by Jayne Castel
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A Roman centurion doomed to an immortal life. A courageous Scottish widow with an uncertain future. One night of passion that changes everything. High adventure and epic love in Medieval Scotland—with a touch of fantasy.
Maximus Flavius Cato should have died in 118 AD—the year the Ninth legion was lost forever in the wilds of Caledonia. Instead, a Pict druidess curses him and two others with immortality. Over a thousand years later, as he struggles to solve the riddle that holds the key to breaking the curse, Maximus has an encounter with a comely tavern wench. His immortal life will never be the same again.
Heather De Keith has made a lot of mistakes—but marrying a bad man was her greatest. After her husband never returns from battle, she’s forced to take up work serving ale in a local tavern. Stubborn pride prevents her from returning to her kin at Dunnottar Castle. But when an enigmatic stranger comes to her aid one evening in the tavern, Heather lets attraction overrule good sense. The night they spend together spurs her to make the decision she’s put off for too long. It’s time to go home.
Pursued by a vengeful laird's son, Maximus and Heather flee north to Dunnottar. However, once on the road, they soon realize that neither of them will finish this journey with their hearts unscathed.
Historical Romances by Jayne Castel
DARK AGES BRITAIN
The Kingdom of the East Angles series
Night Shadows (prequel novella)
Dark Under the Cover of Night (Book One)
Nightfall till Daybreak (Book Two)
The Deepening Night (Book Three)
The Kingdom of the East Angles: The Complete Series
The Kingdom of Mercia series
The Breaking Dawn (Book One)
Darkest before Dawn (Book Two)
Dawn of Wolves (Book Three)
The Kingdom of Mercia: The Complete Series
The Kingdom of Northumbria series
The Whispering Wind (Book One)
Wind Song (Book Two)
Lord of the North Wind (Book Three)
The Kingdom of Northumbria: The Complete Series
DARK AGES SCOTLAND
The Warrior Brothers of Skye series
Blood Feud (Book One)
Barbarian Slave (Book Two)
Battle Eagle (Book Three)
The Warrior Brothers of Skye: The Complete Series
The Pict Wars series
Warrior’s Heart (Book One)
Warrior’s Secret (Book Two)
Warrior’s Wrath (Book Three)
The Pict Wars: The Complete Series
Novellas
Winter’s Promise
MEDIEVAL SCOTLAND
The Brides of Skye series
The Beast’s Bride (Book One)
The Outlaw’s Bride (Book Two)
The Rogue’s Bride (Book Three)
The Brides of Skye: The Complete Series
The Sisters of Kilbride series
Unforgotten (Book One)
Awoken (Book Two)
Fallen (Book Three)
Claimed (Epilogue novella)
The Immortal Highland Centurions series
Maximus (Book One)
Cassian (Book Two)
Draco (Book Three)
The Laird’s Return (Epilogue Festive Novella)
Epic Fantasy Romances by Jayne Castel
Light and Darkness series
Ruled by Shadows (Book One)
The Lost Swallow (Book Two)
Path of the Dark (Book Three)
Light and Darkness: The Complete Series
All characters and situations in this publication are fictitious, and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
Maximus, by Jayne Castel
Copyright © 2020 by Jayne Castel. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the author.
Published by Winter Mist Press
ISBN: 978-0-473-53294-9 (e-book)
Edited by Tim Burton
Cover design by Winter Mist Press
Cover photography courtesy of www.shutterstock.com
Roman Imperial image courtesy of www.shutterstock.com
Visit Jayne’s website: www.jaynecastel.com
***
To wee Max—may you have a life worthy of great stories!
***
Contents
PROLOGUE
INGLORIOUS
I
WISH UPON A STAR
II
STRANGER AT THE BOGSIDE
III
HELL WILL FREEZE OVER
IV
A WASTE OF SILVER
V
THE GREATEST
VI
LUST UNLEASHED
VII
BELONGING
VIII
THE BROOM-STAR
IX
ALONE
X
AWKWARD QUESTIONS
XI
THE GATEWAY
XII
SLAYER OF THE BULL
XIII
MAXIMUS THE MERCIFUL
XIV
THE ROAD NORTH
XV
I DON’T REMEMBER
XVI
BLOODY
XVII
TIME FOR WEEPING
XVIII
THE COMING OF THE DAWN
XIX
I HAVE QUESTIONS
XXI
HOPE
XXII
A HARD LIFE
XXIII
THE GATEHOUSE LOOMS
XXIV
WELCOME HOME, LASS
XXV
IN MY BONES
XXVI
COMPANIONSHIP
XXVII
THE GUARDIAN RETURNS
XXVIII
THE WELCOME BANQUET
XXIX
A GHOST FROM THE PAST
XXX
NOT DONE
XXXI
DISTRACTION
XXXII
SEARCHING FOR THE KEY
XXXIII
LONGING
XXXIV
UNWELCOME
XXXV
I’LL WAIT FOR YE
XXXVI
THE BATTLE HAMMER
XXXVII
YE WILL PAY
XXXVIII
UPON THE TOWER
XXXIX
ALLIES AND ENEMIES
XL
YER BLESSING
XLI
ETERNITY BECKONS
EPILOGUE
NEWS FROM THE SOUTH
FROM THE AUTHOR
HISTORICAL NOTES
CHARACTER GLOSSARY
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
MORE WORKS BY JAYNE CASTEL
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
“Every man dies, not every man really lives.”
—William Wallace
PROLOGUE
INGLORIOUS
The Roman Fort of Pinnata Castra
Northern Caledonia (Scotland)
Winter, 118 AD
HE NEVER THOUGHT his death would be inglorious.
Knee-deep in gore, splattered in mud, and surrounded by clinging mist, with the howling of Pict warriors in his ears—Maximus Flavius Cato railed against his fate. Rage, hot and blistering, rose within him. He wasn’t ready to go yet. He had a future serving Rome—and these barbarians were about to rip it from
him.
He’d envisaged his end would come as he fought under clear, blue skies, shouting the emperor’s name while he led his men to glory.
Not here in this forgotten, frozen shit-hole, brought down by savages.
The Picts surrounded him now, their eyes wild upon their blue-painted faces. Maximus’s belly cramped, an ice-cold knot tightening under his ribcage.
It’s over.
Five thousand soldiers had marched north into the wilds of Caledonia, and when they made their last stand that morning, only two centuries of his cohort remained: barely one hundred and sixty men to stand against the wrath of the northern tribes.
Thuds, grunts, and cries of battle filled the damp air. The mist curled in like steam drifting from hot baths. What was left of the Ninth had made their stand before the crumbling walls of Pinnata Castra—the fort Agricola had built many years earlier. High upon a ridge, surrounded by a dark pine wood, it felt like the end of the earth.
It was the end of the earth.
Maximus surged forward, slashing at the swarm of bodies clad in fur and leather, their limbs streaked in woad.
“Die!” He bellowed so loudly that it ripped his throat raw. It was the cry of a doomed man. But he was the pilus prior—the commander of what remained of the first cohort of the Ninth—and he wouldn’t crumble in front of his men.
The legate was no use to them now. That craven was hiding up in the watchtower behind them, cowering with his standard-bearers.
The legate—this legion’s imperial general—had pushed them into the wild north and argued with any who dared question him. He’d had deserters hunted down and stoned. But when the final stand came, where was he?
The fury within Maximus pulsed like a stoked ember. It made him feel invincible—as if nothing, not even a sharp Pict blade, could touch him.
The light was fading now, making visibility even more difficult through the tendrils of snaking mist. There was barely room to swing his sword, yet Maximus fought on, jaw clenched in iron determination. He slashed a Picti warrior across the throat. Blood gushed, coating them both, but he barely noticed. Raw anger turned him savage. If he was going to die today, he’d bring as many of these blue-painted bastards down with him as he could.
Maximus slashed and stabbed at any warrior who came within reach of his sword, aware then that he now stood alone. The men who’d fought at his shoulder were all dead. He brought down a woman who lunged at him with an iron-tipped pike—impaling her through the throat with his blade—before glancing behind him at the walls of the old fort. Had it been overrun yet?
There, above the lichen-encrusted walls, he saw the proud golden Eagle standard rising into the foggy gloaming. But as he watched, the Eagle listed and went down, disappearing from view.
Maximus’s belly clenched. With the Eagle went the hope of the Hispana, the empire’s mighty Spanish Legion. The Eagle standard was a symbol of honor for each centurion—and if they lost it, they lost everything.
The end had come. For him, and for the Hispana.
Roaring, Maximus whirled to face another attacker. An instant later, something heavy collided with the back of his helmet.
The last thing Maximus Flavius Cato saw before darkness claimed him was the muddy, blood-drenched ground rushing up to meet him.
There was only one thing worse than dying on the end of a Pict blade—and that was to live through the battle, only to be taken captive.
Maximus wasn’t alone. Two other centurions sat with him, wrists and ankles bound, slumped up against the wall. All three of them were injured and barely conscious. Maximus’s head hurt so badly that he felt sick. The back of his skull pounded in time with his heartbeat.
He was just about to close his eyes and let the pain consume him, when a woman walked into the hut.
Young, tall, and dark-haired, she was also beautiful. However, lust was the last thing on Maximus’s mind as he stared at her. Instead, fear slithered through his gut, threatening to overwhelm his outrage at waking up to find himself trussed up like a hog.
Her expression was blank, cold.
It was the same look—one devoid of mercy—he’d witnessed on a cat’s face once, right before it bit the head of a mouse clean off. Previously, the spoiled tom cat, his mother’s cherished pet, had been toying with the field mouse.
Maximus knew who she was; the interior of this wattle and daub hut had told him. He’d observed the strange hangings made of bones, teeth, and feathers; and the shriveled corpses of animals and birds that swung from the rafters. This woman was a witch—or bandruí as she was known in this land.
And Maximus knew enough of the Painted People and their ways to realize he should fear her. Yet, arrogant to the last, he glared at the woman. The fury that had consumed him during the Ninth’s final stand still smoldered in his gut, seeking a chance to reignite.
The bandruí had large, ice-blue eyes, rimmed with charcoal. Her face remained expressionless as she crossed the floor toward her three captives. The druidess had a loose-limbed walk. Her bare feet whispered on the dirt floor, her bone jewelry jangling. In one hand, she carried an earthen cup.
Her gaze went to Maximus first, and she dropped to a crouch before him, placing the cup on the ground next to her. He saw that it was full of a dark, viscous liquid.
“Inns dhomh na hainmean agad.”
Tell me your names. It was not a request, but a command.
She spoke the Pict tongue with a different, sharper cadence than Maximus was used to hearing. He’d learned the local language from the tribesmen who lived farther south when he’d been stationed at Trimontium for a spell.
For a moment, he considered defying the woman, but something in those empty eyes warned him against doing so. “Maximus.” His voice came out in a rasp. He was so thirsty he could barely swallow. His head hurt so badly that he had trouble even thinking. He’d lost all concept of time since the battle.
“And your friends?”
Maximus’s lip curled. Still staring the woman down, he nudged the man next to him with his elbow. He was a hulking cohort centurion with close-cropped, brown hair, who kept drifting in and out of consciousness. “She wants to know your names,” Maximus croaked.
A heavy pause followed before the centurion raised his battered face, his hazel eyes unfocused. “Cassian,” he mumbled.
The woman nodded before her attention shifted to the third prisoner: a tall, lean man with hawkish features and short, curly black hair. Blood encrusted the centurion’s chest from the wound he’d taken, but he was still awake and alert enough to snarl at the bandruí, his white teeth flashing in the gloom. “Draco.”
The bandruí sat back on her heels. “Maximus. Cassian. Draco.” She spoke their names slowly, rolling the unfamiliar words across her tongue, and then she shuffled back from them.
Using a blue-stained finger, the woman drew a crescent design upon the dirt floor between them.
“A blood moon rides tonight, and I have sacrificed three crows under it,” she announced, her voice as impassive as her face. The woman’s gaze snared Maximus’s once more. Now that she knew he understood her tongue, she focused upon him. “I drained their blood, burned their hearts, and gained the favor of the Gods … so that I may take vengeance upon our enemies.”
A chill walked down Maximus’s spine at these words, cooling the rage in his belly. There was power in this woman’s eyes, as if she could strip away his flesh with a word and bare his soul to her.
“What’s she muttering about?” the centurion Draco asked. He was glaring at the bandruí, his face rigid.
Maximus hesitated before replying. He wasn’t sure what the witch’s words meant—only that death in battle would have been a mercy in comparison to what she had in store for them.
Fear’s long fingers clasped around his throat and gently squeezed.
Inglorious, indeed, he thought grimly. That’ll teach me to take a posting in Britannia. He could have gone anywhere in the empire, and yet he’d chosen
its farthest flung, most savage corner. He’d had something to prove—and had once bragged to his younger brothers that he was heading off to ‘tame the barbarians’—but now he was paying for his arrogance.
“She’s about to kill us,” Maximus murmured after a lengthy pause, focusing on his companions properly for the first time since he’d awoken. He recognized both these men, for they’d formed part of his cohort. They were both good fighters from Hispania.
He suddenly wished that, like them, he was ignorant of these people’s tongue. Better not to understand this woman’s chilling words.
For she wasn’t yet finished with them.
“A curse be upon you three,” the bandruí continued, her voice turning harsh. She picked up the cup and dipped her finger into it. Maximus realized then that the dark liquid was congealing blood—crow’s blood most likely. She leaned forward and drew a mark upon Maximus’s forehead.
Spitting out an oath, he shrank back from the woman’s touch. Yet injured and trussed up, there was nowhere to go. Likewise, his two companions endured the same treatment.
Maximus’s already pounding heart quickened further when he saw she’d drawn a crescent symbol upon their foreheads. He didn’t know the significance of such a mark, but understood that it didn’t bode well for any of them.
Some of the priestesses of his homeland wielded dangerous power—but he’d never feared a woman like he did this one. He’d prefer to face down a pike-bearing Picti warrior any day than this cold-eyed druidess.
“I was wrong,” he rasped. “The bitch is cursing us … before she kills us.”
“Let her,” Cassian said. His voice was a rattling wheeze. “Filthy barbarian witch.”
“You three will endure eternal life,” the bandruí intoned, oblivious to their insults. “Age will never touch you … but you are doomed to watch everyone you love wither and die. You are forever bound to the borders of these lands, and you will never father children. Eventually, you will live long enough to watch the world end.”