by Linda Grant
“Devonna, run!” J.J. shrieked in her ear.
She threw her head back and looked dazedly at him. This time she didn’t try to stop him when he took her arm and pulled at her.
From days of traveling through rough country, they were both in good shape, but so were the soldiers. He hadn’t been so scared since he’d almost hit a rock and sunk his dad’s boat out in Clear-water Bay. Shouts behind him spurred him on.
He didn’t want to die, not again, not this way, and not Devonna, his love, his woman …
He looked back. A mistake. The Romans, dressed in tunics and armor familiar to him from the movies, were gaining on them. Only this was no movie! The soldiers ran with determination, their swords stained with blood.
He and Devonna didn’t stand a chance against them. If only he had something to fight with! But there was nothing, only rocks littering the slope up which they were running. It was no good. They were going to die.
A yell behind him and a noise of someone falling heavily made him sneak a quick look back. One of the soldiers was lying on the ground, his hand holding on to his ankle and cursing fluently.
But the other one was almost upon them. He raised his sword and then grunted as he clapped a hand to his forehead. He fell to the ground, his armor clanking on the small stones and his sword flying out of his hands.
“Just like David and Goliath,” J.J. cracked to Devonna, who was busy reloading her sling.
He smiled at her, and his heart lifted. Maybe they had a chance now.
But Devonna’s face was grim as she motioned to the left of them. A small group of soldiers, four of them, were charging up the hillside toward them.
Devonna threw down her sling and stood mutely. She shook her head as he tried to get her to run. “No, Bran. It is too late,” she whispered. She looked at him with those amber eyes that shone more brightly than the beads in her necklace and said, “I love you. We will go down to the Other World together. Teutates will have his sacrifice after all.”
She threw her arms around him and held him tight while the soldiers ran up the hill, the sun gleaming on their weapons.
CHAPTER 44
Bryanna Vernemeton, Beltane, May 1, A.D. 61
* * *
Oblivious of the men and women who eyed her silently and respectfully, Bryanna knelt on the hard-packed earth. The only sound was the keening of the wind in the high branches of the oaks. Around them loomed the forest, a dark presence in the night where spirits walked and worked their ancient magic.
She was remembering the night she had sent Bran and Devonna away, the two young people hugging her awkwardly and then slipping away from the sanctuary. It was a difficult road they trod—Romans being only one of the dangers they faced—but she had done all she could.
A light touch on her shoulder roused her from her reverie. Kunagnos. His face was strained. He did not like what he had to do, but she could imagine how Mabon must have persuaded him: “To call down blessings on the Keltoi to ensure that the Romans never invade the sacred island …”
Would Bran make it to the sacra insula? He must! Ireland was one of the few places where the Keltoi lived free from Roman influence. In other lands across the sea, and soon in the length and breadth of this one, the Pax Romana held sway. And so it must be, that the new order be established.
But there must also be a place set apart where the old knowledge might be preserved. On that one thing, she and Mabon were agreed.
“Lady, are you ready?”
She smiled at Kunagnos. Her heart was peaceful. All was in the hands of the One God now. If Bran and Devonna should make it to Ireland, their children would return to the land of the Cornovii. All would take place as it must.
“I am ready.”
As Kunagnos’s great sword began its downward sweep, she focused on the moonlight glinting on the metal, taking the light into her heart, feeling it explode throughout her body in a myriad of crystalline drops of pure radiance …
CHAPTER 45
Mabon Vernemeton, Beltane, May 1, A.D. 61
* * *
With a formal, ceremonial gesture, Mabon, swathed in the skin of a white bull from which the phallus still hung, held high the head of Bryanna so that all might see. Her eyes were still open, and in them he could see …
He stumbled. A bad omen! A despairing gasp went up from the assembly.
Mabon pulled his attention away from the confusion of images that he had seen in her eyes: a new world where the Keltoi would incarnate, some living in longhouses and some in round homes fashioned of bark or skins in a land incredibly vast and rich, but one that other races would covet. And so the Keltoi would again be pushed aside unless there should arise one to help them.
Exulting at this glimpse into his new role in the future, Mabon hurled Bryanna’s head into the sacred pool. It sank, with only a few ripples on the surface to show its passing.
“Teutates has had his due,” he said in a strong voice.
The Keltoi obediently chanted the words back to him.
There. It was done. His rival had been eliminated and the gods placated. But one thing more needed attention.
When Bran and Devonna had disappeared, he had been beside himself. Then he had seen how he might turn the situation to his advantage. He had come to Bryanna and told her that if she wanted to guarantee the safety of the young people, she should offer herself in place of her son for the sacrifice. Without argument, she had agreed. Fool.
He had no intention of keeping his word. He sent a message to a Roman legate who had the ear of Seutonius to be on the watch for two young Druids who were to be killed immediately. He was sure that his request would be heeded; he had been very helpful to the Romans in the past and would continue to be.
With satisfaction, he remembered his last meeting with the Roman commander. They had met in secret in Londinium at the former home of a wealthy merchant. The house had a thatched roof and was made of clay, which had been plastered and decorated with a blue trim.
It was not his first visit to that noisy town of some 30,000 inhabitants where the streets swarmed with slaves running errands for their masters, men leading donkeys burdened down with goods, litter bearers carrying wealthy matrons, children shouting at each other, and boisterous soldiers of different nationalities, ranging from the short, swarthy Mediterranean types to tall, fair-haired Gauls.
The servant who had answered the door had taken him straight to a small but elegantly furnished room boasting a wooden floor. Seutonius sat Roman-style on a low couch and beckoned him to do likewise on another couch facing him. Several pottery lamps, with designs of birds on them, gave a dim but adequate light that flattered the grizzled visage of the Roman, whom he judged to be in his early 60s. He could be anyone’s grandfather, this man with the stocky frame, his skin weathered and wrinkled like an old wineskin and hardened from too many marches through too many countries. But his eyes were cool and calculating.
“Wine, Mabon?”
Seutonius gestured toward an amphora standing next to some red-pottery tableware on a small table. The wine was a very good vintage; he could still remember its rich fruity flavor. They went through the preliminaries of inquiring after each other’s family and health.
As usual, the Roman came right to the point. Running a finger around the lip of his goblet, he said, “I am troubled by reports from my spies of dissatisfaction among the Iceni. But they are only one tribe among many who plot against us. As soon as I dispatch the nest of vipers of one set of rebels, another takes its place.” He paused and looked at him.
“Then you must cut off the head of the serpent.”
“How?” asked Seutonius, putting down his goblet and crossing his arms across his broad chest.
“By smashing the Druid stronghold of Mona and the Archdruid with it. You will never find success in Britain otherwise, for it is the priests who control all things.”
Was it contempt he saw for a moment in the Roman’s eyes as Seutonius asked, “How is it that
you, a Druid, can recommend destruction for your own kind?”
Mabon felt the tension in the room rise a notch. The next few minutes would be crucial to his plans. With anguish, he thought of the destruction of the sacred groves, but he resolutely focused on his goal: to offer up Britain so that Ireland might be preserved in order that the old ways might survive and he with it as the highest-ranking Druid in the land. Of course, the Archdruid would perish in the massacre, leaving the way open for him, Mabon, to direct the sacred mysteries, but from a safe place across the Irish Sea.
Calming his breathing, he said, “Perhaps we can arrive at a plan whereby we both may profit.”
That night the two of them had formed a plan whereby his foes would be eliminated and, more importantly, the greater plan about which the Roman knew nothing, carried out. He had realized then how important it was to remove the boy, Bran. Like the raven, the boy’s namesake, whose cries presaged doom and war most terrible, so would Bran meet a doom whereby he would be a sacrifice to ensure the continuance of a world where the common folk would be ruled by those superior to them, men like himself—Mabon.
CHAPTER 46
Lucius–Dan Morgan Mona, April 23, A.D. 61
* * *
It could have been worse. After helping unload the horses and mules—a real pain, literally because his arm was getting so bad that he couldn’t even lift it—the Decanus, who was like a sergeant or leader of his contubernium, took one look at him and ordered him to stay with the boats.
The other guys kept throwing looks of pity at him. They didn’t know how relieved he was not to have to kill anyone. He had done his fair share of that in Vietnam. Hideous memories were always hovering just below the surface, ready to leap out at him.
It was bad enough listening to the shrieks of the dying horses. Hit by flying javelins, whose barbed heads must have hurt like hell, they squealed like demented souls. Watching the burning human torches was even worse.
From where he stood in one of the boats, he had a pretty good view of everything. He’d tried to keep an eye on the rest of his contubernium, who seemed to be doing okay so far. In the general melee, he’d lost track of them. Then he’d noticed Marcus, recognizable by his lumbering gait, reminding him of a particularly vicious goose that had once chased Dan on his grandfather’s farm, charging up the hillside with several others of their group.
On the slope of the hill were two people trying to escape, but they didn’t have a chance, not against trained soldiers. He’d seen it happen a world away: women and kids mowed down, whole villages set afire, the innocent slain with the guilty.
The pair had stopped running. Probably figured they didn’t have a chance.
Damn it, run! Don’t just stand there and take it!
Now the man was taking something off from around his neck and throwing it in front of the soldiers, who were running up the hill. And there was Marcus, stopping and snatching up the thing, and Gaius right behind him, putting his hand out as though arguing about it.
Must be a pretty valuable piece. Smart of the guy to delay them like that.
Now the two had taken off. Marcus and the rest couldn’t have cared less, it seemed. If two people escaped for a few hours, it was nothing to them. They’d round them up eventually. After all, this was a small island. In the meantime, they were standing around arguing about who should get the piece.
You could hardly blame them. Marcus was your professional career soldier, all business, no sentiment, who had every intention of living to collect his pension and picking up enough along the way to make his retirement comfortable. Pensions for veterans were pretty small, which encouraged guys to pick up what loot they could—a kind of portable pension fund.
Meanwhile, the couple were hightailing it over to the far side of the hill, right over to where the rest of the Roman fleet was anchored. Of course, they didn’t know that. A grove of trees hid the fleet from sight. A shame. After all that display of sheer guts, it seemed so unfair for them to be caught.
So what could he do? He had his orders to stay where he was. Soldiers who disobeyed orders could expect severe punishment, like being stoned to death. But he couldn’t just stay here and watch them be caught and executed on the spot.
Without really thinking, Dan found himself running in the direction of the young couple. No one challenged him. The other soldiers were all too busy hacking away at their enemies to pay any attention to him.
“Hey, you over there!”
They’d seen him now and pulled up, fear apparent on their faces. Why, they were only kids! The boy put an arm protectively around the girl.
“I won’t hurt you.”
They were looking suspiciously at him, and why shouldn’t they? They had no reason to trust him. Look at what the rest of the legion was doing to their home.
“Going that way, you’ll run into the whole Roman fleet, and even if you could hide for a while in the trees, you’d eventually be caught because Seutonius has plans to set fire to all the groves.”
“Then where can we go?” asked the girl, her face screwed up in an expression of despair.
“Come with me. I’ll escort you over there.” He pointed away from the main body of the legion and toward what would be called the Irish Sea in later times.
The boy hadn’t moved. “Why should we trust you?” he asked.
“Because you haven’t a hope in hell of getting out of here if you don’t. Mind you, I can’t guarantee anything, but at least it’s a chance. You’re not likely to get stopped if you’re with me; if we are, I’ll say you’re my prisoners.”
The boy stood there stubbornly. “You still haven’t told me why you’re helping us.”
Images of Laney came into his head: Laney with her head flung back dancing to the music she loved; Laney weeping over a baby bird that their cat had killed; Laney tossing her hair over one shoulder as she twinkled at him and teased him; Laney, who couldn’t bear to see suffering in any form.
“For my daughter, Laney,” he said simply.
Hope dawning in his eyes, the boy asked, “Who are you? Where are you from?”
Dan opened his mouth and then closed it, not sure what to say. Then he said, “Why do you care? Let’s get going before my buddies catch up to us.”
He waved his sword at them, but the boy refused to move. He had guts but not much sense.
“Your name. Who are you really?”
They could go on like this all day, but there wasn’t time, and what would it hurt to tell him his name?
“Dan.”
The boy started violently. “Dan Morgan?”
“Yeah, why …”
“It’s me, J.J.” The boy started to shake. Shock, maybe. He had to get them out of here.
“Bran, you know this man?” asked the girl in disbelief.
“Yeah, he’s someone from my time.”
For the first time, the girl smiled. “The gods are truly smiling upon us.”
Holding his sword in his left hand—just to make things look good in case anyone was watching—Dan explained where they were headed. He didn’t have to urge them to hurry. In fact, he found it hard to keep up with them.
“Hey, not so fast! They’ll think you’re trying to get away from me.”
They slowed down a bit after that.
As they came into sight of the fleet, a soldier hunkering down on the beach looked up and shouted, “Hail. What do you have there?”
“Slaves. They’ll fetch a good price in the market.”
The soldier looked bored. He nodded and said disinterestedly, “They look strong and healthy, but be sure you bind them well so they don’t escape.”
“Okay.”
As they jogged past the soldier, Dan could feel a prickling all down his spine and a feeling that hostile eyes were observing them. They seemed so exposed out here. Not until they reached the cover of some stunted trees did he feel more comfortable.
J.J. stopped and turned around. “We can make it from here,” he sai
d. “There’s someone with a boat close by who’s going to take us to Ireland.”
He thrust out his hand and said, “Thanks, Dan. I really appreciate your help.”
No doubt about it: the kid was different, more mature.
“See you back home soon,” said Dan—if they didn’t get killed first. His unspoken words must have shown in his eyes because J.J.’s mouth tightened, but he said nothing, just gave his hand an extra little squeeze and then put his arm around the girl’s shoulder and walked off.
Poor kids. Nice, middle-class kids like J.J. weren’t used to running for their lives, although it was happening to kids in other parts of the world.
If he and J.J. got out of this alive, he’d throw one hell of a party when they got back home. After that, he’d get his life together. No kidding.
Feeling ridiculously pleased with himself, he strode back to his boat, sat down, and waited for the others.
CHAPTER 47
Bran–Jason Kramer Mona, April 23, A.D. 61
* * *
With a tightness in his chest, J.J. watched Dan’s retreating back. He wanted to yell, “Come back! Don’t leave us here alone!” But he wasn’t a kid any more. People were depending on him, people like Bryanna, who had charged him to take Devonna to Ireland, and Devonna, too, who was trudging along beside him, her head down as though she were thinking furiously.
They were out of the trees now, he saw. No soldiers in sight. Good thing. After the bloodbath they’d just escaped, he could see why a lot of people tended to be paranoid about the Romans.
With no cover out here, just a long line of surf breaking on a rocky beach, they were totally exposed. Where was Breandan, who was supposed to be waiting with a boat? Was that part of their escape going to get screwed up like everything else?
Devonna was checking out the scene now, too. As if guessing his thoughts she said, “Breandan should be waiting for us somewhere close by. Look, over there!”