by James Wilde
‘There is.’ Spittle flying from his mouth, his brother jabbed a finger at him.
‘… but I won’t see you harm her, or trick her, or break her heart. She deserves so much more than what you’re threatening to do to her.’
Ruga snorted. ‘Fetch her. And I’ll forget this.’
‘I know you were planning to marry her tomorrow. That’s quite a way to go to get between her legs.’
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘I know about the Dragon.’
Ruga stared.
‘That he is supposed to be some kind of saviour. Mithras incarnated in a man. You, brother. That’s the plot you and Mother have been burnishing for so long. This Dragon will lead all the poor and broken people of this world out of the darkness. But one thing I know above all else is that his protection shouldn’t be left in your hands.’
‘Who else, then?’ Ruga sneered. ‘You?’
‘I have my faults, that’s true. I like my wine. I find too much humour when everyone else has faces like the grave.’ Corvus walked to the window and looked out at the thin line reddening the horizon. He heard his brother moving behind him, but he didn’t look round. He hoped showing his back would put Ruga at ease. ‘I have my values too, though I’m not one to shout about them. Too modest, Pavo says.’
Ruga snorted again, louder this time.
As the last of the light faded, Corvus took a flint and lit the oil-lamp. The dark rushed to the corners of the room. ‘We’ve always been different, you and I. I don’t say this to hurt you, but you think you care about Mother more than I do – you don’t – and you care about yourself more than anyone.’
‘And who do you care for? This witch who seems to have entranced you? And Pavo, your old, old friend?’ Ruga laughed.
Corvus turned. ‘At the risk of ruining my hard-fought-for reputation, I’d say I care above all about doing some good in this world. Does that sound …’ he waved a hand, trying to summon the right word, ‘childish? Weak?’
‘You are not a complicated man, that is certain.’
‘Why do you dislike me so much, brother?’
‘You know why,’ Ruga snapped.
‘I wish I did. It’s always been a mystery to me. And a hurtful one, I have to say. I’ve only ever thought well of you.’
‘I don’t just dislike you. I hate you. There, I’ve said it. I promised myself I’d hold my tongue, for Mother’s sake. Despite everything, she’s always looked on you fondly. But now it’s done.’ Simmering, Ruga advanced on him. ‘There are so many reasons, too many to list, but one above all others. Do you not know what it is? Does it lie so light on your conscience that you never think about it? Can that be true?’
‘Tell me, then.’
Shaking his head with disbelief, Ruga came to a halt a hand’s width from Corvus’ face. So much rage burned in those features. ‘You killed our father. You pushed him overboard in the storm. That’s why I hate you, Corvus. Even as a boy you were capable of murdering a good man.’
‘No.’
‘You can’t remember your treachery? Or are you lying? Or lying to yourself? I saw.’
‘He fell.’
Ruga hesitated.
‘It was dark, the ship was heaving, and we all thought we were going down that night. Whatever you think you saw, he fell.’
‘You are my brother and for that I always wanted to love you. But someone who could kill his own father is capable of anything. I’ve never been certain I can trust you, Corvus.’
‘You are right there.’
Ruga flinched at this admission. He seemed unsure whether Corvus was joking.
‘I’m going to save the Dragon, brother. Where you would do everything wrong, I’ll do everything right.’
As quick as a serpent, he snatched out his sword and hacked off Ruga’s right hand.
The shock only lasted a moment. Then his brother was flailing backwards, screaming. Blood sprayed everywhere. Corvus had seen much of it on the battlefield, but here there seemed a torrent. He watched as his brother crashed back on the floor. He trembled there, staring at the ceiling, looking through it, perhaps, to the heavens, and with each convulsion more blood spurted. A dark pool formed around him and his skin was like snow against it.
Corvus hurried to the window and leaned out. ‘Come,’ he yelled. ‘Come now.’
He heard the sound of feet pounding up the stairs and a moment later six men burst in. He didn’t recognize any of them. They took in the scene in an instant, showed not a jot of judgement, and without a word, or even an acknowledgement of his presence, they grabbed Ruga’s tunic and dragged his twitching form across the floor and out of the chamber. A dark stain swept across the pale marble and out into the shadows.
Corvus was shaking. Taking deep breaths, he closed his eyes, but all he could see was Ruga staring into the dark. His brother would not survive that amount of blood loss, he knew. But he’d already accepted that the Christians would not make any attempt to save his life. His brother’s body would be found beside one of the roads outside the city walls in the morning.
More footsteps echoed, a single pair this time. He watched as Theodosius walked into the wavering lamplight.
‘He attacked me.’ How hollow his words sounded, he thought.
‘I warned you. These followers of Mithras cannot be trusted. They are the devil’s own dogs.’
‘My own brother …’
Theodosius gripped his shoulder. Corvus looked into his face and saw compassion, perhaps even pity. ‘It’s sad to lose a man like Ruga, but he had set his face against God. Be certain that you have done a good thing here. I know it will be hard for you. In the days to come. When your mother looks at you. That burden would crush lesser men. But you’re strong, Corvus, you always have been. And I’ll be there to help you through this time. Just know that you have served God well.’
Corvus swilled back the last of his wine. The tavern was foul and stank of vinegar and sweat, but that was how he liked it. He could lose himself in this place, where the shadows swaddled thieves and cut-throats and the scum that washed around the lower levels of Rome. No questions were ever asked of him, no reflection was needed.
‘No regrets?’
Except by Pavo. His friend sat opposite him, little more than a silhouette against the sole lamp that lit that place. Corvus couldn’t read his features, but he hoped that if he could he’d see some reassurance there.
‘I’d be lying if I said I had none.’
‘It was the right thing to do. In the final reckoning, it was always going to be him or you.’
‘I know.’ He considered calling for more wine, but he knew he was only putting off the inevitable consequences of his actions.
‘You’re free now,’ Pavo continued, his voice low and calming. ‘For all your life you’ve been the second son. Your achievements unrecognized, your abilities ignored. All the love and care that should have flowed your way, denied you. I know you’d never see it that way, or if you did that you’d never resent it, or be consumed with bitterness. But as your friend, I can tell you that you deserved better. Ruga worked against you all your life. He whispered in your mother’s ear, turning her from you. And now, with this business with the Dragon, he would have found some way to spin it to his advantage. And what then? Think of the harm that would have been inflicted on good men and women.’
Corvus stared into the bottom of his goblet. He didn’t feel anything at all, and that puzzled him. It would come later, he was sure, when the shock had passed, but now he was empty. And he could no longer see the way forward.
‘Everything’s changed,’ he muttered.
‘Yes. For the better. Are you listening to me?’
Corvus set the goblet aside and steeled himself.
‘The Christians have their story of a saviour. Theodosius has told you all about that,’ Pavo continued.
‘Many times, and at great length.’
‘Jesus, the Christ, was sent by God h
is father to redeem the sins of all men. And now the faithful wait for his return, to fulfil his promises and all the prophecies made about him.’
He remembered Theodosius’ long lectures during those cold nights on the Gaulish frontier. ‘The Nicene Creed, agreed by all the wise men some forty years ago. “He will come again in glory to judge the living and the dead, and his kingdom will have no end.”’
‘At least you were listening.’ Pavo leaned forward, and now gold glinted in his eyes from the lamplight. ‘My point is, this world is hard enough, my friend, and all men need a saviour. In the temple of Mithras you hear words like the ones you quoted. Wherever people pray to gods, they talk of a saviour who will return one day to lead them out of the dark.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘I’ve already said it. All men need a saviour. Even you.’
‘So … you’re my saviour?’
‘I would never lay claim to such a thing.’ Though Pavo had slumped back into the shadows, Corvus could tell his friend was grinning. ‘But if you ever take the time to reflect on my words, you’ll understand that I’m talking about the need and not the saviour himself. Your brother would have denied the people this Dragon, would have denied them this thing that they desperately want. But you’ll give it to them. You’ll do a great good, and you’ll be recognized for it, and all the rewards that have been denied you will finally come your way.’
‘But I’m not doing this for myself,’ Corvus replied. He felt unsettled, though he wasn’t sure why.
‘Of course not. You’re the saviour of the saviour,’ Pavo said, his tone wry. ‘Now, are you ready?’
The juddering sobs echoed through the dark house. Corvus leaned on the threshold, listening to the reverberations rustling through that empty space, one that would always be a little emptier now.
Gaia hunched on a stool in the corner of Ruga’s chamber. The lamp had been blown out, but the moonlight broke through the window, as bright as day. Gaia stared at the black smear on the floor where it carved through that silvery beam.
When he entered, she looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes. In that chiaroscuro world, her skin looked like a frosted field. ‘It is over,’ she croaked.
He found that odd. Not he’s gone, or my most beloved son has been snatched away from me.
It is over.
‘It’s not over,’ he said.
She looked away from him, that same dismissive turn of the head that he’d known since childhood, the one which said you are a child, too naive, you don’t know aught of these grown-up matters.
‘Don’t worry about Hecate. She’s staying in a tavern near here. I’ll bring her back in the morning.’
Now she was staring at him again, and he could see all the calculations in her face. ‘What happened, my love?’ Barely a whisper. Then: ‘What have you done?’
‘Ruga is dead,’ he replied, as if that were explanation enough.
‘You killed your brother?’ A choke.
‘I cut off his hand. That was all …’ The words tailed away. He walked into the room and lingered beside her, resting one hand on her shoulder. He was pleased to see that she didn’t flinch. ‘He would have ruined everything. All your plans. Your hopes.’
‘Why did you do it?’
He wanted her to smile, to understand what a sacrifice he had made, and ultimately to forgive him. ‘For you, Mother. I did it for you. If the Dragon was to live, Ruga had to die. There was no other choice. This wasn’t a whim. I thought long and hard and realized what needed to be done. We talked it over, night after night—’
He felt her flinch. ‘Talked it over? With whom?’
‘Pavo. He agreed that it was the right thing to do. That I couldn’t be blamed.’
‘Oh, Corvus. Oh, my love.’ She was clawing at his arm like an animal, her nails digging into his flesh, dragging him down. He fell to his knees, and she clutched at his face with those trembling hands, holding him there so she could look deep into his eyes. ‘There is no Pavo. You know that. How many times have we talked about this?’
Corvus broke her stare and looked past her to the door. His friend stood there, leaning on the jamb. His arms were folded and he was grinning, somehow cocky and knowing and sad all at the same time.
‘I remember you running through the fields with Pavo, all those long years ago, in Britannia, before we fled for the ship. You were as close as brothers, closer than you ever were with Ruga. But he died, from the sickness that took so many in those days. You remember? How often have we talked of this?’
He rested his head in her lap and let her stroke his hair, as she had done so many times. ‘He’s my friend,’ he whispered.
‘Oh, my love.’ Her voice quavered on the edge of a keening cry. ‘Now what is to become of us?’
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Lord of the Greenwood
AMARINA LAY ON her back, staring up through the emerald world to the patch of blue sky framed by the branches. Her back was wet from the mud along the stream’s banks, her front sodden from blood leaking from the fool’s stab wounds.
I am dying.
She closed her eyes. Her life had been so much of a struggle. How easy it would be to give up.
No.
She had never given up. Not when she was abandoned as a child, when she was beaten and left for dead, half drowned, burned, eating a dead bird in the forest to survive until she could see the dawn.
Amarina pushed herself up on her elbows. More blood trickled out. She dabbed her fingers against her dress and brought them up before her face, red and sticky.
Three wounds.
Three faces of the goddess.
Three, three, three.
But five was the magic number, always.
She shook her head, trying to clear her confused thoughts. Her heart was beating, she was still breathing. But soon her blood would have drained away and there was no one nearby who could save her.
Rolling on to her belly, she lifted herself up on to her hands and knees and began to crawl up the grassy bank. Halfway up, she watched the world turn to grey as her wits drained away and she began to fall back.
She swam up from the dark in the same place. As she turned her head, she felt disturbed when she saw that the puddles along the edge of the stream were now streaked with red.
So weak.
Once again she rolled over, and began her ascent. This time she almost made it to the top.
Her limbs were growing weaker by the moment, and when she levered herself up on her elbows she found herself shaking as if she had an ague.
She heaved one last time, but she could already feel darkness closing in around her vision. She crashed back, her thoughts fizzing away into the void. At the last instant before unconsciousness claimed her, she felt convinced she heard a voice – or perhaps it was a dream.
But it was saying, ‘Lie still, sister. You are not alone.’
Amarina’s eyes flickered open. The woodland canopy was drifting by above her, light flickering through the leaves. Birdsong swelled. She felt as if she were wrapped in a warm blanket, on the edge of a long, deep sleep in coldest winter.
Strong arms flexed across her back and under her knees. She looked up towards the face of whoever was carrying her, but the sun’s rays blinded her and she slipped away again.
‘You will live. The blade hit no vitals.’
The mist drifted from her eyes, and Amarina found she was lying in a clearing with shafts of sunlight punching through the trees on every side. She felt as weak as if she had not eaten in a week. Strange, bitter scents assailed her nose and she realized her dress had been torn and a brown paste applied to her wounds.
She squinted into the light. A man was standing about a spear’s length from her feet. He shifted to one side to allow her to see him clearly.
He was tall, as tall as Bellicus. On his head was a helmet of a kind she had never seen before, but it looked very old indeed. It came down to the jawline, with only a narrow strip running
from chin to nose and two eyeholes pooled with shadow, the metal a faint green, perhaps from verdigris, or from some stain so that he would blend into the forest setting.
His tunic, cloak and leggings were green too, filthy with the detritus of life in the forest, and he carried a round emerald shield made of painted wood on his left arm. A long sword hung in a leather scabbard from his waist.
‘Who are you?’ she croaked.
‘The Lord of the Greenwood.’ His voice was deep and rumbling.
‘Your name?’
‘That is the name I was given. It is a name as old as the ages. When I am gone, it will pass to another.’
Amarina tried to raise herself up, but she didn’t have the strength.
‘Rest,’ he said. ‘You have lost much blood.’
‘You tended to my wounds?’
‘No. Hecate did. She is wise in those ways.’
Amarina craned her neck and saw they were not alone. A woman crouched not far from her head, hunched like a crow. Her hair was a wild black mane, tangled with leaves and ivy. She was naked, her body and face smeared with mud. Her eyes were wide and white and staring.
‘You have my thanks,’ Amarina said.
The woman only stared.
Behind her, Amarina could now make out others waiting among the trees. Men, mostly. Some were crouching, some standing. Their clothes were earth-brown or leaf-green and they were all as filthy as the wise woman, hair and beards unkempt. She could see that some carried staffs, others bows.
‘There are two worlds, sister, and always have been,’ the Lord of the Greenwood said as if he could read her thoughts. ‘The folk of the towns and the folk of the forest. Townsfolk think they know everything. Forest folk know all the secrets.’
‘I have never seen them before.’
‘They see you, sister. All of you.’
Amarina closed her eyes for a moment, trying to gather her thoughts. ‘You were the one Myrrdin wished to meet at Lud’s temple.’
‘That is my temple. The Green Temple.’
‘Then the wood-priest sent you to help.’
The Lord strode forward so he could more easily look down on her. ‘He asked for aid. But I have been following you since the north. Watching over you all. As have many others.’ He held out a hand towards the forest folk. ‘The wood-priests, all of the hidden people, they have been waiting for the season to turn for too long. Now all must change, or be lost for ever. The Romans are fleeing. We will take back this land that was once ours.’