by James Wilde
‘If only I could have.’
She pressed a hand against her heart. ‘I still feel them with me. When you are a Sister of the Moon, you share a bond that not even death can break. Sometimes, in the night, I hear them whisper to me.’
Corvus forced a tight smile. If they ever passed time together, she and Theodosius could witter away to each other like this till the world turned cold. Of course, Theodosius would have her swinging from a rope in a moment if he happened to learn she was a witch.
‘We’ll find you some new sisters,’ he said, patting her arm. ‘Now come. I need to have a word with my mother before I ride out to drain some barbarian blood.’
Taking her hand, he led her down the steps and through the fort, out into the town and the house he had secured in the shadow of the amphitheatre. He’d offered its worth in gold. The owner had refused, saying there was not enough space in the city, so he’d had to kill him and his family. But it was the thought that counted.
When he stepped in, he choked on the coal smoke. His mother had insisted on keeping a fire burning, even though summer still kept watch on the days. Gaia perched on a stool by the hearth, swaddled in a thick cloak. The damp Britannia climate was not agreeing with her, as she saw fit to tell him every time they met. This time she threw her arms wide, showering his face with kisses. He felt the curve of her belly against his stomach. Still early days. He wished he’d planted his seed in her sooner. Then his child, the heir to everything that mattered, would have been born before Catia’s. That would have simplified matters.
Severus, the Hanged Man, stood in the corner, arms hanging at his side. He was a gloomy sod at the best of times, but since he’d arrived in Londinium with Gaia and Hecate, he seemed to excel at cloaking himself in shadows.
‘Corvus,’ he intoned. ‘Are we any closer to realizing our plans?’
‘We must trust in Mithras to guide us,’ he began.
‘A novel way of saying no,’ he heard Pavo chirp at his back.
He sighed.
‘They may have little learning, these pretenders, but they have a certain animal cunning,’ he continued. ‘My sister is never allowed to be alone. There’re always two of those ditch-sleeping arcani at her side, with twitching blades. They know her worth, of course. They’ll kill anyone to protect that child.’
‘Put an arrow through both of them,’ Gaia said. ‘Poison her, and her spawn. Set fire to them.’
‘You have a creative imagination, Mother. But it will do us little good if the price we pay for ending her days is facing the harsh justice of her protectors.’ He narrowed his eyes at Gaia. Is that what she wanted? Then she would have complete control over the bloodline. ‘Mother?’
Gaia only smiled. ‘You know best, my beautiful boy.’
They’d survived the journey from the coast, with no sign of those feral barbarians. But not one of them was happy to be in Londinium. Not even in their wildest imaginations did they expect the hardships that dwelled here. And it was only going to get worse. Still, what choice did they have now? They’d shackled their futures to him, and that was all he needed.
‘We four must stand strong together, come what may,’ he said.
‘Three,’ Severus corrected.
Corvus eyed Pavo from under his brow, then smiled at the Hanged Man. ‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘My mistake.’
A faint hammering echoed.
When Corvus wrenched open the door, he looked down at a mud-caked dwarf standing on the threshold. A wild beard trailed down his chest, but what skin was visible on his face looked like a melted candle. On his head a Phrygian leather cap perched – a sign of a worshipper of Mithras.
Corvus jerked round as the visitor darted through his legs and rolled on his back like a whipped cur. ‘I throw myself on your mercy,’ he whined.
‘You!’ Gaia’s eyes blazed. ‘Kill him now, Corvus, before I have to hear any more of his lies.’
‘Wait,’ the dwarf pleaded. ‘Slay me now and you will never learn what I know about your enemies, those pretenders who lay claim to the royal bloodline.’
Corvus froze, his sword half out of its sheath.
‘Who are you?’ Hecate asked.
The dwarf jumped to his feet and bowed. ‘My name is Bucco. Once I called the fair city of Rome my home. But then my master, the merchant Varro, who beat me most harshly, made me a citizen of the road—’
‘No lies!’
Corvus winced at the venom in his mother’s voice. Her eyes were blazing. She looked as if she would kill the dwarf with her bare hands. ‘The dwarf here was the master. Varro the merchant leapt to his bidding,’ she said. ‘They were guests in our home. And then they took the wood-priest who was to be our intermediary so they could steal the power of the royal bloodline for themselves.’
‘Little good it seems to have done them,’ Pavo said.
‘Little good it seems to have done them,’ Corvus said. ‘Varro—’
‘Is dead.’ Bucco’s chin slumped to his chest in a show of grief. ‘Murdered by Lucanus the Wolf and his followers. As was the wood-priest. They tried to kill me too. They will slay anyone to keep their hands on that power.’
Hecate rested a pale hand on the dwarf’s shoulder. ‘Then without Bucco here I would not have been brought to Rome, and to you, my husband. Is that true? You needed me because the wood-priest was gone.’
Bucco skipped from under her hand. ‘Then I have enriched all your lives. You should thank me—’
‘Kill him,’ Gaia said. ‘And throw his body out for the ravens.’
‘Let’s not be hasty, Mother.’ Corvus let his blade slide back into its sheath. He hooked a hand in the back of the dwarf’s tunic and lifted him off the ground.
Bucco kicked and flailed. ‘Our wood-priest … he spoke before he died. I know where they plan to go when your backs are turned. I know how you can kill them all and win the day.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I Am in Blood
THICK FOG CLOTTED the valleys. In the muffled stillness, droplets of moisture beat a steady rhythm as they fell from the yellowing leaves. Lucanus and the Grim Wolves stood on the high ground looking into the white bank.
‘It will burn off soon enough,’ Bellicus said.
‘It had better,’ the Wolf replied. ‘We mustn’t lose this moment.’ He pushed up the snout of his pelt and looked round at the sound of hooves.
Theodosius eased out of the dense cloud, with Corvus beside him. Falx wrestled with his mount at the rear. He was no horseman. The three soldiers slipped to the ground and led their steeds over.
‘The army is in position?’ Lucanus asked.
Theodosius nodded. ‘We have one chance here. If we show even the slightest weakness, it will all be over.’
‘Good fortune, then, that you’ve got arcani to scout the land for you,’ Solinus said. ‘The Grim Wolves make no mistakes.’
‘When the fog lifts,’ Lucanus added.
The Wolf could see the taut muscles in Theodosius’ face, and Falx’s fixed stare. They were anxious. And who could blame them? The force in the Londinium garrison had been depleted long before the barbarians attacked, and the new recruits were undisciplined. They still reeled from the terrors they’d experienced on the road after they’d fled their posts under the first wave of the enemy attack.
Corvus, though, was grinning. Nothing seemed to trouble this soldier. Lucanus decided he liked him. He had a good wit, and learning, so that he could spin tales well. He kept spirits up when they all drank in the tavern.
‘We have the army of Britannia, led by the Pendragon, and good Roman soldiers who have never shied from a fight. What could possibly go wrong?’ he said now.
‘The last bastard who said that was pulling an arrow out of his eye socket a moment later,’ Solinus said.
‘We must pray for victory,’ Theodosius said. ‘Only God can help us in this, our direst need.’ He knelt on the damp grass and bowed his head.
Corvus cocked one eyebrow and
exchanged a look with Lucanus and Falx. ‘Any takers?’ he whispered.
The centurion chortled and clambered awkwardly back on to his horse.
Corvus leaned in, and Lucanus saw the other man’s smile slip away and his expression darken. ‘Your woman, Catia,’ he murmured. ‘All is well with her?’
‘Mato and Comitinus keep watch on her. Why do you ask?’
‘I heard whispers, in the tavern. That she had eyes for another man.’ He shrugged again. ‘I don’t know who. It’s probably nothing. Just talk.’
‘Catia would never do that.’
‘Of course not, my friend. Of course not. You trust those who guard her? Yes. You must. You do.’ He clapped a hand on Lucanus’ arm. ‘Ignore me. I’m a worrier. It’s just that I wouldn’t want to see you cuckolded. You’re a good man. You deserve better than that.’
He smiled, a little sadly, Lucanus thought, then joined Theodosius and the two men were soon swallowed up by the fog.
‘What was he saying?’ Bellicus demanded.
‘Tactical talk, that’s all.’
‘I don’t trust him. He’s got that look about him.’
‘Aye,’ Solinus added. ‘He’ll buy you a drink with one hand, and feel up your sister with the other.’
‘In these times, we need all good men to come together. What joins us is greater than what divides us.’
‘Spoken like a man with a gold crown,’ Solinus said. ‘Now let’s eat some bread. If we’re going to die, I want it to be with a full belly.’
Lucanus looked back into the fog drifting among the trees down the slope, but his thoughts had flown back to Londinium, and Catia. It was true that she’d been different since she returned from captivity. He’d put that down to the hardships she’d experienced. He’d not asked her about them; she’d talk when she was ready.
But perhaps there was something more.
By mid-morning the sun was carving the fog into trailing strands. The birdsong rushed back in, and now Lucanus could hear a distant rumbling.
‘They’re on the move,’ Bellicus said.
Lucanus marched back to where his army waited, hunched in cloaks, every face like stone. ‘Make ready,’ he said.
They stood, hands clasping the hilts of swords that had never drawn blood, but only been brought out from time to time to show that once their father’s father’s father had been a man of courage. More than anything he wished he didn’t have to put them through this ordeal. But if they wanted to keep what they had – their liberty, their families – they knew they would have to fight.
Apullius dashed up and raised a skin. Lucanus took it and wet his lips. ‘Remember what I said,’ the Wolf cautioned. ‘You stay here, whatever happens. If we all end up a feast for the ravens, you run back to Londinium and warn the others.’
‘And what can they do then?’ The boy narrowed his eyes. He was no fool.
‘Run. Hide.’
Apullius snorted, and Lucanus cuffed him round the ear for good measure.
Then he marched back to the ridge and looked down the slope. Beyond the trees, the fog was gone. The sun drenched a sea of grassland. A shadow moved across it, though the sky was clear.
Around a hundred barbarians rode, with perhaps a hundred more following on foot. One of the larger war-bands, as they had found when they had scouted. All Picts, the fiercest fighters, roaming ever closer to Londinium.
This was where the line would be drawn.
Lucanus felt the weight of the men as they gathered at his back. He imagined their darting eyes, the breath tight in their chests. Without looking back, he raised one hand.
The world held its breath.
When he snapped his arm down, the army moved as one. Skidding down the bank through a sea of bracken, whirling by the grey trunks of ash trees. Into the last of the fog; a silent, grey world. Feet thudded on leaf mould. No one spoke.
And then he was running along the valley floor, beyond the trees and out into the glare of the hot sun.
The thunder of hooves was clearer there, and when he shielded his eyes he could make out the war-band surging towards the nearest village. Their enemies hadn’t seen them yet.
‘Make some noise,’ he roared.
A senseless bellow boomed at his back, driven by rage, and terror too. As he ran, he saw the Pictish riders draw up, the foot-soldiers grind to a halt. Though the distance was too great, in his mind’s eye he could see heads swivel towards him, grins lighting on lips at the sight of this pathetic force that dared challenge the fierce warriors who had conquered such a great part of the empire.
Now there was no turning back.
Lucanus swept up an arm and his army crunched to a halt.
For a moment, everything hung.
Eyes locked across the heaving green sea. And then the jubilant roar of the Picts rolled out, punctuated by the pounding of hooves.
The Wolf watched the war-band turn, as one, and sweep towards them.
‘Back,’ he yelled. ‘We must not be caught out here in the open.’
Turning on their heels, his army raced back towards the shade of the valley. Lucanus heard the cries of the barbarians escalate into a frenzy, and despite his careful planning he felt his cheeks burn with humiliation.
Once they were back among the trees and lingering fog, he whisked his arm in a circle and his men scattered, scrambling up the valley sides to crouch among the ash trees and the oaks.
‘Fight as if you don’t expect to live to see tomorrow.’ His voice drifted up the wooded slopes until it was swallowed by the muffling mist, and then he was crouching himself, behind a dense hawthorn, his gaze fixed on the golden patch of sunshine beyond the valley’s end.
After a moment, he stirred, his neck prickling. In the shadows among the trees, he saw a figure watching him. All black, she was, like the deepest well, surrounded by a murder of crows, wings beating the air. In their midst, he locked on to a pair of burning eyes, and a maw that seemed always hungry. The Morrigan rarely left him these days. Since that life-changing night in Goibniu’s Smithy, he had frequently glimpsed her following him relentlessly through the glades and across the grasslands, in the streets of Londinium, edging ever closer.
The Morrigan, the Phantom Queen of war and blood and death, had claimed him for her own.
The thunder rolled in like a summer storm. A shadow swept across that patch of sunlight and the Pictish horsemen pounded on to the valley floor.
Lucanus breathed in the heady mix of the musk of the horses, the rancid lamb-fat greasing the warriors’ furs and the oils rubbed into their leather armour. His fingers grasped Caledfwlch’s hilt.
Across the valley, the Wolf watched Solinus dart out and throw a stone. He lingered long enough for the barbarians to see him, and then he scrambled up the bank. Laughing, one rider forced his mount to follow.
Easy game. No threat.
As the horse kicked its way up, another of his men jumped out from his hiding place. The beast reared up in shock, whinnying. A spear rammed up under the Pict’s ribcage, lifting him off his mount. The shaft of the weapon thumped into the ground, steadying it. On its tip, the barbarian kicked and screamed, then slowly slid down the spear until his cries ebbed away.
Lucanus grinned as his man wrenched up his weapon, flipping the body off the end. The corpse bounced down the slope to come to a halt on the valley floor.
For a moment, there was silence, and then the Picts erupted in a frenzy. Mad with rage, they threw their mounts up the slopes, just as their foot-soldiers ran into the valley.
The Wolf watched his men follow his strategy as best they could. The unseasoned warriors jumped out from their hiding places to slash at the horses to bring them down. Some succeeded. The beasts crashed down, the riders rolling off to be carved by blades. But the riders were too skilled, and most evaded the attacks. Lucanus winced as axes and swords cut down men who were too slow, or too frightened, to fight effectively.
This would be a slaughter.
And then
the Picts on foot hammered up the slopes. His men would be no match for them, even with the cover of the trees and the advantage of the higher ground.
In front of him, one of them cowered with his hands on his head, face pressed into the leaf mould, as if by not seeing he could wish away the death that was coming for him.
As a Pict clawed his way up to where the former merchant whimpered, the Wolf bounded out from behind the hawthorn. Caledfwlch flashed. Lucanus felt a spike of pain in his shoulder from the jolt as the blade slammed into bone. It was enough to bring the enemy down, blood spurting from his side.
He rammed the sword into the barbarian’s chest to end his suffering, and then kicked the body down the slope.
As he drew himself up, he saw Picts swarming towards him. Whether they recognized his grey wolf-pelt he didn’t know. But he could see from their cold faces that they had decided he was the man to kill. He turned and pounded up the slope, leading them on, feeling the Morrigan’s breath on his neck. Death was close.
When he heard the tumult behind him change its tone, he grinned. Battle-cries turned to shouts of warning. Screams ebbed as swords stilled in mid-stroke. He glanced back and saw that the men pursuing him had stopped. They were looking back down the slope to the sunlit entrance to the valley.
The army of Rome surged in on a glinting wave of steel.
The cavalry swept in first. Through a mist of blood, Lucanus glimpsed Corvus laughing like a madman as he cut down the Picts racing wildly before him.
Face like granite, Theodosius kicked his heels into his horse’s flank a head behind him. The barbarians tried to form a line and fight, but the Romans crashed over them, hooves smashing them into the turf.
And behind them a wall of shields rushed in like a riptide, aglow in the brassy morning light. The neck of the valley closed off.
Aye, this would be a slaughter.
Lucanus threw himself down the slope. Caledfwlch hewed into a Pict’s neck. As the barbarian spun away, the Wolf fell on the next.
The barbarians had been too confident. They’d met no resistance on their trek south. They’d looted and raped and burned and slaughtered and Lucanus understood how they could believe they were unbeatable.