by Tarah Scott
She waited.
Quintus resumed his heavy breathing. She quietly scooted off the blade and continued to cut the rope. Her hands released with a pop and she froze. Quintus grumbled. With her heart thudding in her ears, Valeria trained her eyes on him, unblinking. Thank God he hadn’t left her draped across Mia for the night.
Valeria focused on her next move. Her gut churned. If she fled, she would be as good as dead with Quintus on her heels. She clenched her teeth, grasping the dirk in her right hand.
Her palms perspired as she stood. The dirk slid in her palm and she squeezed it tighter. In three steps, she reached Quintus’s sleeping head. She hesitated. His eyes flew open, his body jerked. A hand shot out, grasping his sword.
With a surge of fearless power, Valeria dropped to her knees and sliced the razor-sharp blade across his exposed neck. Quintus’s mouth flew open. A choked wail brayed like a bull while the wind exhaled from his lungs.
He rolled and swung his sword. Valeria scrambled. She skittered back as the deadly blade sliced past. He flung out his free arm, his fingers snatched her ankle. Valeria screamed, as Quintus’s sword hurtled toward her. With a grimace crushing her face, Valeria met his thrust, slamming her dirk into the sword wielding forearm.
Quintus’s fingers released. He dropped his weapon with a gurgled gulp of pain. Coughing, he tightened his grasp around her ankle. Fueled by fear, Valeria twisted. Again she swung her knife down and stabbed through Quintus’s wrist. His grip popped open. She shuffled away from his reach. He struggled to drag himself toward her, digging his elbows into the turf, his eyes rolling back, blood gushing from his neck. His fingers reached to grasp her again, his breath short. It crackled with the bubbling blood that spouted into his windpipe.
Shaking violently, Valeria scooted to the edge of the glade. Somehow, Quintus managed to continue to drag himself, his body inching half the distance toward her. His movement slowed. But onward he pulled until life completely drained away. His body went limp. She picked up a long stick and poked it into his flaccid shoulder. She moved around the edge of the clearing and jabbed it into his hip.
Nothing.
Valeria’s eyes shot to the bishop as she panted. He sat and stared. How long had he been awake?
“He is dead.”
Elusius nodded, holding up his hands. “Untie me.”
“Quintus bound you as well?” Valeria crept beside him, her hands shaking wildly.
“He forced me out of the roundhouse and bound me to the horse. I was part of his scheme.”
“Oh?” Valeria tried to calm her breathing.
“As soon as the opium wore off, he planned to force me to chant your marriage vows. And then I’m sure he would have claimed his rights as a husband.”
Valeria shuddered.
Elusius reached out with his two bound hands and brushed her cheek.
“Ssss.” Valeria scooted away at the sharp pain.
“Your skin has broken where he hit you.”
She covered her face with her hands. “I must look frightful.”
“Your eye is purple, but that will fade.” He held out his hands and Valeria worked to cut his bindings.
She glanced back at Quintus and shook her head. “I took his life.”
“He would have taken yours, but his methods would have drawn it out much longer. I have no doubt you would have suffered through many years of misery.”
“I shall go to hell.”
The bishop’s hands broke free. “I think not. You acted in self-defense.”
Tears spilled from her eyes. “What is to become of us? How far did we travel? How will we find Taran?”
Elusius wrapped her in his arms and patted her hair. He let her cry until she regained control.
“It grows worse,” he said.
She sat bolt upright. “What?”
“He forged a note in your hand telling Taran you had decided to return to Rome.”
“No!” Valeria stood, walking in circles. How could Quintus have done that? What must Taran have thought? He will head back to Dunpelder thinking I have left him. “We must move quickly. If we head due north, we will reach the wall. I can seek out Morgon and convince him to escort us to Dunpelder. He will remember me. I’m sure of it.”
Elusius shook his finger in her direction. “We need to think this through.”
She crouched for Quintus’s sword and held it with determination. “We must arrive before Taran can marry Leda.”
The bishop waved his hands in front of his chest. “Valeria, think about what you’re saying. If we continue south, we’ll find Londontown. If we head north, we’ll be walking right into the hands of the very animals who murdered your father.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
“The horses are dragging their hooves,” Greum grumbled. “They’ll be of no use to us dead and ye can kiss yer precious Valeria farewell.”
Taran gave him a sharp nod and led Blackie into the wood. “We’ll hobble them here.”
They didn’t bother to light a fire, but chewed on bully beef pilfered from Una’s roundhouse. Taran propped himself against his saddle and tried to sleep. Still recovering from the effects of the opium, he dreamt of sea monsters. He saw himself as an oarsman again. Shirtless, he rowed with sweat streaming from his temples, dripping onto his chest.
The cadence of the drummer beat faster indicating the initiation of a ramming battle. His mind driven by the unceasing drumbeat, Taran pulled harder on his oar, his muscles on fire. He leaned back and drew the heavy oar toward him. With an earthshaking blast, a sea serpent with teeth like daggers crashed through the wooden hull. Water gushed through the gaping void while Taran used a shattered fragment of his oar to fend off the beast. Chained to the bench, he repeatedly slammed the weapon against the snarling, snapping attack of the grotesque creature.
Water rose to his waist as he continued to fight, all the while trying to pull his leg from the bindings that would ensure he drowned. He drove the point of the oar into the monster’s eye as the water rose to his chin. The creature screeched in pain, throwing its head back with the oar embedded in place. Water covered Taran’s mouth and he gulped what he thought to be his last breath.
“Taran!” Someone shook him. “Wake up ye screaming bastard.”
His eyes flew open and he steadied his breathing. “Greum? What happened to the ship?”
“Ye were dreaming—woke me up as well as every living creature within the next shire.”
“Boar’s ballocks. I feel like I just fought a battle.” Taran rubbed his face. “It will be daylight soon.”
“Aye. With any luck, we’ll catch up with them today before they travel much further south.”
Doubt crept into Taran’s gut, making his empty stomach churn. “What if her note was not forged?”
“Don’t consider it for one instant.” Greum hefted his saddle onto his sorrel gelding. “Besides, what if she did? Does she know Quintus as we do? If he fancies, the tyrant could kill her before she reaches Londontown. I trust him less than I did Runan.”
Greum’s words only increased the sickly churning in Taran’s belly. He wiped beads of sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm. Quintus wasn’t the only threat out there. If she fell into the wrong hands, which would be just about anyone between where he stood and Londontown, they only need to take one look at her beautiful face and she’d be doomed. The longer she remained away from Taran’s protection, the more likely she would be to fall into peril.
***
Valeria trembled as she gaped at her hands and turned her palms in and out. Now that the sun had risen, she could see the blood congealed in a crusty coating across them. She swallowed hard, but it wasn’t enough to stop the bile from burning her throat. Choking it back, she ran into the wood, doubled over and heaved. Her stomach convulsed out of control bringing up nothing, tearing apart her insides. Her gut took control, contracting involuntarily over and over again.
When the retching finally subsided, Valeria wip
ed her forehead in the crux of her elbow and staggered across the clearing. She grabbed the waterskin. Coughing and crying simultaneously, she poured water on her hands and rubbed them, but the blood only liquefied and ran down her arms.
The bishop hobbled over, holding out the worn purple stola from his toga. “Use this, my child. Killing a man is ugly work indeed.”
Her hands shook like wind chimes in a tempest. Valeria reached for the cloth and wiped the blood on the soft wool, already filthy from the bishop’s hardship in the cave.
She sucked in a deep breath and dropped the cloth so it again hung down from the bishop’s shoulder.
“As I said, we should travel to Londontown.” The bishop took a step forward.
She blinked. Before her stood a learned man whom she respected, but at this moment she wanted to slap him across the face. Hadn’t he heard a word she’d uttered when she found him in the cave? She backed away. “The Attacotti killed father and violated Pia. The Picts rescued us.”
“My child, the barbarians are forever fighting one another. The only reason the Picts came to your rescue is because Taran is infatuated with you.”
“Taran loves me.”
“That may be so, but you are not a Pict. You are a Roman woman with excellent breeding and ample property. What of your wish to carry out God’s work? You know the Pict cannot marry you.”
“As I said on the beach, there is a way.” She hugged her shoulders, remembering the bishop had suffered a fever. He’d been oblivious to the plans she and Taran made. “I will become a Pict.”
Elusius’ jaw dropped. “You cannot be serious. That is…that is treason.”
Valeria flung out her arms with a gasp. “Tell me, exactly how can a Roman woman who has no legal rights commit treason?”
The bishop paced around the remains of the fire and shook his head. “You do not know what you’re saying.” He stopped and faced her. “What of your father’s property—the dreams your parents had for you?”
“They were dreams. Everything has changed now. Besides, would my parents not want me to be happy?”
Elusius stomped his foot, the color of his face rapidly rising until his bald top glowed a shiny red. “Of course your parents would want you to be happy, but you have no idea what happiness is,” he roared.
Valeria cleared her throat. Clearly they had arrived at an impasse. Did the bishop honestly think her to be a driveling child, unable to make her own decisions? She took another step back.
Elusius held his hands out to his sides. “I’m sorry, child. This mess has got the better of me.”
“I think you’ve made it quite clear how you feel.”
He reached for her hand. “Let us head south. Our enemies lie to the north and it is too dangerous for us to travel alone.”
“Do you think it safer to travel south? The Saxons and the Britons both have attacked Roman garrisons. This is an uprising of catastrophic proportions. We’re not safe anywhere except in the stronghold of Dunpelder.”
“You said loyal Romans have fled to Londontown. Besides, we’re more likely to meet Christian souls if we travel south.”
Valeria sighed. He did have a point. Any Christian soul would be inclined to show a bishop kindness. But Elusius’s plan still didn’t make sense. With a deep breath, she calmed her urge to strangle him, and spoke softly. “Your argument has merit. However, we should be only a little over a day’s ride to Vindolanda. We can follow our tracks. There we can find help. We know not what lies ahead if we travel south, and the journey will take a week or more.”
He shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“We will return to Dunpelder. If I fail to pass the scrutiny of the elders, I promise to accompany you back to the homeland.” She placed her hands on his shoulders and squeezed. “I must do this. I don’t care if you think me a fool. I will live a life of regret if I do not obey my heart.”
“You are going against my judgment, but I cannot let you travel alone.” He motioned to Quintus’s dead body. “He needs a Christian burial. ’Tis the least we can do.”
Valeria’s stomach squelched when she looked at the corpse. Though Quintus had been a Christian, she wanted to leave this place and run away from his lifeless body. “Can we not cremate him like a Roman subject?”
“You know as well as I, pagan Romans don’t believe in the afterlife. Cremating him would be anti-Christian and would deny Quintus the resurrection.”
Valeria pursed her lips. “I’m not convinced it would be a good idea to provide Quintus a conduit to the afterlife.”
“That is not for us to decide.” He picked up Quintus’s helmet. “You take his sword, I’ll use this and together we shall make fast work of our duty.”
Valeria nodded and worked to chop up the mossy ground while Elusius scooped dirt with the helmet. She considered their labor a better use for a Roman piece of armor than she’d ever imagined. It was tough work negotiating the rocks and digging the grave deep enough.
By the time they’d finished, rain sprinkled atop their heads. Valeria hoped it would just be a quick summer shower, but the dark clouds above loomed. Together they dragged Quintus into the grave and lowered him as gently as they could.
The rain came down in sloppy droplets and saturated Valeria’s dress while the bishop recited the funeral mass. He omitted nothing, but steadily recited the words by heart. Valeria used a leather thong to bind two sticks together to make a cross. The bishop placed Quintus’s helmet in front of it, the wet bronze shining.
After a respectful moment of reflection, Valeria grasped the bishop’s hand. “We best be on our way. It doesn’t appear as though the rain will let up.”
***
Mud gushed up over Taran’s shoes while he marched around the grave. Finding the cross and the Roman helmet, he felt certain it was Quintus under the dirt.
Greum examined at the spoor around the campfire, at least what was left of it. “The rain has nearly washed the prints away, but it looks like they’ve turned north.”
The weight of an iron anvil lifted from Taran’s shoulders. “I wonder what happened to Quintus. Though I’m glad he’s dead, I would’ve liked to have been the man to run him through.”
“’Tis unfortunate their path didn’t cross ours.”
“Aye. They could veer far off track in this weather.”
“She’s trying to return to you.”
A powerful yearning clamped hard in Taran’s groin and radiated up through his chest. “Come, we need to find her before someone else does.”
“She could run into trouble if she reaches the wall. Even our kinsmen won’t understand her importance if you’re not beside her.”
“Aye. She’ll probably try to cross through Vindolanda, since they’ve seen her there. That would be her best chance for success, but she’s likely to run into harm anywhere.”
Mounting, Taran spurred Blackie forward and Stag took the lead, the dog’s shoulders hunched against the rain. He looked like a miserable giant rat plodding though the mud, the stench of wet dog wafting behind him.
“That’s far enough,” a gruff voice warned from nowhere.
Taran flashed a pained grimace at Greum. Leaning forward, he urged Blackie into a pounding gallop, drawing his sword, hoping the assailant was alone. With Greum on his heels, he thundered through the dense forest. Cold rain stung Taran’s face, hands, every inch of exposed skin.
From the sound of the hoof beats, not one man, but a mob chased them. Ice ran up Taran’s spine. There were too many to count, he had to outrun them.
The forest thinned and Taran glanced over his shoulder. The blighters were losing ground, but Greum’s gelding lagged.
“Keep up yer pace,” Greum shouted. “We’re gaining ground.”
“Run, Stag!”
The dog dashed off through the underbrush. Taran knew he’d follow at a distance. If he stayed, the mutt would be the first to feel the cold iron of a Saxon arrow.
Whipping his gaze forward, Taran yanke
d the reins back. Blackie’s hindquarters dipped in a skidding stop. In front of them lay a clearing with a mob of men mounted in a semicircle. The bastards had driven them right into a trap. He spurred Blackie right, but they cut them off. He looked left. No place to run. The mob encroached. Blackie reared. Taran pulled him round in a circle and steered next to Greum’s gelding.
Through the sheets of driving rain, the grungy bunch of Saxons looked like hungry wolves. The stench of filthy male bodies moved closer. Taran’s eyes darted around the circle to find their weakest link.
“You’re trespassing on Saxon land, Pict.”
Taran glanced from a boy about the age of Tomas, to a ruddy black-bearded cur, dressed in a leather tunic with a Roman helmet crunched down upon his oversized head.
Taran tried for diplomacy. “Me friend and I are just passing through. We mean you no harm.”
“Passing through, is it? Or are you scouting so you can come back and slit our throats?”
The men behind the bearded Saxon growled like sailors, shouting for blood.
“That’s a fine mount you have. I think he would make a start at paying the toll.”
“How ’bout I keep me mount and we pretend me friend and I never passed through this place?” Taran’s eyes continued to dart around the circle.
“Oh no, now that would never do. You see, your mount is only part of the toll.” The man’s eyes drifted down, studying Taran’s physique. “I think the men need some sport.” He turned to the bedraggled peasant beside him. “Go fetch Midget.”
The men roared with laughter, jutting their swords into the air, calling Midget’s name. The knot in Taran’s gut told him he’d prefer not to meet the oaf.
The Saxon motioned for silence, his black eyes meeting Taran’s. “You’ll fight to the death. If you lose, well…” He scratched his beard with dirty fingernails, raindrops showering his breastplate. “…you’ll be dead, and we’ll kill your scrawny friend. If you win, we’ll give you a head start before my men make sport of gutting you.”