Disjointed thoughts hammered through her mind. She refused to contemplate any of them. Instead she once again unlocked Tacitus’ casket, except this time the guilt that ate through her was a physical entity with jaws that clawed through her soul and left her bleeding.
She clenched her fists, took a deep breath and reminded herself why she was doing this. Tacitus would see it as a betrayal, but she wasn’t betraying him. She’d give her life to save him if she had to, but that was not her choice.
Her choice had been made and her honor pledged before she’d ever met him.
He would never see her as a warrior. It would never occur to him that she would willingly put her life in danger in order to carry out her orders. And yet he would expect nothing less had she been a man.
Would such knowledge cause him to think less of her, rather than more?
She didn’t know. She would never know. Perhaps that was just as well.
Her medicine bag was still buried beneath the linen and she dropped the pouches she had filled with Marcellus’ herbs into it. Swiftly, she closed the lid of the chest and swung her cloak around her shoulders, concealing her bag.
For a moment, she hesitated as she looked around the room and instantly knew it was a mistake. She couldn’t stop to contemplate or reminisce. There was no time and she couldn’t afford the luxury of regret for something that could never be.
All she could do was act. Only when her mission was complete would she allow herself to think of personal matters.
Of Tacitus.
* * *
Nimue had almost reached the prisoners’ quarters when disaster struck. Tacitus’ commander rounded a corner, caught sight of her, and began to march in her direction.
Panic gripped her. If he decided to drag her off she knew nobody would stop him—certainly not the officer by his side. Tacitus had assured her she was safe from his commander’s clutches. But Tacitus wasn’t here.
“Nimue.” He halted directly in front of her and although he left adequate space between them, his suffocating presence loomed over her. “I understand you’re on the way to visit the captives.”
The overwhelming urge to leap to her people’s defense burned through her, but she battled to douse it. Rising to the commander’s bait would do her no favors. She wanted to be as unobtrusive as possible, not create a scene.
“Charitable as well as beautiful,” the officer said, and it was only then she realized it was the same officer who’d spoken to her the other day. Tacitus’ cousin.
“An admirable trait in one whose people have been conquered.”
Injustice spiked through her chest and she glared up at the commander, who was staring at her as if he possessed the power to penetrate her skull and read her true thoughts. Scathing words scorched her tongue and she struggled to keep them there and not escape her lips. The commander’s eyes narrowed slightly, seemingly well aware of her internal battle and the strangest conviction gripped her that he expected her to protest.
Despite the fact that by so doing she risked her life.
“I wonder that my esteemed cousin allows you to wander the garrison without protection.” The officer dismissed the seamstress’s presence with barely a glance. “I would never allow you to put yourself at such risk.”
The commander’s penetrating gaze finally slid from her face and lingered on the piles of clothes and jugs that she and the seamstress held. For one horrifying moment, Nimue had the icy certainty that he knew exactly what she planned to do.
“I doubt,” the commander said at last, “that the Celt is at any risk within this garrison, Tribune.”
How much longer did he intend to delay her? At any other time she would have simply stalked off, but she couldn’t risk angering him in case he decided to haul her off for some barbaric punishment.
Something behind her caught the commander’s attention and he beckoned. She refused to glance over her shoulder on principle. Not that it mattered, since within moments the Gaul, Gervas, who had informed her of her slave status, came into view.
The commander turned back to her. “You’ve picked your moment well, Nimue. The captives, including Caratacus’ queen and daughter, are being sold to the slave traders at midday. Thanks to you, they will now all be cleanly attired.”
Fury at his callous words merged with relief that she was not yet too late to save them all, and she barely registered the sharp glance the officer shot his commander. Finally satisfied by their bizarre exchange the commander indicated that she was free to go and without a word, she did.
Arianrhod surely used her blessings to smooth the path for Nimue. The legionary on guard, a different one from the previous day, could barely tear his gaze from her and accepted her offer of a drink without the slightest trace of suspicion.
“The commander and the tribune said you’d be coming by,” he said, ramrod straight but holding her cup in his hand. She offered him a smile that clearly befuddled his mind as he grinned back, seeing her as no potential threat whatsoever.
Only as he unlocked the door of the prisoners’ quarters did his comment fully penetrate. She knew that Tacitus had been going to warn the guard of her visit and she understood that he needed to inform his commander, but why would the commander also mention it to the legionary?
Just as she was about to enter the building, the Gaul whom the commander had hailed paused by the legionary’s side and looked at her. Heat flooded through her and she prayed desperately it wouldn’t spread to her face and declare her guilt for all to see.
Goddess, was he going to stand and watch her? She doubted that he’d fall for her false smile and didn’t even bother to try. But she couldn’t let him thwart her plans when they were so close to execution.
“Would you care for some herbal tea?”
He glanced at the jug, then at the legionary and then back at her. His expression gave nothing away and yet she knew that, unlike the Romans she’d encountered, he saw past her face and figure and pretty words.
“No.” His response was uncompromising. “I don’t drink while on duty.” With that he turned and marched onward, and she let out a relieved sigh.
“Miserable Gallian bastard,” the legionary said, his stance no longer quite as rigid. The seamstress sniffed, whether in agreement or disapproval Nimue couldn’t guess, and continued to sip her tea.
Once again Nimue entered the building. This time when the women approached there was far less hostility. “We didn’t expect to see you again,” the woman who had spoken to her the previous day said. “Did your Roman beat you for coming to see us?”
“No.” Nimue looked down at the jug she held so the woman couldn’t see the truth in her eyes. She would never understand how Nimue felt about her Roman. Nimue would never expect her to. But neither could she bear for Tacitus to be so unjustly accused. “He would never beat me. Not all Romans are the same.”
She’d despised Romans long before they’d invaded her homeland. How could she so easily dismiss years of ingrained contempt? But Tacitus was nothing like she had imagined her enemy to be. With him, at least, she would acknowledge that her sweeping prejudice against his race was unfair.
“Yes, they are,” the woman said and Nimue knew nothing would change her mind. Knew that it was not even her place to try to change the woman’s mind. All she had to do was ensure her safety.
“We don’t have much time.” She didn’t miss the way the woman’s eyes narrowed at her sudden change of subject. “Here, take these gowns and put them over your own.” She handed the clothes to a second woman who took them but didn’t appear to know what to then do with them. “The slave traders will be here soon. This is the only chance you have for freedom.”
“You’re rescuing us?” The first woman stared at her in disbelief. “We’ll never make it. Roman scum are everywhere.”
“You will make it.” From the corner of her eye she saw the others had started to pull on the clean gowns over their own. “The market isn’t far. It will be easy enoug
h to mingle with the local populace. The important thing to remember is not to draw attention so don’t all move together in one group.”
“And then what?” asked one of the women, as she helped a young girl into a clean gown.
“Then we will return to the enclave of Caratacus where I’ll repair the sacred circle. When the Source of Annwyn conceals us from Roman eyes, there will be time to heal and gather resources.” She glanced over her shoulder, but the legionary was leaning against the open door, yawning widely, and showed no interest in what she was saying. “In moments the legionary will slide into unconsciousness. When he does you must make haste.” She gave brief instructions on how to reach the bustling market within the fortification’s walls. If they could get there undetected then their chance for escape was high. “Take this.” She handed the woman the jug, and explained the purpose of the contents. “Don’t wait for me,” she said. “I’ll follow with the Briton queen and her daughter and meet you at the sacred enclave.”
Satisfied that the woman would ensure her orders were carried out, Nimue checked on her victims. The seamstress had slumped to the ground and was snoring softly and the legionary, still upright against the wall, was no longer sensible to his surroundings. After ensuring the way was clear, she turned back and jerked her head at the woman who began the stealthy exodus.
Nimue slid her earring free and hoped the door to the queen’s prison was as simple to unlock as Tacitus’ casket. She curbed her impulse to run and instead strolled toward the building, shocked by the lack of security. It was especially surprising given the Romans’ military record and yet, when she considered it, their oversight to guard their prisoners adequately wasn’t surprising at all.
Who, after all, would try to rescue a dozen native women and children from the heart of their formidable fortification?
They would never suspect she would be so daring. It wasn’t as if she was a man.
She gripped her earring and slid it into the lock, and attempted to derive satisfaction from the notion that the Romans so underestimated the warriors of Cymru. But all she could see in her mind’s eye was the look on Tacitus’ face when he discovered what she’d done.
The lock gave way and after another quick glance over her shoulder, she opened the door.
“Do not be afraid,” she whispered as she stepped into the darkened room. And then the words lodged in her throat and her heart slammed against her ribs in horror as, instead of the queen facing her, it was the commander.
Chapter 28
Flee. The panicked command pounded in her head but within the space of a heartbeat, she discarded the notion. If she ran, she risked drawing attention to the women and children who, Goddess willing, would by now be mingling with the morning market crowds.
And even if she ran in the opposite direction, how far could she get in the middle of the enemy’s camp, with their commander on her trail?
“Nimue.” The commander’s voice was low as his intense gaze burned into her. “My instinct wasn’t wrong.”
Dagger-sharp terror ripped through her but she remained motionless and willed herself not to show by the slightest tremble how deeply she feared facing Roman torture.
He didn’t know her true plans. To him she was simply a weak woman in both mind and body. He couldn’t possibly suspect that she had opened the door in order to help the queen and her daughter escape.
Yet if all he imagined was that she intended to bring fresh clothes then why was he standing in the middle of the room, hands clasped behind his back, as if he had been specifically waiting for her?
Of course he had been waiting for her. And the true reason why he waited smashed into her with the force of a landslide.
It had nothing to do with him suspecting her of an ulterior motive.
She edged back a step, cursing the fact that she didn’t have her dagger. At least then she could inflict serious injury on him before he attempted to rape her. Yet even as that dreaded thought crossed her mind, discordance vibrated along her senses. For despite the way the commander’s presence dominated the small room he didn’t make any threatening gesture toward her.
Perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps he hadn’t had the queen moved from this room merely to get Nimue alone. Perhaps, after all, there was a perfectly logical reason why he’d locked himself in and waited for her to…
Rescue him.
“Don’t run.” His voice was still low, conversational even, yet threaded through with pure command. “You won’t get far.”
Ice formed in the pit of her stomach and leaked into her veins. She straightened her already rigid spine, forced herself to maintain eye contact. She wouldn’t give these Roman barbarians the satisfaction of running, of being hunted down like a wild creature. She was an acolyte of the Moon Goddess Arianrhod and the pride of her people rested within her.
She would not let them down, the way she had let the Briton queen down.
“I have no intention of running.” Her voice was cold, regal but instead of anger at her disrespectful tone, she witnessed a flash of admiration in the commander’s green eyes.
“I didn’t imagine for one moment that you would.” Finally he took a step toward her, but didn’t attempt to grab her. “A woman who would risk the wrath of the Eagle by releasing valuable prisoners wouldn’t run from her fate like a coward.”
He knew. The words pounded through her mind in an erratic tattoo and dread curled like a serpent around her heart. He might want to fuck her, but the reason she was in this situation was because he’d guessed what she truly was. Why else would he think she had planned to mount a rescue? Why else would he taunt her with the knowledge that Druids didn’t run from their fate but faced it head on?
She swallowed, her throat dry as dust. He could speculate as much as he liked. She would never admit to her heritage or spill the secrets she held sacred.
“I came here only to give the Briton queen and her daughter clean clothes.” How could he argue with the evidence in her arms? It was impossible that he already knew of the others’ escape, although it wouldn’t be long before one of his subordinates informed him of the fact. “You said the slave traders wouldn’t arrive until midday.”
“Yes.” His gaze roved over her face and she fought the urge to squirm. He looked at her like he wished to devour her and yet the strangest conviction gripped her that his interest was no longer sexual. “I had to force your hand, Nimue. I had to discover if you really were who I believe you to be.”
Her stomach liquefied with nerves and a fleeting, brutal image of her mother’s last agonized moments flashed through her mind. In the end it didn’t matter if she admitted to being a Druid or not. It was enough that the commander suspected her. He could do whatever he wished and no one would prevent him.
She angled her jaw at him. If he thought she would beg for her life, grovel at his feet for mercy, then he was pitifully mistaken. “You’ve already sold the queen.”
“No. Gervas ensured that she and the girl are safe elsewhere. And they aren’t destined to be sold, Nimue. Their fate awaits them in Rome, by the Emperor’s decree. Do you really think I could allow you to free such valuable assets? Slaves are one thing. The queen and daughter of Caratacus are another.”
Despite herself she felt her face burn. Was he telling her that he’d known of her plans all along? That he considered the loss of the women and children negligible? She knew the ways of Rome were different to her own, but no leader would willingly allow a member of the enemy to free captives of war.
Yet wasn’t that exactly what the commander was saying?
She tried one last time to protest ignorance. “I’m merely a woman, a slave. Why would you think I’d risk my life to save a foreign queen?”
“The door was locked.” That was all he said. That was all he needed to say to let her know that she could deny her involvement until her dying breath and it would make no difference. “Yet that was no deterrent.”
Despite the frenzied staccato of her heart
and the rushing of her blood in her ears, she was acutely aware that no legionaries had descended to prevent her escape. But why hadn’t the commander issued such orders in advance? Did he intend to drag her through the fortification himself?
“Nimue.” He took another step toward her and beneath the cover of the clothes she held, Nimue stealthily opened the pouch that contained the poisoned brooch. She knew her chance of escaping was slender but at least she would go down fighting. “How did you come by your silver torque?”
His question was so unexpected, so utterly bizarre, that she forgot about her makeshift weapon and stared at him in disbelief. “My torque?” she echoed. Why did he care about such a thing? If he desired it, there was nothing to prevent him from taking it from her once she was fully within his power.
“It’s very unusual.” His gaze was no longer fixed on her face. He stared at her throat as if the silver jewelry captivated him. “I’ve seen only one other like it, many years ago.”
Her fingers slackened around the clothes; her hands were clammy, chest tight. Her torque was unique. There was no other like it. He’s lying.
He took another step toward her, his gaze still focused on her throat. “When I was a young officer stationed in Gallia.”
“No.” The denial seared her throat and she staggered back a step, her stomach churning with distress. “You couldn’t have. You’re mistaken.”
“She had hair the color of honey and gold.” His voice was pensive, as though he’d slipped into the past and was reliving another life. The clothes fell from Nimue’s limp grasp and despite how she tried to fight it she was plunged back in time, to the night of her initiation.
This was the happiest day of her life. The proudest moment she had yet experienced. But then her mother had drawn her aside and had whispered a secret that shattered the moment and tarnished its beauty and wonder forevermore.
The Druid Chronicles: Four Book Collection Page 82