To the Waters and the Wild

by S C McGrath

When his horse took an awkward step and fell to his knees in the mud, Déaglán cursed Fearghus yet again. He dismounted and ran his hands up and down his horse’s forelegs, worried the poor animal may have pulled a tendon in the fall. Satisfied all was well, he led the horse back to an abandoned barn he had spotted earlier, just off the road.

  

  As Déaglán sat in the barn waiting for the heavy rain to subside, he reflected on his many years of spying in Eoraip. It had all begun shortly after Maeve and their infant son had died in childbirth. Déaglán still could not clearly recall the bleak days following their deaths. Surely he had been mad with grief and drink. Fearghus had found him lying in his own vomit aboard his boat in the harbor at Fhianait. Déaglán had lifted his head and, slurring his words, said, “Go away . . . you meddlesome priest. I want none of your . . . sanctimonious counsel.”

  Without warning, the high priest had bent down and grabbed Déaglán, jerking him to his feet. “Is this how you honor your wife and son?” Fearghus exclaimed, his face red with anger. “So be it!” Then he picked Déaglán up and hurled him over the side of the boat and into the cold waters of the bay. “Save yourself or drown, it is of no account to me!”

  Déaglán was never quite sure whether it was the shock of the cold water or Fearghus’s angry admonition that had given him the will to climb back aboard and live again. Soaked and bedraggled, his lungs heaving, he made it up and over the side of the boat and collapsed in a heap. There, Fearghus sat waiting for him with a most intriguing proposal. He had asked Déaglán to become a spy for Eire, fearing that in the not too distant future, the mighty empire of Roma would threaten their small island.

  “We must know our enemy,” Fearghus had said with vehemence. “Only then will we have any hope of defending Eire. As a seafarer and wanderer, you have already traveled freely in Eoraip and speak all manner of languages. Furthermore, you are fearless and have a penchant for secrecy and deception.”

  Fearghus’s observations that day nearly fifteen years ago had proved undeniably prescient. Almost at once, Déaglán realized he was peculiarly suited for and relished the life of a spy. He had made it his purpose to infiltrate the most elite imperial and military enclaves of Roma. Now, with the Romhanach poised to invade Eire, he had agreed to another of Fearghus’s proposals and would share with Deirdre all he knew of the emperor, Domitian, and Agricola.

  He had learned much about Domitian’s character over the years. He knew Agricola less well. The general reminded Déaglán somewhat of Domitian’s older brother, Titus. Both men were strong, confident military leaders who commanded respect and loyalty from their men. Déaglán chuckled to himself. In fact, Domitian’s enmity toward Agricola was easily understood if one knew of the emperor’s rabid hatred of Titus. Anyone even remotely reminding the emperor of his older brother was despised at best. Déaglán had witnessed the ugliness of their sibling rivalry while working as a groom in the imperial stables.

  There could not have been two brothers more different than Titus and Domitian. Titus, the handsome heir to the imperial seat, was a bold leader and an eloquent orator. Domitian, distrustful and taciturn, was an able though unimaginative administrator. He was forever in the shadow of his charming and illustrious older brother. Déaglán saw more of Titus than Domitian at the stables. Titus was an excellent horseman and owned some of the finest stallions Déaglán had ever seen. In contrast, Domitian had a rough and heavy hand, and showed cruel disregard for his horses.

  Déaglán quietly listened to the gossip of the stables and befriended some of the ladies’ maids in the palace, who guilelessly provided him with the intrigue and scandals of the imperial household. He heard furtive whisperings and soon suspected that Domitian was conspiring to assassinate Titus. Domitian would often ride out at odd hours in the company of reputed mercenaries and scoundrels, men who sold their allegiance to the highest bidder and were loyal to nothing but their own greed. Domitian was a fool to think Titus was unaware of his nefarious plot, thought Déaglán. He could only wait and watch, knowing a deadly confrontation between the brothers was inevitable.

  It happened early one morning as Déaglán finished feeding the horses and was preparing to clean and oil the bridles and saddles. Titus had been away visiting his estates in the country and was expected to return any day. Upon his return, Titus planned to remain at the palace for a week or more before setting out on a military expedition to quell unrest in conquered regions to the east. Déaglán had laid out the tack in preparation for cleaning when Domitian came striding into the stable yard excited, his eyes with a gleam that hinted at some recent triumph.

  “You,” Domitian ordered, “saddle Raven for me at once.” Domitian did not look at Déaglán; instead, he fastidiously brushed some dust off his tunic, then his hands closed around the hilt of his sword, his lips curling in a malevolent smile.

  “Raven, my lord?” questioned Déaglán. Raven was Titus’s most magnificent stallion and his pride and joy. The stallion was coal black with not a fleck of white on his noble head or fine strong legs. Déaglán knew that Domitian had neither the skill nor the finesse to ride such a high-spirited horse.

  “Yes, Raven, you fool. Are you deaf? Likely you are quaking with fright, cowering at the thought of what my brother will do to you when he learns that you have saddled that rogue stallion for me. If I were you, I would fear only my actions from this day forward!”

  Déaglán nodded, keeping his head bowed, afraid that Domitian might see the anger and contempt that Déaglán was sure showed in his eyes. Déaglán noticed that Domitian wore viciously sharp spurs and knew that if Domitian dared use them on Raven, Titus, if he was still alive, would surely exact frightening revenge. Déaglán had no illusions about Titus. For all his charm and eloquence, Déaglán knew Titus was a ruthless and bloodthirsty general who showed little mercy and much cruelty to his enemies. Titus once remarked, when too full of ale, that he liked nothing better than the smell of his dead foes as they lay rotting on the battlefield. Yes, thought Déaglán, Titus inspired great loyalty but also immense fear.

  Sensing danger, Raven was fractious as Déaglán saddled him, snorting and tossing his head as he pawed the ground and shifted his weight from one leg to another, starting at every noise, his massive body tense and quivering. Déaglán tried to calm the stallion with soothing words, but to no avail. Sighing in resignation, Déaglán led Raven out of the stable and toward the waiting Domitian.

  “So, you black devil,” exclaimed Domitian as he approached Raven, his face full of vitriolic revenge. “We shall see who triumphs today with Titus not here to protect and coddle you. It is the sting of the spurs that you need, and you would be wise to submit, for you have a new master now.”

  Alarmed at Domitian’s words, Déaglán tried to hold Raven still as the stallion, his ears pinned flat against his head, reared up and shied away from Domitian, striking out with a vicious kick of his hind legs.

  “Hold him still, you imbecile,” snarled Domitian, barely avoiding Raven’s lethal strike. Domitian then grabbed Raven’s reins and with surprising agility swung himself into the saddle. Domitian was just about to dig his spurs into the stallion’s sides when both men heard the sharp pounding of a horse’s hooves behind them. Titus, his face taut and his eyes murderous, galloped full speed into the yard. Before Domitian could turn Raven and defend himself against his brother’s charge, Titus reached Domitian. With a swing of his fist, Titus knocked Domitian to the ground. Titus jumped from his horse and, pulling his sword from its scabbard, stood over his brother, the blade threatening.

  “Stand up, you perfidious coward,” Titus ordered with venom. “And if your spurs have harmed Raven, you are a dead man.” Titus glanced over at Raven as Déaglán attempted to quiet the agitated stallion. Then Titus turned back to Domitian. “You did not wait long once you believed me murdered to take those possessions of mine you covet. Have you also tried to bed my mistress, or were you saving that for tonight?”

  Domitian said not
hing as he got to his feet, looking fixedly at the sword Titus held in his hand. Domitian then lifted his eyes and met those of his brother’s. The two regarded each other with such naked hatred that even Déaglán was stunned.

  “Did you actually believe you could conspire with villains to kill me and that your treachery would not be discovered? Do you think my guards are not ever watchful of your movements and associations, especially when you are in the company of murderers? Well, your knaves, though surprisingly bold, failed. My guards and I killed all but one. The villain we spared was more than willing to report my death to you in exchange for his life. I see that he played his part well, for you have wasted no time in claiming what is mine.”

  Titus waited for his brother to speak, and when Domitian said nothing, Titus swung his sword deftly, the tip of which sliced Domitian’s left cheek, opening a deep cut. “Has your tongue failed you, brother? Have you nothing to say, or are you too terrified for speech?”

  Though not naturally a brave man, Domitian was nonetheless emboldened by the powerful hatred he had nurtured over the years for his brother. Beyond fear and seeing no escape, Domitian straightened his shoulders and stood facing Titus, blood running down his cheek and staining his tunic. “If you intend to kill me, do it now. I do not deny that I plotted your murder and wish you dead. I despise you and your charmed life. You are the anointed one, the heir to the imperial seat, the great soldier, the darling of the people. Meanwhile, I have been relegated to meaningless consulships with empty titles. You have maligned me since my earliest memory, convincing father that I am worthy of nothing more significant than administering to the building of roads or the laying of sewer lines. Yes, I conspired to murder you, but long ago you destroyed me in the eyes of our father. Now it seems you are the victor again. So slay me and finish the job you started so many years ago.”

  Titus laughed mockingly but there was a hint of admiration in his voice when he said, “So, little brother, there is some manhood in you after all. But you need not prepare yourself to die. I have no intention of killing you. Why, you may ask. I am not sure I know the answer, although I am loathe to break our mother’s heart, for she adores you. Now, get out of my sight before I come to my senses.” Titus started to return his sword to its scabbard then stopped. “Don’t ever make me regret my decision to spare your life. I will not be so forgiving a second time.” Titus’s lips formed a smile that did not reach his eyes. “Cheer up, I am leaving for the eastern frontier next week. You can pray to the gods that I will die in battle.”

  It was not until Domitian was out of sight that Titus relaxed and realized that Déaglán, who he knew as “Tascus,” was standing nearby, holding both horses by their bridles.

  “Tascus, return Raven to his stall and then rub down Aquila. I rode him hard and do not want to hear later that he has colicked. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, my lord,” responded Déaglán. He then raised his eyes and the two men exchanged looks, Titus’s gaze speculative and piercing, Déaglán’s unwavering and inscrutable.

  “Tascus, you have been a groom here for four months, correct? And you are from the north, are you not?”

  “It has been five months, my lord, and yes, I am from the north.”

  “Umbria?” questioned Titus with nonchalance.

  “No, my lord, I come from Gallia.”

  “Ah, yes, of course, I remember our discussion now. I remarked that your being from Gallia explained the light color of your eyes, blue being not uncommon in that region, although I have never seen anyone else with eyes quite the shade of yours.” Titus looked once more at Déaglán, nodded, then turned and strode away.

  

  Déaglán stood up and stretched, then walked outside the barn to survey the passing storm clouds. The rain had diminished to a light but steady drizzle. Déaglán decided not to push on even though there were still several hours of daylight remaining. His horse needed the rest, the exertions of the day having taken their toll.

  A shadow of a smile appeared on Déaglán’s weary face. His months as a groom at the imperial stables had been enlightening. He had quietly left the stables less than a week after the confrontation between Titus and Domitian, knowing that being a witness to the violent exchange would not endear him to either young man. Moreover, Déaglán had seen the speculative way that Titus had looked at him that day. Déaglán had guessed that Titus was suspicious and that the game was up. Rarely one to second-guess his own instincts, Déaglán slipped away one night and made for the coast.

  Ironically, Titus did not die gloriously on the battlefield but in bed of an ague. He had been emperor barely two years when he was stricken, dying in the same country home where his father had died before him. Domitian wasted no time in proclaiming himself emperor, triumphantly establishing his authority before his brother’s body was even cold. Domitian proved to be a repressive and despotic ruler who regularly executed his foes and real or imagined usurpers. Déaglán wondered whether Eire would have been safe from Romhanach invasion had Titus lived. Probably not. Titus, like Agricola, had been first and foremost a soldier always looking for new lands to conquer. Eire would have been merely another conquest to add to his tally.

  

  CHAPTER thirteen

  

  s darkness fell, Déaglán started a fire and sat huddled next to it, the smoky flames from the wet wood irritating his eyes and providing little warmth. His horse had finished his grain and was standing in the corner of the barn, head hanging low as he slept. For the last hour, Déaglán had been thinking of Deirdre. Images of the young priestess had invaded his conscious thoughts unbidden and with increasing frequency since she had helped him escape. Tonight, as he sat near the fire damp, cold, and bone weary, Déaglán could almost feel her soft body next to his, remembering how she had pulled him close, sheltering him with her cloak and spiriting him to safety. It had always been his beloved Maeve he thought of when lonely and tired. When she died, his need for love died with her. There had been women over the years, of course, for he had no inclination toward celibacy. Still, it was only Maeve whom Déaglán thought of when he yearned for the comfort of a woman.

  Now Deirdre constantly stole her way into Déaglán’s mind, however much he tried to block thoughts of her. What was the matter with him, besotted with a beautiful young priestess who had so easily breached his carefully constructed wall of invulnerability? Déaglán had nothing to offer her, nor did he want such an entanglement. His passion for the sea and adventure would always win over the pull of a woman’s charms. Looking back, he surely would have broken Maeve’s heart eventually. Even when so young and in love, his wanderlust constantly intruded on his happiness, inexorably drawing him to the sea.

  Tonight, however, Déaglán allowed himself to get lost in thoughts of Deirdre. Tomorrow, when he was rested and strong, he would suppress any affection he felt for the young priestess, controlling his emotions with cold calculation, an invaluable skill learned from his many years of solitude and spying. Déaglán assured himself that Deirdre would become only a chess piece for him to position in his deadly game with the Romhanach, nothing more.

  Déaglán first met Deirdre two years earlier, when visiting Fearghus at the high priest’s home in the north of Eire. Déaglán had recently returned from Eoraip, and the two men had just sat down for the morning meal when they heard a light tap on the front door. Fearghus was about to rise from his chair when the door opened a crack and a pleasantly musical voice called out, “Fearghus, may I come in?” Before Fearghus could respond, a young woman stepped across the threshold and into the room, only stopping when she saw Déaglán.

  “Oh, there I go again, barging in without waiting for you to grant me admittance, and you entertaining a guest. How annoying I must be to you.” The young woman, however, did not look at all repentant and gave both men a brilliant smile.

  Fearghus, not looking in the least irritated, smiled broadly in response and stood up. With an outstretched hand he beckoned the g
irl forward.

  “Deirdre, you are never annoying and always welcome.” Turning to Déaglán, the priest said, “Déaglán, I want you to meet the priestess, Deirdre, one of my former students and a very talented and remarkable young woman. Deirdre, this is my good friend Déaglán whom I speak of so often and whose voyages are legend.”

  Deirdre’s face lit up at Fearghus’s words, and she approached Déaglán. “I am so pleased to finally meet you, although I feel as though I already know you from all the stories of your adventures I have heard from Fearghus. What a wonderfully exciting life you lead.”

  Déaglán stood transfixed, momentarily speechless, his ready wit abandoning him completely. He was still taking in the image of this lovely young woman who had glided toward him with such grace and presence. Now, she was smiling patiently, obviously waiting for him to respond.

  Déaglán came to his senses and, somewhat embarrassed, said, “The pleasure is all mine, Deirdre,” and took the hand she offered him in both of his. With a wry expression and a gesture to Fearghus, Déaglán added, “But pay no attention to Fearghus. He embellishes my exploits with such abandon that I rarely recognize them as my own. Never has there been a better storyteller in all Eire than Fearghus, even though most of what he relates has occurred only in his dreams.”

  Fearghus laughed heartily. “Well, I only make the telling and the listening more enjoyable by spicing up those portions of a story that might send the audience into somnolence or weary apathy.”

  “Well, if even half of what Fearghus tells me of your adventures is true, I am still overawed by your daring.” Again Deirdre smiled at Déaglán then glanced down at his hands, still firmly clasping her proffered one. Embarrassed afresh, Déaglán quickly dropped Deirdre’s hand as if it were a hot coal.

  Deirdre seemed not to notice Déaglán’s discomfort and turned to Fearghus. “I baked the bread you are so fond of and am happy I brought two loaves, as there will now be enough for both you and Déaglán. Here, let me slice some pieces. I have also brought some wonderful fruit and a variety of delightful cheeses.” She regarded the meal the two men were about to eat and shook her head dismissively. “Fearghus, let me prepare something more pleasing for you.” Without waiting for Fearghus to answer, she removed the food from the table and began preparing a new meal, all the while chatting pleasantly with Fearghus, who was obviously delighted at the prospect of one of her feasts.