* * *
Bren waited with mounting impatience in the antechamber of the basilica. The building, constructed under the pretext of allowing the local tribal aristocracies to be responsible for their own administration and decision-making, in reality was little more than a base for the military stronghold.
He ignored the Celtic civilians who drifted through the chamber. The traitors who embraced the enemy way of life and coveted both prestige and social advancement through Roman bureaucracy. While the people they allegedly served choked on the yoke of enslavement.
When freedom swept the land, their collusion would not go unpunished.
A minor official strutted across the mosaic floor and looked at Bren as if he were a cockroach. “The Tribunus Laticlavius will see you now.” He jerked his head to indicate where Bren should go.
Without deigning to respond, Bren approached the half-opened door. Tribunus Laticlavius. A derisory laugh rattled inside his brain. The Romans set such stock by their victories and triumphs and yet they thought nothing of appointing a raw boy, who knew nothing of the bloody reality of war, into a position of such potential power.
Based solely on his family connections and blood.
The Roman, dressed in a white tunic with a wide purple stripe to denote his senatorial rank, had his back to Bren. Hands braced on the edge of his desk, he was apparently studying detailed cartographies.
“Sir.” It wasn’t said from respect. Only to inform the Roman he was no longer alone in the room. The Tribunus straightened, rolled up his maps and turned.
Bren scarcely managed to keep his expression blank as shock punched him in the gut. This was no green boy, but a full-grown man. Warrior hard, horrifically battle scarred, and with piercing blue eyes that caused eerie shivers of recognition to scuttle along his spine.
Taut silence screeched between them, as if the Roman recognized him too.
But how? From where? Bren couldn’t place him. Didn’t even recognize the face, and those injuries weren’t the kind a man would forget, no matter how much he wanted to.
“Dunmacos,” the Roman said.
And in that moment, he knew.
Three years ago, within weeks of assuming this cursed identity, Bren had been assigned to a Legion in Gaul. Still reeling from the orgy of slaughter and the quagmire of blood that he’d so recently escaped, it had been a bitter release to use Dunmacos’ chilling reputation as an outlet for his rage. For months he’d reacted with crippling ferocity to the slightest insult, the merest hint of disrespect among the other auxiliaries. Until there wasn’t the faintest doubt in even the most suspicious mind that he was who he claimed to be.
And this Roman, Tiberius Valerius Maximus, had been a centurion.
But his face hadn’t been disfigured back then. And these scars weren’t recent. They looked ancient, weathered. Similar to burns, but not. It looked as if the man had been roasted alive and yet somehow survived.
What the fuck had happened?
Bren gave a sharp nod and handed over the dispatch. The Roman continued to stare at him as he broke the seal Caratacus’ aged scholar had painstakingly repaired, as if he recalled every violent incident Bren had instigated during the brief months they’d shared the same garrison.
Let him recall. Officially Bren had never bloodied so much as a Roman nose during that tour of duty. And the ones he’d killed were untraceable. Combined with Dunmacos’ past, Bren’s conduct at that time had ensured him of the utmost respect and trust any Roman aristocrat would bestow upon a foreigner.
Finally the Tribunus lowered his eyes to the dispatch. His expression remained carved in stone as he read how more troops were required by the Legion in the West. How the ambushes and mobile tactics of the displaced Briton king were far more than a mere irritation; how they now ate into the moral fiber of the legionaries on the front line.
This was all the proof the insurgents needed to know their strategies were working. They could defeat the enemy and emerge victorious, no matter how overwhelming the odds appeared.
The Roman looked at him. Bren kept his expression as unreadable as his enemy’s.
“My response will be ready later this day. Remain within sight of the basilica.”
It was a dismissal. “Sir.” And that was perfunctory. A meaningless word to end their confrontation, and Bren turned and marched out of the Tribunus’ presence.
Once outside he sucked in a deep breath and glanced toward the forum that separated the basilica from the gaudy temple erected in honor of the Emperor Claudius. If time permitted, he’d bring Morwyn there after receiving the dispatch. It was nothing like the markets she would be used to from Cymru.
Thinking of Morwyn caused a spear of heat deep in his gut. Lust he recognized, heightening his senses and stirring his cock. Yet there was something else, something less easy to explain. Something that lingered like a candle’s flame in the belly of a cave; unexpected and unwanted.
Sex was all he and Morwyn shared. As soon as they returned to her homeland she would make a bid for freedom. And unless he intended to shackle her like a slave, he’d have no choice but to let her go.
She wasn’t the type to suffer slavery, even if he was inclined to inflict such upon her. She certainly wouldn’t stay with him voluntarily. He would never ask her anyway.
Irritated by the trail of his thoughts, he caught sight of the public baths opposite the basilica. He could do with a thorough cleanse. And there was no better place in which to glean unofficial information than from careless gossip and unwary confidences exchanged while the noble citizens of this Roman colonia relaxed their pampered bodies.
* * *
Morwyn’s heart thudded high in her chest as she followed Branwen into the forum.
“Did Carys send you after me?” But why hadn’t her friend followed herself? Alarm streaked through her. Had Carys’ precious Roman incapacitated her in some way?
“No.” Branwen glanced at her, then looked hastily away. “She didn’t see you. I didn’t say anything to her in case I was mistaken.”
“So she’s well?” Visions of Carys immobilized by fractured legs or fettered by irons faded.
Again Branwen glanced at her, but this time a smile transfigured her face. “Oh yes, mistress. She’s very well. Glowing.”
For some reason the knowledge that Carys was glowing—what a strange choice of word—didn’t entirely please her. Of course she wanted her friend to be happy. But it sounded as if she was utterly contented, and how could that be when she was isolated from her people, so far from everyone who loved her?
And then Morwyn caught sight of her. Sitting on a stone bench in the shade of a forlorn-looking tree, and her thoughts scattered as emotion choked her throat.
Carys, the girl she’d grown up with, loved as dearly as a younger sister. The woman whose friendship she’d missed so acutely from the day they had parted.
“Carys,” Branwen said as they approached the bench, and Morwyn fleetingly wondered at her lack of respect. Carys was their princess, as well as a powerful Druid—even if she hadn’t completed all her training before their world had shattered. Why would a peasant girl address her so intimately?
And then, between one heartbeat and the next, in the moment as Carys turned to look at them, Morwyn registered the long white gown she wore.
Disbelief curdled her belly and shivered through her blood. Carys was dressed as a Roman matron.
“Morwyn?” Carys rose from the bench, wonderment etched on her beloved features.
The Morrigan preserve us. The prayer slipped through her shocked mind before she could prevent it, but she lacked the strength to recant. Because Carys was pregnant.
Words lodged in Morwyn’s throat; confusion paralyzed her brain. Carys flung her arms around her and held her close. As close as her distended womb would allow. And still she couldn’t unlock her tongue.
“I can’t believe you’re here.” Carys sniffed against her throat, as if she was perilously close to tears. Of thei
r own volition Morwyn’s arms wrapped around Carys, seeking as much as giving comfort, and as if in response, the babe kicked hard against Morwyn’s belly.
Carys laughed, a watery sound, and pulled back, still clinging to Morwyn’s arms. And then her smile faded.
“Sweet Cerridwen.” Tenderly she ran a finger along Morwyn’s face. “How did this happen? Where else are you injured?”
Her face. She had almost forgotten. “There was a minor skirmish, nothing to concern yourself with.” She glanced at Branwen and finally understood the reason for the girl’s scandalized expression. “Rest assured I spilled the guts of at least one of the murderous dogs.”
Carys shook her head and took Morwyn’s hands. “It’s so good to see you, Morwyn. But how did you get here? Is Gawain with you?”
Familiar pain gripped her heart at the mention of his name. “No.” She couldn’t tell Carys about Gawain. Not yet. Her gaze slipped to Carys’ belly and dull rage thudded through her mind. Already the Roman was using her as his brood mare. How could Carys bear to stay with a man who so callously disregarded her rights?
Only her long golden hair remained the same as it had always been. Braided, and threaded through with tiny, glittering jewels.
Carys tugged her down to the bench and continued to hold her hands, as though she would never let go. “You came alone?” A frown creased her brow. “Through occupied Britain? But how—”
Morwyn squeezed Carys’ fingers and shot a glance at Branwen, who had retreated to give them sufficient privacy. “I’m here, Carys. That’s all that matters. It’s you I’m worried about.”
Carys smiled, clearly confused. “You’ve no cause to worry. I’ve been teaching Branwen the sacred knowledge of Cerridwen. She’s a fast learner, Morwyn. But now you’re here I have no fear of the birth at all.”
Morwyn stared into Carys’ bicolored eyes, shock rendering her momentarily mute. Had she understood correctly? Surely she was mistaken.
“You’re teaching Branwen—what?”
Carys flicked her a haughty glance, one she knew so well. And despite the circumstances relief rolled through her. No matter what the Roman had done to her since that night Aeron had attempted to obliterate their people, he hadn’t managed to crush her fierce pride.
“I’m teaching her all I know.” Yet there was a thread of defiance in the regal tone, as if Carys wasn’t entirely sure of the propriety of her actions. “What would you have me do, Morwyn? Keep my knowledge to myself? What good is that?”
“But she isn’t a Druid.” Their ways were sacrosanct. Their knowledge couldn’t be shared with just anyone. It was passed down from Druid to acolyte, a training that began in childhood and continued for twenty summers.
“No.” There was a trace of bitterness in Carys’ voice now. “As far as I’m aware, I’m the only Druid in Camulodunon. And even I was only halfway through my training. Should I allow all I know to die with me?”
Involuntarily Morwyn glanced at Carys’ swollen belly. “You aren’t going to die.”
Carys tugged on her hands in an impatient gesture. “Of course I’m not going to die during childbirth. I plan on having many children and yes, I intend to teach them all I know. But that’s not enough. Don’t you see? That just won’t be enough.”
The rage resurfaced, obliterating even the shocking revelation that Carys was sharing her sacred secrets with an outsider. “Many children? Is that all you are to him? A convenience to produce numerous heirs for Rome?”
Silence vibrated between them and for one fleeting moment Morwyn was reminded of the last time she’d insulted the Roman. The look on Carys’ face was identical to that time in the sacred mound, when Morwyn had drawn her dagger to plunge through the Roman’s heart.
But this time Carys didn’t smash her fist into her jaw. This time she took a deep breath and exhaled slowly between her lips.
“You know Maximus isn’t like that.”
Curse the gods. “He’s a Roman, Carys. All they care about is producing sons for their corrupt Empire.”
Carys took Morwyn’s hand and pressed it against her belly, and she felt the babe move, as if distressed by the tone of their voices. A painful lump lodged in her throat. A babe was still a babe, no matter what its parentage. And with Carys as his mother, at least he would learn there were two sides to every bloodied conquest.
“Maximus already loves our daughter.” Carys’ voice was soft. “And it’s I who want a dozen children, not him. He’d be happy enough with one, Morwyn. With this one. Our daughter.”
She wanted to refute the words. Tell Carys she was wrong. But deep in her heart, she knew Carys was right.
Maximus, the Roman who had stolen her beloved’s friend’s heart, wasn’t like other Romans. Morwyn had witnessed his devotion to Carys as Aeron had tortured him and attempted to subjugate them all to his twisted will. And she had seen the love in his eyes as they had said their farewells.
He would defend Carys’ rights to the death.
She snatched her hands free and wound her arms around her waist. “If he respects you as you deserve, then why make you dress like a weak-minded Roman woman?”
Pain flickered across Carys’ face. “He doesn’t. This is my choice.”
Her fingernails dug into the palms of her hands but it did nothing to calm her simmering temper. “Why? Because you’re ashamed of your Druidic heritage?”
She braced herself for Carys’ response. But instead of vitriol, she sighed and slumped against the trunk of the tree.
“You’re still angry with me for leaving.”
Morwyn rounded on her, infuriated she would twist her words and change the focus of their discussion. “Of course I’m not. This has nothing to do with you leaving.” And as the words fell from her lips, she knew she lied.
She had never forgiven Carys for falling in love with the enemy. For choosing him above her people.
Had never forgiven her for leaving.
“Maximus has never asked me to adopt any of his ways.” Carys flicked her a sideways glance. “But he’s a Tribunus. I made the decision to dress as a Roman in public purely to reduce speculation and gossip that might harm his career. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“So you subjugate yourself for the sake of your husband’s career.” Morwyn could scarcely speak for the repugnance clogging her chest.
“No.” Carys sounded oddly wistful. “It’s a compromise. The less attention I draw in public, the more I can accomplish in private.”
Unable to remain still, Morwyn leaped to her feet and paced the length of the stone bench, every step refueling her sense of injustice.
“You shouldn’t have to compromise.”
“We all live with compromise now.” Carys suddenly sounded very old and very wise, and shivers crawled over Morwyn’s arms. In that moment, Carys reminded her of their ancient queen, Druantia, whom Aeron had murdered.
She stopped her agitated pacing and stared down at her fellow Druid.
“I’d never compromise my integrity for a man.”
Carys’ right hand caressed her belly, as if she were comforting her unborn child.
“Nor I.” Then she looked straight in Morwyn’s eyes, as if daring her to doubt her word. “But I’d do anything to protect Maximus and our babe.”
Chapter 14
Bren sat in the corner of the hot room as steam hissed up from the floor and obscured the other inhabitants. During exercising he’d overheard some interesting, if ultimately unbelievable, speculation regarding the Tribunus’ wife. And while abandoning his dignity in the cold room he’d been privy to disgruntled Roman landowners complaining about the ingratitude of the Britons they’d displaced.
They showed no interest in the upheavals in the West. They were, for the most part, veterans, who desired nothing more than to live out the rest of their days in comfort, secure in the arrogant assumption the local populace would never dare rise up against them.
Eyes half-closed, he gave the impression of uninterest an
d boredom, while his brain processed and filed every snippet of conversation. There was no telling when an apparent insignificant word could prove vital upon reflection.
Everything could be used against the enemy.
* * *
Seated on the bench, Morwyn steeped her special herbs and roots in the hot water Branwen had procured. It wasn’t ideal but would suffice for her purposes. She glanced up at Carys, who was watching her with a serene expression on her face. An expression she’d seen countless times on the faces of those carrying the child of the man they loved.
She’d not expected to see it on Carys. Before the invasion, neither of them had craved motherhood. Carys because she hadn’t been interested in taking a lover, and Morwyn because the thought of choosing a man for such honor didn’t appeal.
Carys sighed faintly and shifted position on the stone bench. “How is my mother? Is she still on Mon?”
“Yes. And she’s very well, although misses you greatly.” She was also one of the senior Druids who waited for irrefutable proof of Caratacus’ position before leaving the Isle. A chill shivered through her soul. Should she tell Carys? Or would she betray such confidence to her husband?
“I dearly wish she was here with me.” Carys caressed her belly as if unaware of her action. “There’s always darkness in my mind whenever I think of Mon. I’m so happy you’re here now, Morwyn.”
A trickle of unease shivered over Morwyn’s arms. Yes, she was here. But she didn’t intend to stay. And she had never intended to return to Cymru without Carys.
But that was before she’d discovered Carys’ pregnancy. Before she’d been reminded, so forcefully, of the depth of the love Carys possessed for her Roman husband.
“Why?” Her voice was sharper than she intended. “Is life so peaceful here? Does the call for freedom no longer touch Camulodunum?” She deliberately used the Roman name for the ancient Briton settlement, but experienced no sense of victory when Carys’ eyes filled with pain.
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