Chapter 31
Nimue saw Tacitus stiffen at her words, and nerves tangled low in her stomach. She gripped her fingers together and waited for him to say something. Anything. But he remained utterly still, as if he had turned to stone, and the nerves multiplied, filling her stomach and heart and closing her throat.
Nothing had gone as she had imagined. When Tacitus had appeared, she’d thought it was a sign he’d forgiven her. She thought she would be able to persuade him into granting her a measure of freedom—dependent upon him accompanying her.
That was of utmost importance. That he accompany her when she left the fortification. Hadn’t Arianrhod, through her brother god Gwydion, bestowed her blessing on her wish that Tacitus be spared from the coming devastation?
But even the most beloved Goddess gave nothing easily. And so she’d had no choice but to share her most sacred of secrets. The secret she’d intended to tell him when they were safe in the enclave.
Finally he turned to face her. Any small hope she’d harbored that he’d greet her news with pleasure withered. Horror etched his features as though she’d just admitted to murdering his precious Emperor.
“How can you be—?” He choked, unable to even say the word. His glance slid to her belly as if seeking confirmation. “I used protection.”
She dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands and focused on that pain in the vain hope it would help diminish the pain eating through her heart. “It seems Arianrhod had other ideas.”
He exhaled, and appeared riveted to the spot. “How can you be sure? It’s too soon to know for certain. You’re mistaken.”
Even though every word pierced her with the knowledge of how deeply he wanted nothing to do with their child, one thing shone through the darkness. He hadn’t questioned her on her certainty that he was the father.
“I know, Tacitus.” She pressed one hand against her belly and a part of her died at the way Tacitus flinched at her action. “I’m an acolyte of the Moon Goddess herself. How could I be mistaken in something like this?”
“My child.” His tortured gaze clashed with hers. “Conceived on a slave.”
Another time his words would have stoked her fury, burned her pride. But the look of anguish in his eyes, the self-disgust in his voice, caused only a deep sense of grief in the core of her soul.
“I don’t have to be a slave,” she whispered, to be yours, but those words remained locked tight in her heart.
“Fuck.” He paced the room, as if Belatucadros, god of destruction, rained fire at his heels. “If you’d agreed to my request, you would already be my concubine.” He swung around and faced her. “I swore on my mother’s heritage I would never force a child on an unwilling woman.”
Doubt whispered in the back of Nimue’s mind at his words. They weren’t the words she’d expected from him. Was his horror at the situation not because the thought of siring a child with her repelled him, but because he thought she must hate the circumstances?
“Tacitus.” Once again she reached for him but he stiffened as though her touch was unwelcome. She hesitated for a moment, then gripped his arm regardless. He didn’t jerk away. “I wasn’t unwilling.”
He looked as if her confession shredded his soul. It didn’t make sense. What else could she say to make him understand that she no longer loathed the thought of having his child?
“How the gods delight in exacting their vengeance.” His words were bitter, and although he looked at her, Nimue had the feeling he didn’t see her at all. “The blood of Rome triumphs once again.”
Unease snaked through her at the wild look in his eyes. “I don’t know what you mean.”
He didn’t seem to hear her. “How I despised my father for what he did to my mother. What choice did she have? Yet now I find I’m no better, despite my lofty pledges.”
Self-disgust dripped from every word and Nimue stared at him as disjointed fragments of all their conversations tumbled through her mind.
She’d jumped to conclusions at his disclosure that he possessed two mothers. Tacitus had never truly clarified what he’d meant. Now she thought about it, his reaction to her assumption had been oddly…muted.
Her stomach churned as another possibility reared its unsavory head. Surely not. Tacitus belonged to the upper echelons of Roman society. She didn’t know a great deal about the patrician class but she knew enough. Romans didn’t embrace those they considered their inferiors into their jealously guarded noble ranks.
Yet the thought plagued her mind as Tacitus’ tortured gaze scorched her face.
My mother is Greek. When he’d told her that, she had imagined his mother to be a high-ranking Greek lady, related somehow to Tacitus’ Roman-born mother.
What choice did she have?
Skeletal fingers raked over her flesh as she saw beyond his words to the anguish beneath. To the underlying reasons why he was so conflicted whenever he mentioned his parentage to her.
“Your mother,” she whispered. “Your Greek mother, Tacitus. Why did she not have a choice?”
He gripped her arms and jerked her toward him. “Slaves don’t have the choice to say no, do they, Nimue?” His words were savage but despair filled his eyes. “They’re at the mercy of their masters’ whims. They don’t even have the right to keep their child if their master decrees otherwise.”
Pain engulfed her heart as finally she understood. His birth mother hadn’t given him up at all. He had been taken from her and given to his father’s Roman wife. “I’m so sorry.” It was hard to speak through the lump that choked her throat and the words were muffled. But he heard her and looked at her, as though he didn’t understand; as if she spoke a barbaric tongue that he had never before encountered.
“I would have done anything to prevent this outcome.” He sounded so wretched her heart squeezed with pain.
He’d misunderstood her words.
“No, Tacitus.” It was important he realized that, unlike his mother, she did have a choice. That she had knowingly made a choice. “I could have prevented this. But I chose not to take my womb cleansing tea. Arianrhod intervened—but only because she knew how much I wanted this.”
How surreal that she said such things to him, a Roman. And how humbling for her Druid pride to know that she meant every word.
He looked at her as though he couldn’t process the depth of her confession. “I’ve dishonored my mother and my sisters. I swore on their names a child of mine would never be stigmatized in such a way.”
Nimue pulled free of his grip and grasped his jaw in one hand, forcing him to look at her instead of looking through her. “No child of mine will ever be stigmatized, either.” Did he think she would allow their child to be thought of as a slave by all of Rome? “You aren’t, after all.”
He gave a bitter laugh, but instead of thrusting her aside, he covered her hand with his, and pressed her palm against the roughness of his jaw. “My father was desperate to sire a son. I have seventeen older half-sisters, all conceived with various slaves. In their eighth month he granted their manumission, in the hope the child would be a boy. He had no intention of his only son being born into slavery.”
“Your father took all the babies away from their birth mothers?” She tried to keep the horror from her voice because she didn’t want Tacitus to think she judged him. But the tortured look that flashed across his face made it clear that she hadn’t succeeded.
“He had no interest in daughters, Nimue. They may have been born free but he didn’t acknowledge them as his own. They’re merely the bastards of his freedwomen. But they’re still my sisters.”
Repressed anger vibrated through every word and she stared at him, transfixed. His culture placed little value on females. Yet despite the actions of his father, she knew Tacitus would never turn his back on his child, simply because it wasn’t a son.
Hadn’t the commander said he would never abandon the child of the woman he loved? Why did she think of her father now? Was it because she knew, in
her heart, that her mother had seen the same noble qualities in her Roman officer that Nimue saw in Tacitus?
“The Emperor granted permission for my father to adopt me. I lived in luxury while my sisters toiled as servants. My father could never understand why I insisted on recognizing our blood link.”
She had the savage urge to plunge her dagger through Tacitus’ father’s arrogant heart. “It’s clear you don’t take after your father at all in such matters.”
Not only did she mean the words with every fiber of her being, she meant them to comfort Tacitus. But he jerked back from her, as if her words scalded, and a wild light gleamed in his eyes.
“You’re wrong.” His gazed raked over her, burning her skin. “We’re more alike than I ever imagined. You’ll only stay if you’re not allowed to leave. What choice is that, Nimue?”
Before she could even fully process his caustic question he snatched up his cloak, swung it around his shoulders and marched from the room.
Chapter 32
Nimue jerked awake as the door swung open. Tacitus stood there, his foreign armor gleaming in the light from the lamp that he held, his cloak adding to the dramatic effect. For a moment she wondered if she still dreamed of her Roman lover, but as he entered the room and the light chased shadows back into the corners, she knew that this was no dream.
She pushed herself upright on the bed that he hadn’t shared with her during the night. Or was it still nighttime? Disoriented she raked her tangled hair off her face and frowned at him. After he’d left her last night, she’d followed him, only to watch him stride outside and disappear deeper into the fortification. And the legionary on guard made it clear that his orders to ensure she remained inside hadn’t changed.
“Get dressed.” His voice was pitched low, but it was a command nevertheless. For a moment, she continued to stare at him in bemusement and then the meaning of this odd nocturnal communion blazed through her.
Heart pounding she pulled on the gown she’d worn the previous day, slung her empty medicine bag over her shoulder and wrapped her cloak around her. Tacitus watched her in silence. His expression gave nothing away.
Blessed Arianrhod, thank you. Nimue sent endless prayers to her beloved Goddess as she once again clutched the pouch that held the shard of bluestone and followed Tacitus outside into the dusky early morn. All the half-formed plans she’d made during the night, to try to persuade him to accompany her to the secret enclave, faded back into the shadows. While she’d endlessly worried, her Goddess had weaved her magic around Tacitus, irrevocably entwining their destinies together.
He took her hand and led her toward a horse that waited on the wide Roman road that bisected the fortification. The legionary by the horse stepped back, and raised his arm in the traditional sign of respect she had come to recognize. Tacitus merely jerked his head in response and helped her onto the horse. Then he adjusted a strangely shaped pack that was slung over his shoulder before he swung up behind her.
Without a word, he urged his mount forward. She gripped her fingers together as they neared the great gates of the fortification but she needn’t have worried. They passed through without the slightest problem and she released a relieved breath.
“How far from here are your people?” His voice was clipped and she looked over her shoulder, but it was too dark to discern his expression. For a moment, unease rippled through her mind and she glanced at the pink-streaked sky. Although dawn had not yet broken, the starry wheel had fallen. Yet even as the thought formed, an unassailable certainty gripped her.
Once again, the Moon Goddess had not reigned in the nighttime skies. Was it because Nimue had failed in her original mission? Was this a facet of Arianrhod’s displeasure?
But wasn’t Nimue following her Goddess’ orders now? Why then did Arianrhod continue to conceal her radiance from her people?
She pulled her mind back to the present. To Tacitus’ question. “We’ll be close when the sun reaches the zenith.” She pointed in the direction they needed to travel and ignored the tiny flicker of alarm that edged her consciousness. Tacitus would never betray the location of her people. But in any case, the concern was irrelevant. Tacitus wouldn’t be returning to his fortification. She, with the help of her elusive Goddess, would make sure of that.
He redirected his horse and dug in his heels. His strong arms encased her but only through necessity. He didn’t wind one arm around her waist or give any indication that he’d accepted Arianrhod had bound their futures together.
As the sun rose on the eastern horizon, casting a golden glow across the land she loved, the unease within her heart expanded. She was close to fulfilling the first part of Arianrhod’s plan by returning the shard of bluestone and completing the sacred circle. The magic of the bluestones would ensure her people’s safety from the might of the Eagle—but this time the gods intended more. Gwydion had conveyed the message. She knew devastation would follow. Knew also, in her heart, that should she succeed then great knowledge of the Spiral of Annwyn, the Source of Universal Life, would be hers to embrace.
Unthinking, she reached out and speared her fingers through Tacitus’ as he held the reins. Her hand looked so small on top of his. And yet the future of his Legion rested in her palm.
She should feel triumphant. Victory was within her sights. Soon, not only would she be able to claim vengeance for her people, she would also, finally, avenge her mother’s murder.
By murdering the man her mother had loved with all her heart.
“Are you cold?” Tacitus’ voice against her ear caused her to shiver again. But she wasn’t cold. It seemed the soul of her mother clasped her hands, a silent condemnation for what Nimue proposed to do.
“No.” Her voice was hoarse as the full implications of what might happen hammered through her heart. Could she take responsibility for the death of her mother’s beloved? For the death of her own father?
“Do you need to rest?”
For a brief moment, she squeezed her eyes shut. From the first time she’d met him, Tacitus had always been mindful of her comfort. Even now when they fled for their lives—for surely if he was caught abandoning his Legion he’d be executed—his first concern was for her.
“It’s better if we keep going.” She tightened her fingers around his, willed him to relinquish his grip on the reins and crush her in his arms. But he remained rigid, as if her touch didn’t affect him at all.
“Let me know if you need to stop for a while.” He sounded distant, as though he spoke to a stranger, and yet his actions in taking her to her people belied his chilly exterior.
As the sun rose in the sky, Nimue’s deeply held desire to learn all the secrets of the magic bluestones wavered further. Was such knowledge worth the death of so many Romans? They weren’t all evil as she had so long believed. Marcellus was a healer. Did he deserve to die?
A few times, she attempted to engage Tacitus in conversation but his responses were stilted and in the end she gave up. She understood. He was conflicted at deserting his people. It would take time for him to see that he’d had no choice.
* * *
Anticipation tingled through Nimue’s senses as they walked deeper into the forest, Tacitus leading his horse by the reins. The tangled undergrowth snagged her ankles and up ahead she saw a familiar pair of great oak trees.
They had arrived.
She curled her fingers around Tacitus’ biceps and he looked down at her. Even in the muted light that filtered through the forest canopy, she could see the entrancing violet of his eyes. Would their child have his father’s eyes?
“Are they here?”
“Very near.” They’d stopped walking and her voice was hushed. She glanced around, but could see no sign of hidden ambush. It was imperative she find her people quickly so she could explain that Tacitus was with them, by decree of Arianrhod. “We just need to go beyond the—”
“I imagined you’d return to your village.” Tacitus glared at the surrounding forest as if it offe
nded him. “How can you be certain anyone is here, Nimue? I can’t leave you here alone.”
“Alone?” Her voice was sharp. Even if, by some mischance, her people hadn’t made it back to the enclave she wouldn’t be alone. Tacitus would be with her. “We won’t be alone. It’s far safer here than in any of the surrounding villages.” And it would be safer still once she’d completed the sacred rituals and replaced the shard of bluestone she’d stolen.
Her mind shied away from what would happen after she’d restored the circle of bluestones around the enclave. Perhaps, now that she was free, Arianrhod would grace her with her presence, and Nimue could beg for a further favor.
Tacitus gritted his teeth as though her assurances both tested his endurance and tormented his soul. He cast another black look around the forest before he pulled the pack from his shoulder and ripped it open.
“You’ll need these.” His voice was gruff as he pulled her dagger from the pack and handed it to her. She took it and a fierce joy raced through her at the familiar weight of it in her hand. How she’d missed its comforting presence at her hip. “And this.” He sounded as if the words choked him as he pulled her bow free. “The arrows are gone.”
Reverently she took her bow and traced one finger along its elegant edge. “Thank you.” She’d never expected to see either of her weapons again. “Don’t worry about the lack of arrows. I can easily replenish my stock.”
He looked as if the thought of her crafting her own arrows made him ill. “Take this.” He pushed something sharp into her hand and she frowned at the silver brooch encrusted with emeralds. It was one she’d never seen before. “My family name is engraved on the back of this fibula. If you ever need me, for whatever reason, send this to me and I’ll find you.”
The warmth that had filled her with the return of her weapons instantly evaporated. She looked at him, saw the tension etched on his face and radiating from his body, and denial slammed through her.
The Druid Chronicles: Four Book Collection Page 85