

  This was interesting. Still, Darius knew that there was a king in the north of Hibernia who also claimed lordship over the island as a whole. And of course, Culland of the Robogdi demanded the same recognition. It was a common thing among barbarian tribes, as Darius had observed in Gaul. No doubt each tribe had its own reasons for considering itself supreme. Darius wondered if Fionn’s claim was any stronger than the others.

  “This is his sister, Brigit, next in line to the throne,” Kealan went on. “And his teathra, Bedwyr. I do not know how to translate this word into Latin; it means an official advisor, but with his own authority.”

  Darius nodded at the reedy young man, and gave Brigit a polite smile. She smiled back, more broadly, and said something in a laughing voice that made Kealan glower.

  “What did she say?” Darius said.

  “I do not translate this,” the man snapped. “It is a comment on your appearance.”

  “Ah,” Darius said. Fionn was smiling slightly, too, still gazing at Darius. He spoke again.

  “The king wishes you to know that negotiations for your release are opened with Agricola,” Kealan said.

  Darius paused. “Already?”

  “We capture group of Roman soldiers trying to escape on your ship,” Kealan said. “Several days ago. I believe the ship is called the Daedalus.”

  This was a blow. “What happened to them?”

  “We let them go, on the condition that they carry two messages to your general with our translator Alaine, who they are not to harm. One, that Araiah will never bow to Roman dogs, and if Rome invades us again, King Fionnwyn will see that they fare worse than they do at Sylvanum.” Kealan paused. “There is more in the message, but the king says to give you only the gist.”

  Darius closed his eyes. So, Marcus and the others had escaped after all. He could imagine how Marcus would have felt being forced to carry such a message back to Agricola. He experienced a brief moment of yearning for the other man’s acerbic company. “And the second message?”

  “That we hold his commander hostage, and will free him for the right price,” Kealan said with a smirk. “We do not specify the price. We allow him to make the starting offer.”

  Darius said nothing for a moment. It was clever to allow Agricola to take the lead on negotiations; most barbarian tribes couldn’t conceive of Rome’s wealth, and asked for less than they could get.

  He looked at Fionn, who had stiffened slightly, and was watching Darius with something that was almost uncertainty. If Darius hadn’t known him so well, he would have missed the signs that he was uncomfortable.

  “And?” he said. “There must be something else. Your king wouldn’t come to see me if he meant only to inform me of this news. You could have done so yourself. Does he wish me to provide information about the Roman forces in Britannia?”

  Fionn did not respond immediately. Then he spoke slowly, and Kealan translated, “The king has heard that you have become popular among some of the villagers.”

  Darius shrugged. “I have nothing to do here. Why not make myself useful?”

  Fionn watched him. There was a pause before he spoke again.

  “The king wishes you to consider an alternative to your present situation,” Kealan said.

  Darius frowned. “I am either your captive until Agricola ransoms me, or, if your negotiations fail, until you put me to death. What alternative could there be?”

  Fionn spoke rapidly. Kealan said, “You are a Roman military leader, experienced in leading campaigns against many enemies. Rome’s battle tactics and technology are respected as much as they are feared, even out here, at the very edge of your empire. Araiah is divided, and the Volundi have enemies on all sides—this will be even more true once other tribes learn of our alliance with the Robogdi. We seek an advisor, one who will give us knowledge our enemies lack.”

  Darius could barely believe what he was hearing. “Are you asking me to…to stay here? As a free man?”

  “You will be rewarded beyond your imagining,” Kealan translated. “You will live as a king. Can Rome offer you as much?”

  Darius stared at Fionn. He gazed back, his expression smooth, his composure back in place. What sort of game was Fionn playing at? Surely he knew there was no way for Darius to accept such an offer. And yet, against his own volition, Darius found himself imagining what would happen if he said yes. If he could have Fionn, not just for an hour or a night, but for a lifetime. If he could stay by his side, helping him build his kingdom by day, making love to him by night.

  He stepped back and realized what he was thinking.

  Darius looked Fionn in the eyes. “You are asking me to reveal Rome’s secrets to one of her greatest enemies. I could never betray my people in this manner. Not for anything you could offer.”

  Fionn did not react in any way that Darius could detect. He spoke again, the Celtic
words lilting and strangely beautiful.

  “He asks if you truly mean ‘anything,’” Kealan said.

  Fionn sat across from him, his posture easy and graceful, his silver eyes lidded and his lips parted slightly. Darius wanted to grab him and shake him. He wanted to grab him and do other things to him, if he was being honest with himself. He was furious that Fionn could ask such a thing of him—that he could honestly expect Darius to betray his own people to the men who had humiliated them, slaughtered them, given Rome a rare taste of defeat.

  “Think on what the king has said,” Kealan said. Fionn was rising from the table, murmuring something to his teathra, Bedwyr, giving off the impression that his kingly attention was already drifting to other matters. Brigit was still watching at Darius, though, her head cocked slightly. There was a look in her eyes that Darius didn’t understand. It reminded him strangely of how Fionn had sometimes studied him in the early days of their acquaintance.

  Darius felt something inside him tighten like a winch. “There is no need. I’ve given your king my answer.”

  The barely suppressed anger in his voice made Fionn turn, fix him with a look as unreadable as his sister’s. Something flickered behind his eyes, and then it was gone. He left the roundhouse, followed by the others, and Darius was alone.

  Chapter Seven

  Several days later, Darius was shaken roughly awake. “Up,” Kealan said. “We leave soon.”

  Darius raised himself onto one elbow. The sky was dark with barely a hint of dawn light. “Where are we going?”

  “Get up,” Kealan repeated succinctly, and was gone.

  As Kealan had given him no reason why he should hurry, Darius didn’t. He took his time washing and helping himself to the meagre breakfast someone had left on the table for him—cold porridge and lukewarm tea. When Kealan reappeared, he was wearing only his trousers.

  “You do not hear me?” Kealan said. His dark hair was a mess, and he looked as if he had just rolled out of bed himself. “We are leaving now. Do I dress you myself?”

  “Would you like that?” Darius said calmly, taking another sip of tea. As Kealan sputtered, he added, “Perhaps if you told me where we were going, I might be more motivated to hurry.”

  “I will enjoy seeing the king’s reaction when you are late,” Kealan snapped.

  Darius faltered. “The king is accompanying us? For what purpose?”

  Kealan gave him a dark smile. “He only commands me to wake you.”

  Darius felt knocked off balance, and forced himself to breathe slowly, to logically consider the reasons for this early morning summons. Perhaps Fionn had received a favourable offer from Agricola—though it was unlikely that it had come so soon. Perhaps the Volundi had simply decided to move him to a different village. Though if it was something as simple as that, Darius wondered why his personal escort would include the king himself.

  Kealan led Darius out of the fort and up one of the mountain roads to a stable smelling strongly of horse. It was below the row of connected roundhouses built into the mountainside that Darius had begun to think of as the palace. By Celtic standards, the complex was certainly grand, high-ceilinged and with enough chimneys to warm the entire space easily. The door to the largest roundhouse was made of wood carved in an intricate, leafy pattern; most Celtic doors were simpler affairs, often of woven branches. Darius’s imagination faltered when he tried to imagine Fionn gazing out from one of those windows. Fionn was a creature of the forest—he could more easily picture him looking out of a hollow in a tree than a building that verged on civilized.

  They found Fionn in a paved courtyard by the stable. Half a dozen Celts were with him, including Bedwyr. Fionn gave Darius and Kealan what Darius now recognized as a greeting, and Kealan answered back.

  “Please ask His Highness where we’re going,” Darius said. Kealan shushed him, but Fionn’s eyes were still on them, and he said something in a mild, querying tone. Kealan flushed as he responded. Fionn’s reply was sharper.

  “He gives me permission to tell you where we are going,” Kealan said, still flushed.

  “Nice of him,” Darius said. He watched Fionn speak to one of his men. He stood straight-backed and cool in the pearly grey light, his pale hair a beacon, his royal cloak worn with the negligent ease of long familiarity, slipping slightly off one shoulder. He looked like a romantic painting of a Celtic prince done by a Roman who had never seen one, and who probably wasn’t getting enough sex. Darius found it difficult to believe this was the same man who had snuck in through his window and licked his neck.

  “We pay a visit to the Robogdi king, Culland,” Kealan said. “The king wishes to discuss the terms of our treaty now that the Roman threat has been removed.”

  Darius bit back the reply he wanted to make, that Rome was only defeated if Agricola allowed the defeat to stand. “I see. And I am to be paraded before the Robogdi king as a visual reminder of the success of your alliance.”

  Kealan gave him a dark look. “You are our guest. For as long as it pleases the king.”

  Darius glanced at Fionn, but he was not looking his way; he was speaking quietly with a woman dressed in servants’ garb. Was Darius’s guess correct? What other reason could Fionn have for taking him along on this sort of diplomatic trip? Certainly Darius wouldn’t add much to the conversation. He felt yet another surge of frustration at Fionn’s refusal to communicate anything of his plans. When Fionn met his gaze, Darius turned away.

  Celtic saddles were primitive affairs made of sheepskin. The horses themselves were small and stocky, built for endurance rather than speed. Darius settled himself on his mount, wincing. He hoped the Robogdi village wasn’t far.

  Still, he had always been a good rider, and even with the differences in tack he easily navigated the mountain path out of the valley. He had been given the fattest horse, no doubt by design in the event he tried to flee, and the gelding tossed his head irritably whenever Darius directed him around an obstacle. He let the reins out slightly and watched the way the Celts handled their horses, and soon enough he and the beast achieved a wary synchronicity.

  They were ten in total, including four women that Darius couldn’t help staring at as they rode easily over the uneven terrain, for they were dressed in pants and tunics like men, their faces and hair free of adornment. It was a small party, but Darius supposed that a show of force could be construed as insulting, implying that Fionn had little confidence in his alliance with the Robogdi.

  The followed a mountain track north for several hours, winding through barren slopes of purple heather and moorgrass. There were few trees—these dotted the valleys far below—and the terrain was rough and rocky. Around midday, the woman at the head of party—who was young, with a long golden braid coiled round her head—signalled them off the path and towards a grove of trees on the slope below. Darius managed the steep descent well enough, allowing his horse to pick his own path for the most part, but several of the Celts had difficulty. He was the second to arrive at the grove, after an enormous red-haired man with a terrible scar slicing across his face. The man grinned at Darius, revealing several missing teeth.

  “Sedd.” He gestured at himself.

  “Darius,” Darius said with a half-smile. The man chuckled. He called something to Fionn, who arrived next, having been delayed helping one of the less sure-footed Celts. Fionn said something noncommittal in reply. He dismounted with his customary easy grace, though restrained now to human parameters, and tossed his reins to a dark-haired man who seemed to be his personal servant. Then he helped Sedd unload the food. Darius couldn’t help watching with some surprise—was this how all kings behaved in Hibernia, or only Fionn?

  He led his beast to a tiny stream that trickled out of the hillside, then rejoined the party. Sedd handed him a small loaf of bread and a flask of water, and Darius thanked him in the Hibernian language. Sedd clapped Darius on the shoulder and announced something to the party at large.

  “He says you are cheerful and p
leasant for a hostage,” Kealan said. They were scattered around the grove as they ate their repast, some sitting on stones, others reclining on the soft grass. Fionn and his servant were attending to the horses at the spring. “He wonders if this is because you plan to stab us to death in the night.”

  “Of course not,” Darius said. “Much easier to roll you off a cliff.”

  Sedd roared with laughter. He turned and said something to Fionn, who was approaching with the servant, gesturing at Darius.

  “Mmm,” was all Fionn said. He didn’t look at Darius, but spoke quietly and rapidly to the young woman with the golden braid. She rose and followed him to a vantage point.

  “Is something wrong?” Darius said to Kealan.

  “It is nothing,” he said. “The Robogdi say they are sending an escort to join us. We expect them by now, but there is no sign. We will meet them tonight, the king thinks.”

  Darius didn’t think this sounded like nothing, but kept his doubts to himself. If it was him, and he was allied with a tribe as savage as the Robogdi, he would have turned around at the first sign of trouble. But when Fionn reappeared, he only told them to finish their meal and get ready to set out again.

  They led the horses back up to the mountain track, which gradually grew less and less path-like until it dissolved completely. The landscape was stark, a patchwork of greens and greys, the sun hot but the wind strong enough to leave them chilled in spite of it. Darius felt he had never missed Sicily so much—the golden light shining through the olive groves; the velvety, dappled shade; the white-washed towns promising food and drink and civilized company. His horse stepped in yet another patch of boggy mud, his hooves flicking specks of dirt across Darius’s trousers.

  The blonde woman—Ellish—guided them along the rocky mountainside for a time until their course grew too steep to be practical. They then descended to the valley and continued north.