by Nhys Glover
Brennwen cringed at the squeeze and Livia released her in surprise. ‘You are hurt, aren’t you? That beast hurt you!’
Unable to say more, Brennwen simply shook her head and bit her bottom lip. Without another word, the lady of the house led her to a room at the back of the dwelling where a fire burned and a caldron bubbled. Here, the only light was from the fire’s blaze.
‘Take your clothes off and wash. We have a bathhouse, but it’s a bit of a walk away. I doubt you feel the need of such, right now. This is Draetha. She’ll help you while I find you clothing.’ A young serving girl of about twelve summers had entered the room behind them. With a shy nod, she went to the cauldron and ladled some of the hot water from it into a bowl. A small cloth and soapstone appeared from nowhere, along with a drying towel. The girl handed both to Brennwen and then hastened from the room.
Slowly, reluctantly, Brennwen began to peel off her torn and filthy clothes. The cloak had been Braedyn’s and she’d brought it along because it reminded her of him. Now it was torn and ragged, not fit to be worn by even a field slave. Her gown was also damaged beyond repair. Removing it made her feel as if she was stripping away the four wonderful years she’d spent in the hermit’s hut in the forest. Letting it go felt wrong, somehow.
‘Oh, my!’ A shocked female voice from behind her had Brennwen spinning to face the intruder, more shamed than she could bear at being seen like this. All that covered her now was a chemise that was so thin it was transparent in the firelight.
‘You’re black and blue! Why didn’t you tell Allyn you were so badly hurt? You’ll need more than a wash. I have some wolfsbane ointment that will help.’ With a worried tut, Livia disappeared out the door again.
Brennwen looked down at her white body. It was marred by more than the usual number of bruises and marks. The man had not been cruel during his attack. The force he’d used on her was only enough to knock her to the ground and then wrestle her into submission. Oh, he had hit her across the face when she tried to cry out, but otherwise… No, the bruises were simply the result of her thin, transparent skin. The slightest injury looked life-threatening because of it.
She began to wash the dirt and grime from her body after removing the chemise. It felt good, although the cuts stung. By the time she was finished, Livia had returned with a small jar of ointment she recognised.
Her greatest regret, other than the loss of Braedyn, was leaving most of her medicines behind. In the leather pouch she carried at her hip, she had only a small selection of the dried herbs she’d gathered over time. She’d become an expert at collecting and distilling the herbs and remedies that Braedyn had sold or administered in the village nearby. It was those medicines that had provided for them both, especially over the long winter months when her garden was frozen.
‘May I?’ Livia asked as she dunked her fingers into the golden wolfsbane ointment.
Brennwen nodded and smiled, even though she knew that no matter how gentle Livia was, the contact would hurt. And it did, but she gritted her teeth and kept smiling silently as the kind lady smoothed the ointment into every mark on her body, even the ones on her inner thighs.
‘I once saw a white doe like you. It is a rare gift of the gods, but it makes you sad to be so different, doesn’t it?’ Livia said gently as she worked, never looking up.
‘My mother called me a gift from Arianrod, but the people in my village called me the curse of Badb. Braedyn said I was a gift from the Lady in her entirety. And because of it, my gift could also be a curse, if not used properly.’
‘Used? How do you use your gift?’
Brennwen realised too late that she had said more than she should. Livia was talking about her colouring alone. She didn’t know the full extent of her curse. Should she tell her? Should she warn her in case something happened because this kind woman had taken her in?
Nodding resolutely, she made her decision. This woman needed to know what she had invited into her home. She deserved that, at least, for her kindness.
‘I have dreams that foretell calamity.’
Livia stopped soothing the ointment into her skin and looked up at her. ‘That must be terrifying.’ There was no fear in her eyes, only compassion and concern.
She nodded, overwhelmed with gratitude for this woman’s kindness. Other than Braedyn, no one had ever understood what she was forced to endure for the dreams.
‘The Temple of Apollo has oracles that foretell calamity,’ Livia said as she went back to her task.
‘But they are heeded, so that calamity might be avoided. People see my dreams as unavoidable messages of doom from the Crone.’
‘I’m sorry. Were you running away from the cruelty brought to you because of your gift?’
‘I have never run away. Running solves nothing. My father sold me into slavery when I was eight summers old, unwilling to take the condemnation of the villagers any longer. I was sold and resold from one tribe to the next, each time further south until I came to the Belgaes. I was left for dead by my master and found by a druid hermit. I stayed with him until he went to the Summer Land a week ago. Then I knew I had to…’ She stopped. Already she had said too much.
‘What do you have to do?’ Livia pressed gently as she slipped the new shift over her head and shoulders, smoothing it down to cover her battered body.
She was silent a long time. This kind woman was owed whatever she asked for. But talking about her son hurt too much. Even when she shared her dreams with Braedyn it hurt. He said such sharing was good for her, but she didn’t agree. It felt better to hoard her pain inside, in the darkness. Letting it be seen in the light made it too clear and too real.
In the end, just as she had done with Braedyn, she repaid kindness with co-operation. ‘I dream of my son. He is in danger and I must save him.’
‘You have a son? You don’t look old enough to have a child.’
‘I lost my child before he was born four summers gone. The child in my dreams is he reborn to another. I think he is Roman.’
Livia stepped back and stared at her in astonishment. ‘You believe the soul of your unborn son was reborn to a Roman?’
Brennwen nodded silently, afraid she may have gone too far. The Roman patrician had married a Celt, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t be insulted by the idea that one of her kind had borne a Celt.
‘But you cannot think to take him back from his new mother…’
Brennwen shook her head and smiled sadly. ‘No, of course not. He belongs with his new family. But he is in danger and only I can help him. That is what my dream tells me. I have to find him.’
‘Tell me what you know of him. I may be able to help locate him for you. My mother is wife to the emperor’s cousin. If anyone could find information on a Roman child, she could.’
‘He… He is not in Rome. Wherever it is, it feels like home. It is hard to explain. I have travelled from my home in Brigantes territory in the North to the Belgae’s in the South. Each place has felt different to me, as if the gods and spirits who dwell there are different, one from the other, but Albion has an overriding feeling that links it. A feeling of home. I saw him in a busy Roman town with a long bridge over a river and many grand Roman buildings at its centre. But then he was – will be taken away to the North. He will be very afraid.
‘I don’t think it has happened yet. I’ve had these dreams for many years, but I’ve always felt the events were not yet come. Now I feel them drawing nearer. That’s why I must find him, to try to stop him being taken, if I can.’
‘Your description sounds like Londinium, to the east of here. Do you have a name?’
‘Annius. I hear the name Annius.’
‘That is a nomen. A clan name… A patrician clan.’
‘I thought he would be someone important to be stolen.’
‘Leonis is heading east to Londinium in a few days. He could accompany you there.’
‘I…’ Brennwen didn’t know what to say. That this stranger, this Roman noblewom
an, would help a lowly slave like her seemed impossible. All the Romans she had known in the past had exhibited haughty distain for the people they’d conquered. They considered themselves superior in every way. That this one, a member of the patrician class and wealthy beyond her wildest reckonings, would stoop to aid her was unbelievable.
‘You are too kind. I don’t even know why you would believe me. You know nothing about me…’
Livia smiled and brushed Brennwen’s still untidy white hair back from her face. ‘Little Brennwen, I know all I need to know of you. If you believe there is a child in danger, then I believe it, too. My childhood friend’s mother and little sister, Galerianna, were kidnapped a few years ago. Galeria and her slave girl, Cyra, went to find them with our help.
‘I’ll let you meet Galerianna tomorrow. She recovered from her ordeal quickly, and now you’d never know her life had ever been anything but happy and safe. Leonis helped to find her and bring her back. He can help you do the same for your son.’
‘Leonis… an odd name.’
‘Lion Heart. Leonis was a Dacian warrior who fought and killed a lion in the arena. You’ll like him. But watch out for him, he’s a terrible flirt, though he’d never act on it. His heart belongs firmly to Cyra.’
‘I have heard of lions but I’ve never seen one. I was told they’re very fierce, like bears.’
‘They are fierce. Very big, fierce cats. I saw one in the arena when I was in Rome. I still have no idea how Leonis could have killed one of those beasts. But it gained him his life, if not his freedom. Now, let’s get you some dinner and then a bed. You’re exhausted and it’s late. My children are already abed, thank goodness. Otherwise, they would have been all over you by now. They’re good boys, but they’ll find your colouring intriguing, I must warn you.’
‘Intriguing, I don’t mind.’
CHAPTER THREE
8 April 86 CE, Davrydianus Estate, Durotriges Territory BRITANNIA
Brennwen awoke with a start, the cry from her dream still caught in her throat. The dream was becoming more intense, more detailed. This time she could almost touch her sweet son as he looked around in terror.
‘Brennwen?’ A heavily accented male voice called her name softly. She looked out into the shadows of the large room where her pallet lay next to the other single female servants. A tall man stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the moon. From his build and accent, she knew it could only be the man they called Leonis the Lionslayer.
She scrambled quietly to her feet and stepped between the pallets until she reached the door. Already dressed for her journey in clothes Livia had given her, all she needed was Braedyn’s repaired cloak and her shoes that awaited her at the door.
‘Are you ready?’ Leonis asked softly as she came to his side.
‘Yes.’
She followed him out into the cold, predawn morning. She knew that their craft would leave the port of Durnovaria at dawn and they had a good hour’s journeying to get there. Then she would have to cope with her fear of drowning as the ship took them East for three and a half days to their destination, the commercial centre of Britannia, Londinium.
Livia was paying her passage of almost ninety denarii. It was more than she was worth as a slave. If her need hadn’t been so great, she wouldn’t have accepted the generosity. This family, with its wide network of close friends, had done too much for her already.
But pride had no place when she was trying to save a child, and so she had gratefully accepted all the help Livia offered her.
‘You seem shaken,’ Leonis observed as he led her over to his already saddled horse. He was a tall and muscular man, a warrior in every way, yet he never made her fearful. He, like Allyn and the black giant, Nexus, made her feel protected and safe. It was still a novelty to be with men who didn’t lust after or bully her.
‘My dream was worse than usual,’ she said as she let him lift her into the saddle and then lithely mounted behind her.
‘Tell me. If I’m to help you find this child, I must have as many details as possible.’
‘Why are you not afraid? All my life people have feared my dreams. But here… I don’t know how to take it.’
‘What is to fear? Bendis sends her messages through dreams. They are meant to help us.’
‘Bendis is your goddess?’
‘Yes. And there she is!’ He pointed to the waning moon that was slowly sinking in the inky sky. ‘If you had been born to my people, you would have become her priestess, even without your gift of prophesy. Your colouring is that of the moon goddess herself.’
‘The Lady. She is Arianrod in her fullness.’
‘I have heard that your Goddess has three faces. Mine has one.’
‘I imagine it is only our mortal view of things that is different. The Goddess is the same.’
‘You’re right. Cyra calls her Astarte. But she’s the same goddess who protected us when we went after Galerianna.’
‘She is very fierce, your Cyra.’
Leonis laughed loudly, no longer keeping quiet now they had left the knot of dwellings and begun to follow the dirt road illuminated by the bright moon. ‘She is that. My little wildcat. I may have slain a lion, but I can’t seem to get the better of his smaller human cousin. She has my heart in her hands and knows it.’
Brennwen smiled into the darkness. She had liked the little darkhaired woman the moment she met her, and had felt great sorrow for her when she found out how a past master had cut off Cyra’s breasts. What must it be like to have no way to nurture the children you bore? It must break Cyra’s heart.
‘So, tell me. I know that we seek a child of about four. He is dark like a Roman and you have heard the name Annius. Although I gather you aren’t sure if that is his name or the name of the person who has stolen him from his home.’
‘Not stolen yet. Will be stolen, if I do not get there in time.’
‘Yes. Exactly. I know that he is likely to be found in Londinium where there is a long bridge linking one side of the town to the other. But he will be taken North by his kidnappers to the Brigantes.’
‘Not to the Brigantes. I don’t think my people know anything about what is taking place. But whoever will have him will keep him on Brigantes soil. I know the look of my home. The images in the dream are familiar.’
‘I, too, could recognise my home. This place is like my home in many ways, but it doesn’t feel quite the same. I miss Dacia.’
‘Would you go back if you could?’ It was not Brennwen’s way to ask questions. But this great golden man was so open and friendly he almost invited such curiosity.
‘No. Not now. Before I met Cyra, I planned to escape captivity and go back to join in the war that was to come. That war now rages, if news from Rome is correct. I also wanted to confront my brother who had betrayed me. But all of that faded away when Cyra came into my life. My life is hers now, body and soul. And my son’s, who was born free.’
‘I don’t understand Roman Law. Amongst my people a slave’s children are also slaves.’
‘In Rome, too. But Cyra is a liberti. Galeria freed her when we came here. If I were to marry Cyra, she would become the slave of my mistress, Livia. So we are not formally bound. Her child is therefore legally fatherless, not the son of a slave. So he is free. I hate that my son cannot be formally acknowledged as mine, but he knows the truth of it. He will always know the truth of it.’
‘And Livia can’t free you?’
‘No. I was saved from death in the amphitheatre by Emperor Titus, but even he couldn’t free me, so he gave me to Livia’s mother, his cousin by marriage, and she, in-turn, gave me to Livia so I could stay with Cyra. My Cyra won’t be separated from Galeria or little Galerianna. Who isn’t so little now. She is flirting with one of the worker’s boys and Cyra is furious.’ He laughed. ‘Pity help that boy if he as much as kisses that girl. Cyra will cut off his rod and feed it to him.’
Brennwen wasn’t in the least offended by Leonis’ easy reference to male geni
talia. Her people saw sexuality as natural, and were not ashamed of their bodies or the sexual act. But her own experiences with men had all been painful and terrifying. Her father beat her, as did other masters, but beatings were nothing compared to the sexual abuse inflicted on her by her Belgae master.
That storekeeper started making use of her soon after he bought her, when she was not yet thirteen summers old. He always took her when his wife was out of sight because the woman was twice his size and as aggressively jealous as a wild pig.
Because she was so small, her master hadn’t realised she was already a woman. When she fell pregnant in the summer of her fourteenth year, he’d been so angry and afraid his wife would find out that he arranged for his drunken friends to take turns with her. His plan had been to make it look like the child came from the rape. But the men had been too drunk to treat her small body gently, and their vigorous ploughing had ripped her and aborted her child. They’d left her for dead in a pool of her own blood.
Had Braedyn not been guided to find her on that lonely road outside the town, she would have bled out. Instead, he was able to stitch her back together and stop the bleeding. But she teetered on the edge of death for many weeks from shock and loss of blood. The only thing that kept her from seeking out the Summer Land had been the knowledge that her son had stayed, too. She saw his soul take up residence in the gentle Roman’s belly in the first of many dreams she would have of him over the next four years.
‘I have upset you. I was joking.’ The Dacian’s mellow voice broke into her memories and she realised her back was stiff, her muscles tense.
Consciously working to relax her body, she shook her head. ‘No. I know you were only joking.’
‘You are such a little thing, even smaller than my Cyra. It’s hard to imagine you old enough to have a child who is four.’
‘He is not mine. Not really. I lost him, and then he was born to a Roman. But I am older than I look. I am eighteen summers old.’