by Ruth Downie
One eye was blinded, but the other opened to reveal a huge bloodstained shape moving about just above his nose. “No!” He tried to beat away the shape and spring up, but his body refused to listen.
“Speak to him,” the older voice suggested.
“It’s all right,” somebody said, even though it wasn’t. “We’re just cleaning you up and putting a few stitches in.”
A few stitches in what? “Where am I?”
“This is the treatment room,” said his informer unhelpfully.
“Sick bay, Habitancum,” put in the older voice. “Under the excellent care of a trainee medic of the Fourth Gauls.”
Holy gods. They were letting let a trainee loose on him. Perhaps they thought he was beyond saving. “Have I lost the eye?”
To his further alarm, the trainee who had been stabbing a needle through his skin said, “Has he, sir?”
“No.”
Ruso thought it was the best word he had ever heard.
“You were lucky,” continued the senior man. “You’ll find it when the swelling goes down. We’re just putting your eyebrow back together.”
“Just one more,” said the trainee, sounding nervous now that he was treating a patient who talked back. Then he added, as he had no doubt been trained to, “This will sting a bit.”
Ruso chose a cobweb wafting in a draft above him to concentrate on and clenched his teeth. Instantly a bolt of lightning shot through his jaw and into his neck. He did not feel the needle going in.
“Oh, and we think we may need to pull a tooth,” added the trainee.
Ruso was in too much pain to tell him he needn’t sound so cheerful about it.
“Done!” The trainee sounded relieved.
Giant metal blades filled Ruso’s vision. There was a final tug as the thread was snipped. He gave up trying to work out why he was here, and asked.
“You went to a party that got a bit out of control,” answered the senior man.
That was when it came back. The bonfire. The fur traders. The crowd turning on him. He felt suddenly short of breath. “Where’s the boy?”
The man said, “You can see him when we’ve tidied you up.”
“Is he all right?”
The man said, “Tell him.”
The trainee took a breath. “Bruising to the arms and face,” he said. “Some rope burn around the neck and wrists. No broken bones that we can detect, and nothing life threatening.”
Ruso tried to steady his breathing. Tried to think. This was something he knew about. “Did you check him all over?”
“Of course.”
“Head injuries?”
“None. And he’s eating everything he’s given.”
Ruso made an effort to relax. “I feel as though I’ve been kicked by a horse.”
“They slashed through the ties on your lorica,” said the senior man. “Then they unpeeled you like a prawn.”
It was not a pleasant image, picturing the iron plates of the lorica wrenched apart to reveal the vulnerable torso inside. He said, “What have you put on the boy’s rope burn?”
There was silence for a moment. Then the trainee said, “D’you think he might be a medic, sir?”
“I doubt it,” the other one said. “What would a medic be doing on his own late at night at the Three Oaks?”
Ruso clutched at the side of the table and tried to pull himself up. “I need transport. I need to get the boy back to Parva.”
They both laughed at that. “You’re not going anywhere, my friend,” said the senior of the two. “Doctor’s orders.”
Chapter 69
Tilla took a couple of deep breaths and the cold air sliced down her throat. She felt slightly calmer now that she was doing something. Walk. Keep walking. Put your mind on one thing. Do not, however much you want to, scream. By the time she reached the place where the track divided, Albanus was far behind and the twisting feeling in her stomach had become nausea. Sacred goddess, holy mothers, great Lord Christos, let those two soldiers be safe . . . Not only because one of them was definitely innocent and had tried to help her, but because she could not bear the thought of the consequences for everyone else if the thing she feared was really happening.
The track to the farm was invisible in the shadow of the trees. Unable to see what was beneath her, she slid in soft mud and cold water seeped over the tops of her boots. It was no worse than she deserved.
It had not been up to her to do anything about Mallius. That part of the message had been for the tribune. Yesterday her husband had told her very clearly that she could not tell Daminius what to do, but she had thought she knew better. Now she had not only shamed her husband, she had put his comrades in danger too.
“It will all be all right when the sun rises,” she whispered, as if speaking it aloud would make it true. “Perhaps in the morning my husband will come back with Branan and everything will be all right again.”
They might even have the wedding blessing. That would please Aemilia.
Aemilia. How could she have forgotten to tell her cousin the blessing was withdrawn? Was there anything she had not made a mess of lately?
You should not have used Daminius.
“Oh, shut up!”
There was no sign of the dog as she pushed open the gate, which was not good. Holy Christos, mothers and goddess, let them all be asleep in bed. Let them not be a part of whatever is happening. Then I can run to the fort for help. Tapping a knuckle on the door, she said, “It is the Daughter of Lugh. Is anyone awake?”
To her surprise the creak of someone getting out of a chair was immediate. A quiet female voice that she recognized as Cata’s mother came from the other side of the door. “Go away, Daughter of Lugh. It is not safe for you here.”
“I need to talk to Senecio and Conn!”
“They are not here. Nobody is here. Only me and Cata, looking after the children.”
“Where did they all go?”
Silence.
“Are you still there?”
“Go!” the woman insisted. “They do not trust you. They know Branan has been taken north into the high mountains. Somebody spoke to a messenger from Coria.”
“What have they done with the soldiers?”
Silence.
“Are they here?”
“You can do nothing for them. Go a long way away. Go back to Deva with your Roman before Conn takes you too. He does not listen to the old man anymore.”
“Are the soldiers still alive?”
The woman hesitated for a moment. “They said if we did not want to watch, we should mind the children.”
Tilla swallowed. She felt shaky with exhaustion and fear. “Just tell me where they went.”
There was another pause before, “The old hut down toward the stream. But you cannot get there. They will have lookouts.”
She had passed that old hut this afternoon with Dismal. It was two or three hundred paces down through the pasture. The sensible thing would be to hurry back to the fort now and summon help. But if she did that, even if the family escaped, they would be hunted down and executed. Besides, even if Daminius survived, when the officers found out that he had helped her to betray one of his own men he would be in just as much danger from his own people as he had been from the Britons. “I thank you,” she said, and set off to pick her way across the rough pasture alone.
The lookout had not thought to hide. He was standing by the gate, stamping his feet and blowing on his cold hands. It was a simple matter to creep along by the wall and throw a stone so she could slip past while he looked the wrong way. She was almost annoyed. If this was how her people fought, no wonder they lost.
She bent to summon the dog as she arrived. It ran up to her, pushing its nose into her hand and circling around her, its tail thumping against her skirts. The simplicity of its welcome made her eyes well with tears. Dogs knew nothing of guilt.
Once she could make out the wall at the lower end of the pasture, she heard voices raised in argumen
t. The breeze carried the smell of baking bread. It was not a pleasure. There could be only one reason to bake bread down here and at this hour.
She had never seen the threefold death take place, but everyone knew about it. It was something that parents rarely spoke of until their children were old enough to know, but by then it was only one of the many frightening things that the children had already learned about from their older brothers and sisters. That’s what will happen to you if you tell on us!
When older people spoke of the threefold death, they did so with respect, but with no sign of intent. It was a thing for others. The ancestors. The elders. The chosen. The seers. The courageous and the powerful. She had never dreamed that anyone she knew would dare make it happen. But Senecio was a man who sang to dying trees and shouted at the thunder. She had no doubt that Senecio was serious.
Now that she had moved closer, she could hear that they were arguing over whether to kill both of the prisoners or just Mallius the child stealer. Conn, of course, wanted to do away with both. Senecio and Enica thought the life of the child stealer would be enough.
“And we leave the other one around to betray us?”
She had to stop this before it was too late, and before Albanus reached the fort and brought help. It would not take long to feed the sacred bread and mistletoe to the victims. They would be stripped naked and told to kneel. First came the blow to the head, always hard enough to stun. This was not an especially cruel death. It was not about causing pain to the victim. It was a sacred, awe-inspiring gift of a human life to the gods. Second, the offering of breath as the twisted sinew tightened around the neck. Then the offering of the blood as the throat was slit and the head was held down over the bowl.
If a prophecy was needed, the victim’s entrails would be examined for omens. Finally, his body would be offered to the earth: firmly staked down in the wettest patch of ground the gift givers could find. Ideally, where water met land in a bog that never went dry. After a summer like this, there would be no shortage of gift-giving places.
She crept around the outside of the building, testing each step as she picked her way over a jumble of loose stone. The building was ramshackle—she had seen that in daylight—but she could not find any gaps large enough to peer through.
She thought again about running for help. Conn was too bright to leave witnesses alive. Once she was inside, she was a prisoner too, and who would show Albanus’s rescue party where to go? Then she had what she hoped was a better idea.
She took a series of short, shallow breaths and thumped on the door with both fists. “Run!” she gasped. “The soldiers are coming!”
The dog, excited, started to bark.
A voice shouted, “Who is that?”
“Darlughdacha, wife of the doctor! I have seen men from the fort! Get out before they catch you!”
A sliver of orange light appeared, widening as the door was dragged open across the dirt floor. The crowded gloom of the hut smelled of fresh bread, old animal droppings, and fear. People parted to let her approach the fire.
“You must get away!” she cried, glancing from face to face and trying to make each person think she was talking especially to them. On one side stood men she guessed were Conn’s friends. On the other, familiar faces from the farm. “I have seen them on the road! They will be here at any moment!”
There was a murmur of anxiety, people looking to each other, to Conn, to the old man.
Senecio was in his chair, and Conn had moved forward to take charge. Now he nodded to one of the men, who got up and left. Enica glanced up from where she was crouched over the bread on the griddle. She did not meet Tilla’s gaze. Tilla noticed that the dog had followed her into the warmth.
She saw Daminius and Mallius now, lying on the far side of the fire. Their arms were tied. Their eyes looked blank. She supposed they were drugged. She stepped up to Conn. “While your man goes to look, the soldiers are getting closer!”
He pushed her aside and turned to address the men. “Take no notice!” he ordered. “This woman is a liar like her mother before her. She says whatever suits her at the time. She is trying to stop the offering.”
Tilla said, “If you kill these men, even if you escape, the army will hunt you and your families down and crucify you all.”
“She told me my brother was with a slave trader!” Conn too was trying to convince the onlookers. “She said he would be brought back soon. It was a lie. She is working for the Romans.”
“I was told—”
“How will any of us get Branan back from the far mountains? We have no peace with those tribes and the soldiers dare not go up there.”
She said, “My husband has gone after him.”
Nobody looked impressed. Daminius was looking around as if he were trying to make sense of what was happening. A streak of dribble glistened at the side of his mouth. Either he was drooling or he had spat something out.
“I was taken to the far mountains,” Tilla reminded them. “I came back.”
“You were not nine winters old,” Conn pointed out, and there was a murmur of agreement.
She needed to keep him talking. She could do nothing more. Soon they would know for certain that she had lied about the soldiers. Albanus could not possibly have hobbled as far as the fort yet. She said, “You will not get Branan back if you are all sent to die in the arena for murdering two of the emperor’s men.”
“So the soldiers are not at the door, then?” Conn smirked at his audience. “She thinks we are as stupid as the people she works for.” He ordered the men to wake the prisoners up. “We will take the officer first,” he said. “The child stealer can watch and see what awaits him.”
People craned to see what was happening on the far side of the fire. Some of the men began to kick and slap the prisoners to rouse them, and she saw Cata’s sister trying to force Daminius’s mouth open while somebody tipped up a jug and water splattered over his face. Someone struck up a chant of “Wake them up! Wake them up!”
All this time Senecio had not spoken. She shouted over the chant, “You cannot let this happen!”
He shook his head, and when she leaned closer he told her, “I am an old man, Daughter of Lugh. I do not have much longer. This offering is the only thing I can do for my son. If the gods are pleased, they will show us where he can be found.”
So it would be the entrails, then. Or he might prefer to read death throes. There were many ways of interpreting the threefold death.
Daminius was squirming and gasping for breath. She heard Mallius cry out in pain.
From somewhere deep in her memory came her husband’s voice telling someone that he could never reason with Tilla because reason was a blunt weapon in the face of belief.
“Is this why my mam left you?” she shouted. “Because she would not be a part of things like this? You said, ‘No more killing’!”
The chant faltered, as if people had dropped out to listen.
“A life for a life!” Senecio’s cry cut through the last of the voices. “I will have my son back!”
That was when she said it. The thing she had not even been aware of thinking. “Will you not listen to your own daughter?”
It had been a guess. A tiny suspicion that had taken root. He did not deny it. He did not even seem surprised. All he said was “This is not the time, child.”
And that was how she knew it was true. On this strange and terrible night, her Samain prayer had been answered.
“This is the only time!” she urged. “There will be no other time after this. The gods will turn their backs on you when they see you murder this man Daminius who was sent to help you. Conn will have to kill me too, because I will not keep silent. Then my husband and his men will hunt you all down.”
“If it will bring my son back,” Senecio said, “I will do this thing. And you, child—you must decide whether you are with your father and your brothers, or with your Roman husband.”
“For what? Is this what you want Br
anan to come home to? Burned houses and memories and ghosts?” She knelt beside his chair. “Am I worth less to you because I was not raised in your home? Or because I am a woman? Will you lose your only daughter too?”
“Enough!” Conn roared, seizing Tilla by the arm and dragging her away from Senecio’s chair. “You talk too much.”
“I am trying to help!”
Conn shoved her so hard she stumbled and fell. He told Enica to get the bread ready and his men to strip the victims.
“You call yourselves heroes and warriors?” Tilla shouted from the shadows by the hut wall, seeing a dark stain of urine spreading on the front of Mallius’s tunic as they cut his bonds ready to drag off his clothes. “You cowards torment two helpless men while a real warrior has gone to rescue Branan! Why are you not riding to join him? Why—”
But nobody was listening to her, because the door had crashed open and a voice was yelling in British with a Roman accent, “Nobody is to move!”
Chapter 70
Too late, Ruso realized he had just scooped up somebody else’s son in an enormous hug. He was not given to displays of affection; the closest physical contact he usually had with children was when his nieces and nephews leapt on him uninvited. And now here he was, with a boy helpless in his arms. How long should one hold on before letting go? Branan was surprisingly heavy and beginning to slide out of his grasp. Ruso lowered him to the floor, aware that various parts of himself that had stopped hurting were now starting again. He patted the boy on the shoulder, cleared his throat, and said, “I’m glad you’re safe.”
Branan retreated to a safe distance and peered at Ruso’s battered face in the lamplight with unashamed curiosity. Then the boy said, “Are you not going to thank me for rescuing you?”
Ruso sat down on the bed, hoping the room would stop dancing around him. “Did you?”
“I shouted at them not to hurt you,” Branan explained. “I kept on shouting, ‘Help me, I’ve been stolen!’ and the horrible man with the furs round his neck said he would slit my tongue if I didn’t shut up. And then a lady said, ‘Are you the missing boy?’ and I said, ‘I’m Branan,’ so she started telling everybody who I was. And then most of them stopped hitting you.”