The Druid Chronicles: Four Book Collection

by Phillips, Christina

  “I have to see.” She began to run, holding up her gown so she wouldn’t trip over the material, and knew that Elpis was by her side. She followed the milling crowd through the streets, toward the triumphal arch that had been constructed to celebrate the Emperor Claudius’ victorious campaign.

  Legionaries were everywhere. Trying to push back the crowd; trying to bring order as they finished their grisly task. Just beyond the arch, by the side of the road, a roughly hewn cross had been erected. Even from this distance she could see the naked man lashed to the wood wasn’t Gawain.

  Thank the gods. She stood by the arch, panting, her hand pressed against her breast. Muted whispers rippled through the gathered people and a subdued sense of unease permeated the relief pounding through her blood.

  Druid.

  There were Druids in Camulodunum. And, like he said he would, the praetor was hunting them down.

  Now she was no longer sick with terror that it was Gawain enduring such a torturous death, a resigned sense of disgust and regret flooded her veins. Of course Druids had to die. They were a cruel, vindictive race that sacrificed babies on the altars of their gods. She had learned all this as a small child at her father’s knee, and her years in Rome had only strengthened the knowledge that Druids had to be wiped from every corner of the empire.

  But she hated crucifixions. No matter how many she had inadvertently witnessed, it had never served to change her mind. It was a barbaric death and surely even Druids deserved some dignity even if they were incapable of offering such to their own wretched victims.

  She reached out to Elpis, who took her hand. But just before she turned away to return to the litter that would take her home, something tugged in a buried recess of her mind.

  It meant nothing. She tried to ignore it but despite her best intentions she once again looked at the man on the cross. Really looked at him.

  And recognized his face.

  He was the huge man dressed in peasant clothing she had seen in the forum. The man Gawain had passed a silent message with.

  It was a coincidence. Nothing more. Gawain didn’t know this man. And even if he did, it didn’t follow that Gawain was aware the other man was a Druid.

  She barely felt Elpis gently tug on her hand as another jumbled thought surfaced. Gawain had spoken of the woman he’d once loved. How she had warned him that treachery awaited in the land of the Brigantes.

  When Gawain had admitted he had once loved another, she’d been too foolishly wounded to understand the significance of his words. It had been more than a simple wish for him to remain safe. Gawain had been specific. She had saved his life with her warning.

  Had it been a warning direct from their gods? Was the woman he had loved a Celtic priestess?

  A Druid?

  Gawain said she was a warrior. But everyone knew Druids were fierce, bloodthirsty savages who took pleasure in leading their people into battle. Yet she couldn’t believe that Gawain had loved a bloodthirsty savage. A brave, noble warrior—yes, that she could understand, no matter how much it hurt her heart to admit. Gawain deserved a woman like that by his side, one who could match his strength, one who shared his heritage and could face his future.

  Shared his heritage.

  The words thundered in her brain.

  No. She wouldn’t believe it. Gawain was not a Druid. He was kin to Carys, and Carys had led the legions to the mad Druid who would have destroyed them all. She wouldn’t have done that if she were related to a Druid.

  But Gawain and Carys were not blood kin.

  “Domina, we should leave.” Elpis’ anxious whisper pierced her mind and she stared at the other woman, but all she saw was Gawain’s face as he told her treachery awaited him in the land of the Brigantes.

  During her last year in Rome, there had been great celebrations when the Briton king, Caratacus, had been captured and paraded through the city in chains. He had been betrayed by the queen of the Brigantes and all the Druids who had fought with him had been slain.

  Coincidence. But no matter how she clung onto that answer it felt hollow, and threads of panic weaved through her breast.

  Her suspicions were insane. Gawain was nothing like any evil Druid she had imagined. Just because he might have known the man being crucified, had once loved a woman who could foresee danger and had been betrayed by those who had turned on Caratacus didn’t mean he belonged to the elite ruling class of Celts who, by all accounts, could even out-rank their kings.

  “Lady Antonia.” The male voice sounded shocked and she spun around, heart pounding, to see the praetor frowning down at her. Does he suspect Gawain of being a Druid? Was that why he’d asked so many questions the other night? “This is not a sight for your eyes. Come, let me escort you to safety.”

  He didn’t wait for her reply and took her arm in a possessive manner, allowing Elpis to follow behind. Short of creating a scene—although would anyone notice with the gruesome entertainment on offer?—she had little choice but to go with him. Words were beyond her at the moment in any case. What could she say? Ask him outright if he suspected Gawain of being Rome’s bitterest enemy?

  He took her to the basilica that flanked the forum, led her across the mosaic-floored antechamber and ushered her into what she presumed was his private office. Elpis stood a few steps behind and Antonia resisted the urge to reach for the other woman’s hand.

  “Please, sit.” The praetor placed an ornate stool before her. She remained standing behind it and somehow dredged up a smile.

  “Thank you, but no. I must return home before my father worries.”

  “Of course.” He stood there, hands clasped behind his back, his gaze fixed on her in an unnerving stare. She forced herself not to fidget. She would do and say nothing that might cause his suspicion to fall in Gawain’s direction.

  A shiver raced over her arms. Was that why he’d brought her here? To interrogate her about what she knew of Gawain? Did he know of their liaison?

  Nausea roiled and her heart slammed a heavy tattoo against her ribs but she kept her face impassive. There was nothing the praetor could say that would induce her to betray the man she loved.

  She swallowed and stiffened her already rigid spine. What a time to acknowledge the truth. Even the possibility that Gawain was a despised Druid did nothing to change the fact.

  “Antonia.” His voice was gruff. “I deeply regret you saw that crucifixion.”

  Breathe. “It’s not the first I have witnessed.” She sounded as though such things were an everyday occurrence that didn’t disturb her in the least. She hoped that was how she sounded, anyway.

  “And yet I would protect you from such distasteful aspects of life if you would allow me to do so.”

  Too late, she realized the trap into which she had fallen. Why had she accompanied him into his private office? She should have insisted that he take her directly back to her litter. But it was too late to berate her stupidity now.

  Either the praetor was going to ask for her hand in marriage, or he wished to make her his mistress. She had no intention of agreeing to either but the thought of an unpleasant confrontation, on top of her horrifying suspicions about Gawain, churned her stomach.

  She forced herself to meet the praetor’s gaze. “You are too kind but I am more than capable of looking after myself.”

  He took a step toward her and she was relieved that the stool remained between them. “You must know how I feel about you.”

  Shock stabbed through her breast. Yes, she knew he had lusted after her for many years, even though he’d always behaved with the utmost decorum in her presence. But for him to state the fact so baldly—she hadn’t expected that.

  “I—” Words lodged in her throat and she hitched in a shallow breath. “You’ve always been very kind to me.”

  His jaw tightened. “Kind?” He appeared to consider the word and find it greatly lacking. “I would certainly be kind to you, Antonia. You deserve that at least after the mockery of your first marriage.”<
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  “Praetor—”

  “Seneca. At least grant me that honor once more, my lady.”

  Heat seared her skin. This was becoming worse by the moment. “Seneca. I have no wish to discuss my marriage with anyone. Not now and not at any time in the future.”

  “I respect you for that.” He glanced at the stool, clearly regretting its strategic position. “I respect you for many things. Your conduct has always been impeccable. Let me assure you that as my wife your life would be one of untold luxury and indulgence. You will never want for anything again.”

  He hadn’t thrown her tainted heritage in her face as a way of underscoring the great honor he was offering her, the way Scipio had. At fourteen, she had been awed by the handsome, arrogant Roman and overwhelmed that he was prepared to overlook her father’s common bloodline.

  That tactic wouldn’t work now, of course. But how much easier it would be if the praetor had only wished her to be his mistress. She could have used the excuse of affronted pride to refuse him. Now, she had no choice but to tell him the one thing that would be sure to dampen his desire to take her as his wife.

  “I’m honored by your offer, Seneca. But I fear I cannot accept. I’m unable to have any more children.” She’d almost died giving birth to Cassia and while no physician had told her she should not attempt another pregnancy Antonia had made the decision herself. She would never put herself through such heartrending agonies again—unless the outcome was as perfect as Cassia. And who could guarantee such a thing?

  She only hoped the praetor concluded it was a medical directive. No man would take the word of a mere woman in such a matter.

  “I have three sons. That is more than enough for any man.”

  Speechless she stared at him. Was he actually saying that, if he took her as his wife, he didn’t expect her to breed for him?

  Certainly three sons was admirable. But a man always wanted more. Desperately she clawed through her mind to find a counter maneuver. And recalled their conversation from the other night.

  “But you’ve always wanted a daughter, Seneca.” Most men did, once they had sired a good few sons. Daughters were, after all, a valuable asset when it came to strengthening allegiances through their advantageous marriage. “I would be unable to give you one.”

  A taut silence stretched between them. Unease fluttered in Antonia’s belly. Why didn’t he say something?

  Finally he cleared his throat. “There would be no need for you to endure another pregnancy. I know what you did, Antonia. I know your daughter is still alive.”

  Chapter 21

  Gawain stood in the shadow cast by the monstrous Roman arch at the outer edge of Camulodunon and his hands fisted in impotent fury at the sight of Rhys. It was obvious the other man had been tortured before this final indignity, and equally obvious he hadn’t betrayed his fellow Druids.

  Fucking Romans. But threaded through the anger was a sense of shaken disbelief. Because if Nia hadn’t arrived when she had, if she hadn’t forbidden him to leave the villa, then he would have been with Rhys when the legionaries had come for him.

  If not for Nia there would be two Druids being crucified this day.

  He knew it was a sign from the gods. Knew he was being warned that if he didn’t follow the right path, this was the fate that awaited him. But, although he would never admit it to anyone, least of all his gods, he no longer knew his path. But more than that, he no longer possessed the belief in Lugus to show him the way.

  Yet he could no longer ignore their command. For them to use Antonia in the way they had was bad enough. To take Rhys as an example was sickening. He had to find a way to communicate with Lugus before they did anything else.

  He made his way back toward the market and leaned against one of the columns of the bathhouse. This evening, after he’d met with Antonia, he would make the necessary preparations and request the counsel of his god.

  Frustration seethed at how carelessly the gods used whoever crossed their path in order to fulfill their wishes. It was something he’d barely acknowledged before the Roman invasion yet since leaving Mon it had plagued his mind.

  He had to calm his thoughts before approaching Lugus, otherwise the god would likely strike him down before he even had the chance to take a breath.

  Antonia would calm his soul. He didn’t know what it was about her, but she had the ability to soothe him with merely a glance or a few inconsequential words. Except nothing about her was inconsequential. Being with her gave him a sense of purpose, as though he could accomplish anything he set his mind to. And that was insane. Why would he feel such a thing when he was with her? What good was it, when fate had decreed at the moment of their births that their futures could never be one?

  In his peripheral vision, he saw movement at the entrance of the basilica, the administration building where the local tribal aristocracies allegedly took responsibility for their own decision-making. As far as he could see, it was little more than a focus for the military occupation. Yet something snagged his attention and he glanced across the square. And froze.

  The praetor was leading Antonia from the building. He held her arm and there was a predatory air about him as though he already owned her. Savage fury blazed through Gawain, raw and ugly, as he watched them approach her covered litter.

  What had she been doing in there? The basilica wasn’t a place for Roman women.

  But he knew why she had been in there. It was because of the praetor. And the way he helped her into her litter, the way he kissed her hand and then stood and watched the slaves carry her down the road, all pointed to one distasteful fact.

  In the Roman’s eyes, he did own her. Had Antonia promised to marry him? How could she do such a thing?

  Rage boiled through his veins but it was more than rage, a primal emotion he had never before experienced. He couldn’t name the fire that scalded his blood and scorched his reason, and caused his body to burn as though in the grip of a fever.

  He couldn’t name it but he’d be fucked if he would just stand by and let Antonia be pushed into marrying a man she didn’t love. Because she didn’t love the praetor. There had been no reciprocal lust or attraction in her eyes or manner during that feast whenever she’d looked at the Roman.

  Was it her father pushing for the marriage? Would Antonia really give up any hope of happiness just to please the old man?

  So what was he thinking? That Antonia would give up everything, her pampered lifestyle, her ties with her father—and follow him?

  The thought slammed through his brain, a frigid blast of winter ice that cooled his fury but didn’t extinguish it. Instead the thought solidified; became tangible. With Antonia by his side, he could embrace a life in the harsh lands of the Picts.

  The litter stopped and Antonia got out. What was she doing? Going back to the Roman? He looked back to the basilica, but the praetor was nowhere to be seen. Frowning, he watched Antonia and Elpis enter the market and savage pleasure speared through him.

  She’d fooled the Roman into thinking she was returning home. Somehow, that gave him hope that she wasn’t yet fully committed to the praetor.

  He marched across the square and followed her through the market. She didn’t appear to be inclined to shop and instead sat on a stone bench, Elpis by her side, in the shade of a despondent-looking tree.

  Anticipation surged through him. He would persuade her that her path was entwined with his. That was the message the gods had given him the other night. Why else would they have spoken through Antonia? She was meant to be by his side. He could keep the secret of his heritage from her. What use was his heritage in any case, in the land of the Picts?

  * * *

  Antonia took a deep breath and took Elpis’ proffered hand as they sat on the bench. Her stomach fluttered with nerves and her throat was parched but there was an odd sense of calm in her heart.

  She was doing the right thing.

  “Domina,” Elpis whispered. “Will you accept the praetor’s o
ffer?”

  Her fingers tightened around Elpis’. “If I refuse him, do you think he would inform Scipio of Cassia’s existence?”

  “I don’t know.” Elpis sounded reluctant to admit it. “He seemed genuine in his desire to adopt your daughter and love her as his own blood.”

  Yes, he had. As she’d reeled in shock at his disclosure that he knew Cassia was alive, the praetor had continued to speak of her beloved child as though he couldn’t wait to claim her. At her prolonged silence, he’d then assured her that he would present Cassia as his own bastard daughter. Antonia’s actions would never be known to anyone. She would be Cassia’s mother in the eyes of Rome and Cassia would enjoy a lifestyle that was her birthright.

  It was unnerving to learn how close an eye he’d kept on her in Rome. Unbelievable that he knew how she’d arranged for her daughter to be saved and brought up by trusted former slaves of Scipio. The couple was elderly, of no further use to him, but their loyalty toward Antonia had never wavered. She had ensured they never went without necessities, and when Cassia’s life was threatened, they had been only too happy to take the baby in.

  The praetor knew all this. Yet her own former husband, Cassia’s father, didn’t have the first idea.

  “I believe he would love her.” Antonia curled her fingers around her locket and saw Cassia’s sweet face, when she had gone to say goodbye to her just before she left for Britannia.

  But what right did she have to deny Cassia knowledge of her heritage? Every child deserved to know of their true blood lineage.

  Her resolve strengthened. For more than a year, she had denied her daughter’s existence to the world. But once Cassia was in Britannia, under Antonia’s care, what could Scipio do? He had no jurisdiction over her now. He had already denied Cassia’s right to live. Therefore, he had forfeited any further rights over her upbringing. And if he tried to assert those rights, Antonia would fight him with every means at her disposal.