by Tarah Scott
Upon the portico of the principia, they watched Quintus climb the stairs, clad in a fine coat of bronze and leather armor. As customary, he kissed the Dux Britanniarum on each cheek.
“Protect and defend,” Father said.
“Hail Caesar.” Quintus saluted then cast his eyes to Valeria.
Her breeding insisted she offer him a pleasant smile and her hand. He bowed deeply and kissed it, then turned up his face and looked into her eyes. “My heart will be yours until my return.”
She glanced at her father. With a half-smile, he inclined his head toward Quintus. She hesitated before holding out a handkerchief embroidered with bluebells. “Carry this to remind you of our friendship.”
Papa had instructed her to say, “…to remind you of my love,” but she couldn’t bring herself to utter the words—besides, a marriage agreement had not yet been signed.
Quintus snatched it from her hand and held it to his enormous nose, inhaling as if she’d actually dabbed scented oil to the linen cloth. “I shall return in a fortnight and will think of you every waking moment.”
The bishop stepped forward and wrapped his big arms around her. “Remember your lessons, my child. I’ll expect to see you again soon.”
“Yes, and I hope your journey is a safe one. ’Tis a pity the fine weather could not have held out a few days longer.”
“A little rain never hurt a soul and they tell me we shall have fine Roman-built roads to prevent the carriage wheels from bogging.” The bishop shook Argus’s hand. “Take care of my student. She is a precious jewel, as clever as any man.”
“That she is.”
Valeria watched the holy man climb into the heavy wooden carriage, the same one that had brought her to Britannia with its dark interior and jerking motion. She felt no remorse to see it leaving.
Quintus lead the contingent of ten soldiers. The gates to Vindolanda opened and Argus placed his arm around his daughter’s shoulder while they watched the party traverse the bridge. The heavy doors slowly closed and the bishop with his escort disappeared from sight.
“What have you got planned for today?” her father asked.
Valeria smiled. “I think I shall visit Mia in the stables.” Of course that would be after she made a detour to the gaol.
“What a splendid idea. I think I may join you. It has been a long time since I rode for pleasure.”
Valeria’s heart flew to her throat. “Ride? Now? But it…it’s raining.”
Her father looked up at the sky. “Ah. That it is. I have become so accustomed to the wet, I hardly noticed.” He patted her shoulder. “Perhaps we can ride later when it clears.”
A sigh of relief escaped Valeria’s lips. “I’d like that very much, Papa.”
***
Taran used a link in his chain to etch another notch into the bar of his cell. He’d been rotting in this gaol eight days and had yet to come up with a plan. The iron shackles binding his arms and legs were solid without a spot of rust and he had found no weakness. Bloody Roman engineering.
“They’ll be coming for us soon,” Greum said as if he could read Taran’s thoughts.
“Aye. It may be our only chance.”
Greum scooted closer to the bars keeping his voice low. “Tell me ye have a plan.”
Taran shook his head. “The only thing I’ve come up with is to overpower them when they take us to the magistrate.” He held up his cuffs. “This chain is long enough to twist around a man’s neck.”
“Aye, that takes out one, but what of the others?”
“If they fetch us together, it may be two on four. We’ll strangle the rear guard and when the leading man turns round, we’ll use the one we’re strangling as a shield.”
Greum scratched his head. “Ye think they’ll do that—fetch us together?”
“Why not? We’re both being tried for the same crime.”
“’Tis a risk.”
“Ye got a better idea? It’s the closest we’ll come to a sword.” Light footsteps resounded through the dungeon. Taran pressed his lips taut. His chest tightened with a myriad of emotions from excitement to dread.
Greum sniggered. “Sounds like yer lassie friend is coming for another chat.”
Taran kept his voice low. “She could help us.”
“I don’t know why she fancies the likes of you.”
“Nor do I, but who’s complaining?”
Taran’s stomach churned when she appeared in the passageway. He pretended to take a deep breath, hiding his gasp. Every time his eyes glanced her way, the room spun. Yes. Him. The giant, fearless Pict was stirred by a temptress, a Roman, no less.
He didn’t care for the way she made him feel. He wouldn’t have minded if she had been a local lass, but a Roman and a privileged one at that? The sooner he could spirit away from Vindolanda and Valeria, the sooner he could return to the life he loved.
The taunts began as hungry stares from ragged prisoners ogled her from every direction.
A prisoner in the corner cackled. “Come over here, wench.”
Taran grasped the bars, trying to force them apart with all his strength. He ground his teeth and strained. He’d gouge the eyes of every last bastard who taunted her.
“I’ve got a present for ye right here in me lap.”
“Show us some leg.”
“Leg? I want me lips on a ripe breast.”
Valeria’s frightened gaze darted across the slovenly and haggard faces while she listened to their jibes. Looking like a cornered rabbit, she backed against the wall.
“Stop this!” Taran roared, but his voice was swallowed in the echoes of the taunts.
“What’re ye afeard of, wench?”
Valeria grasped the handle of a torch and slammed it against the wall. The booming racket echoed through the dungeon. “I did not come here to listen to your taunts. I’ll have no more of it, else you’ll be hanging from the gallows this night. So help me God.”
Taran stood dazed. Oh yes, he liked her spirit.
She glared back at the gaping faces, either stunned with fear or astounded a woman had taken charge. Taran figured they were all stunned—a tiny lass slamming an iron torch handle against the wall? She certainly had more mettle than her Roman male counterparts.
A legionary’s voice echoed from above. “Is everything all right, my lady?”
“Yes, splendid, thank you,” Valeria replied with a higher pitch than Taran had heard before.
She proceeded, making the sign of the cross and mumbling prayers under her breath, dragging the clanking torch in one hand and carrying a basket in the other. By the time she reached Taran, he was ready to break out of the damned gaol and spirit her back to Gododdin.
She held out her basket. “I brought enough bread for everyone. Though I say they don’t deserve it, heckling me so.”
“’Tis all right now,” Taran said. “Portion the loaves.”
“I had to tell the cook it was for the animals, otherwise he would not have let me take it.”
“That’s bloody right, the beasties eat better than we do,” said a man as he reached for his share.
Valeria nodded. “Unfortunately, that’s how it appears.”
She handed a large ration of bread to Greum and Taran watched him tear at it with his teeth. Her cloak rustled against her skirts until she stopped beside him. He gazed down upon her head. Sitting, he hadn’t realized how petite she was. She came to the center of his chest and craned her neck to look at him.
She passed a parcel through the bars. His hand brushed hers as he accepted it. How delicate her slender fingers were, his own tingled at her touch.
“This is for you,” she whispered. “You’re going to need your strength. The magistrate will be here on the morrow.”
His gut churned as he accepted the gift. “Is there anything ye can do?”
She shook her head. “I pleaded your case to my father. He is unbending. I’m sorry.”
As if his hand grew a mind of its own, he reached out an
d brushed the rose-petal soft skin of her face. “Ye have shown me more kindness in just a few days than any Roman I have ever met. For that I’m grateful.”
“’Tis the least I can do. I wish our laws were otherwise, but as a mere woman, I’m powerless to change them.”
Her lips quivered on a strained smile. Taran could not drag his gaze away. She cleared her throat and shuttered her fathomless eyes with lids fanned by long black lashes. A tear spilled upon her cheek and she quickly wiped it away. “I’m sorry. I must go. God’s blessing be upon you.”
He watched her sunflower-yellow peplos billow under her cloak as she raced for the stairs. Motionless, Taran stared after her, holding the parcel in his hands.
“She gave ye a present,” Greum said, jolting Taran from his trance.
He slid down the bars and crouched on his pile of fresh straw. Slowly, he pulled the thong that bound the parcel. Inside was a block of cheese and two chicken legs. Taran picked one up and handed it to Greum. Glancing back down, his eyes narrowed at the glint of steel hidden under the cheese. He peeked up to see who was watching. Everyone.
Taran turned his back and gnawed on the second chicken leg. Slipping the cheese onto his lap, he wrapped the linen cloth around the knife. It was a small ivory-handled dagger, but sharp, and what he needed to fight his way to freedom.
***
Pia’s light snores echoed through the walls of the adjoining room. Valeria couldn’t sleep. If they suspected her of passing the knife to Taran, the soldiers would come for her. Would Papa uphold the law and have her whipped or worse? She prayed he would be lenient and restrict her to her chamber for life. Perhaps he would banish her to the Pons Aelius to serve Bishop Elusius. At least she wouldn’t be forced to marry Quintus.
She worried about Taran and how he would use the weapon. Though only a dagger, it could buy him enough time to spirit away. She prayed no blood would be spilled, but then armed men in a fight for life could inflict mortal wounds. She hadn’t armed him so he could kill others. She’d done it so he might live.
Voices carried in the distance. She sat up. There was urgency in those voices, shouting. Has he mounted his escape already?
She bounded out of bed and opened the shutter. Though the moon was blocked by a blanket of clouds, the ramparts surrounding the fort were afire. The blaze lit the skyline orange and she swallowed the choking lump in her throat. Has Taran caused this?
Valeria gasped. An army of men scaled the walls. This was not a small skirmish of a man trying to escape. She watched a Roman guard crumple as the enemy ran him through with a sword. His body tottered backward and fell from the battlement.
She slammed the shutters and pounded on Pia’s door. “We’re under attack. Come, quickly!”
Pia sprang to her feet. “We must dress.”
“There’s no time, come.”
Pia snatched cloaks off the hook as Valeria pulled her into the corridor. The slave threw a cloak around Valeria’s shoulders to cover her sleeping tunic. She raced down the passageway and pushed open the doors of her father’s chamber. His window was shuttered and Valeria sensed no movement.
She rushed in. “Papa, you must wake.”
Pulling the bed curtains aside, she groped in the dark until her hand hit flesh. She kneeled beside him and shook his shoulders. “Papa. Wake up!”
He jolted upright. “Valeria? What is it?”
“Vindolanda is under attack. I heard the shouts of the soldiers and saw a legionary murdered with my own eyes.”
Argus reached for his tunic and slid it over his bare chest. “Light the candle quickly.”
Pia had already found the flint, making a spark. A smoky glow flickered across the walls.
He placed his hands on Valeria’s shoulders. “Tell me what you saw.”
“I heard the voices shouting and opened the shutters. A soldier was run through on the wall while countless barbarians climbed over. The ramparts are burning. ’Tis mayhem, Papa.” She threw her trembling arms around him. “I’m so afraid!”
He pulled her into his arms and Valeria inhaled his protective leathery scent. She squeezed his waist, wanting to crawl into his lap like she had when she was a child, but he released her and reached for his sword belt. “There’s a hidden chamber under the principia.” He buckled it. “Follow me.”
The General flung open the doors to his chamber. The stench of unwashed men churned the bile in Valeria’s stomach. As they stepped into the light, the snarls of half-naked, unshaven brutes pushed them back. These heathens barely appeared human as they growled, shoving through the doorway.
With a cry of terror, Valeria groped for her father. She struggled against hands that ripped her away from his protective arms. “Release me!” she shrieked, lashing out. Her fingers scratched flesh. A hand covered her mouth. She bit down hard.
A foreign curse grated in her ear. Though she didn’t understand the words, there was no mistaking the tone—it threatened and Valeria’s veins ran ice cold. The lethal clang of iron striking iron reverberated through the air. Valeria craned her neck. Father fought four on one. She lurched forward. “Papa!”
Powerful hands dragged her away. She struggled and reached out for Pia. The slave used her weight against a barbarian. The brute reeled back and slammed Pia in the face with the hilt of his dagger.
“Pia!” Valeria fought harder, desperately trying to reach her nursemaid until a thud against her skull brought an illusion of stars across her vision. Valeria’s legs gave way and her assailant hefted her body over his shoulder.
Chapter Five
Crouched in the shadows of his cell, Taran popped open the last rivet on his shackles. He slid Valeria’s dagger into his sleeve and rubbed the raw skin on his ankle.
Shouting in the distance grew louder. A horn blared. He jumped to his feet, his blood rushing beneath his skin. A fire flickered through the tiny gap at the top of his cell wall. “Greum. Listen.”
His friend pushed up from his nest of straw. “Ye think they’ve come for us?”
“I heard the Pict carnyx sound. A battle’s begun for certain.” Their eyes shot toward the stairs when the clamor of swordplay echoed off the walls. The lifeless body of a Roman soldier clanked down the steps. His helmet rolled until it hit the iron bars.
The shadow of a familiar face appeared under a Pictish helm, illuminated by the torch on the wall.
“Drust!” Taran called.
His cousin ran to the cell, followed by a band of Pict kin, swords and battleaxes at the ready. “Ye’re a sorry sight.”
“I never thought I’d say it, but ye’re the best thing I’ve seen in two years.” Taran eyed Drust’s blood-splattered mail. “I was fixing to bust meself out. Another day and ye would’ve been too late.”
With one swing of his axe, Drust shattered the lock on Taran’s cell. “I wondered why ye stayed here so long. Thought mayhap the Roman hospitality had suckered ye in.”
Battleaxes and broadswords smashed off the locks and chopped through the welds of the iron manacles, freeing the prisoners.
Greum stretched his arms, pulling the chain between them taut. He turned his head and cringed. “Mind yer aim.”
“Would ye not rather have a bludgeoned arm than hang in the Roman gallows?” Drust chuckled and swung back his axe. With one swift strike, Greum was free.
Taran peered through the window at the growing flames. “What’s happening up there? It sounds like the whole fort’s under siege.”
“’Tis not just Vindolanda, ’tis all of Hadrian’s Wall. We’re taking back our lands. Father’s made a temporary truce with the Attacotti and the Gales. The Saxons have sailed to Gaul to reclaim their lands as well. The entire Empire is under attack.”
“The Attacotti? Oisean made a truce with those cannibalistic bastards?”
Drust kicked Greum’s leg shackles aside. “Only to drive the Romans out, and as long as they keep their thieving hands off our own. If they cross the line, we’ll hunt them down and show no mercy.�
��
Taran grasped his shoulder. “I must know. How is me uncle?”
“He’s well enough to worry about you—he loves ye more than me, ye bastard. I swear if ye died, he’d pine forever.” Drust inclined his head toward the stairs. “Hurry.”
Though there was no time for questions, Taran didn’t miss the grim line of his cousin’s frown. Oisean was dying. Before his uncle passed, he must return to Dunpelder, the Pict stronghold in the region of Gododdin, land of Taran’s birthright.
Taking charge, he raced ahead. “Ye’re all free men,” his bellow echoed across the dungeon. “Ye can follow us to Gododdin, or be on yer way.”
Greum crept in behind him. “Let’s go.”
Barreling up the gaol stairs, Taran snatched the short sword of a fallen Roman.
“This way,” Drust roared.
Taran’s gaze swept across the burning compound and stopped at the commandant’s home. Flames of a bonfire illuminated the courtyard. Unshaven Attacotti heathens forced Argus Fullofaudes to his knees in front of the stone portico. From the uncontrolled listing of his body, the Roman general had survived a brutal beating. His hands were bound behind his back, and his chest heaved while the savages shouted and danced around him.
Taran’s insides froze. Valeria!
In the mayhem, a battle axe swung with rapid precision, severing the head of the Dux Britanniarum. With a spray of blood, the lifeless body of the most powerful Roman in Britannia flopped forward.
A marauding Attacotti snatched the general’s head by the hair. Holding it high, he roared an animalistic battle cry as he puffed out his chest and strutted in a circle. The savages around him danced and shoved their bloodied swords and axes in the air. Cheering their victory, each one took their turn to mutilate the fallen corpse.
Taran charged toward the mass of frenzied men, only to be stopped by Greum, who clamped both hands around his arm. “Ye want yer throat cut?”
Taran backed slowly and scanned the riotous anarchy. Where was Valeria? She’d tried to save him. She’d given him a knife. Was she already dead? He clenched his teeth, his gut churning. He owed the lass a debt of honor. Had the Roman soldiers spirited her away? Greum was right. Fighting through a mob of crazed Attacotti was no way to find out. He’d end up with his head on a spike like Fullofaudes and could be of no use to her.