Deep Magic (25 page)

The transaction completed, Mama had glanced in the soldier’s direction. He’d straightened. Mama had ducked her head, blushed, and looked away. A rare smile lingered on her lips for some time afterward.

Gwen opened her eyes, startled at the emotion the memory stirred. Sour fear, and something akin to jealousy. She’d forgotten how her mother’s pinched face had softened whenever she’d seen her Roman lover. The man who had killed her. Of course, at the time, Gwen hadn’t understood what the man was. Only that he could make Mama smile, when Gwen herself most often made Mama frown.

Now, eighteen years later, pity seeped into the mix of emotions Gwen felt. How terrible, to be killed by someone you loved.

She drew a breath and allowed Marcus to guide her through the crowd, his hand placed protectively on her lower back. The market was teeming—had the entire population of Isca and the surrounding countryside come to town? She saw Romans of all social strata—patricians in their togas, merchants in their white wool tunics, workers and slaves in rougher garments. Women with braids coiled high on their heads, their faces framed with short curls, walked with their maids. A dog chained to a potter’s stall gave a low growl as Gwen passed, its fur rising on its neck. Marcus frowned at the animal.

The buzz of conversation around her was largely in rapid Latin. Most of it flowed past in a meaningless stream. There was a fair bit of conversation in her own tongue, though, as Celts mingled freely with the Romans. Some were as finely garbed as the conquerors, others less so. Farmers and merchants, buying and selling foodstuffs and other wares, switched between Latin and Celtic with fluent ease. Many, Gwen thought, were of mixed blood, like Breena. Nearly two centuries after Julius Caesar’s invasion, Romans and Celts were blending into one people. Britons, they called themselves.

There were many soldiers, of course. Some wore bloodred tunics and segmented Legionary armor, others dressed in
braccas,
their wool shirts covered with more flexible chain mail. No matter what their garb, she couldn’t stop her pulse from pounding whenever one of them passed too close. She reminded herself she was nothing to them. Just a faceless woman in the crowd. They couldn’t feel her magic. Had no reason to single her out. Still, she was glad for Marcus’s presence beside her.

Breena and Lucius stopped before a spice merchant’s stall. She and Marcus strolled on to the next shop, which featured an elaborate display of iron and bronze cookware. There were also long-handled Roman cooking pans of various sizes as well as Celt-style cauldrons.

“Great Mother, how many cauldrons there are!” She began to count, and was past twenty before she stopped. “The entire village of Avalon has only three.”

The vendor, an older woman with a sharp face, spoke in Celtic. “A new pot, miss?”

“Nay, I think not. But thank ye.”

The next booth was a potter’s. The man’s wares—redware plates, bowls, and pitchers—were exquisitely etched with black figures of people and animals. Past the potter was a mercer’s. Fabrics unlike anything Gwen had ever seen cascaded over the edge of a long table like a rainbow-hued waterfall.

“The finest wools and linens,” the middle-aged Roman woman sitting behind the display declared with a smile. “Just arrived from Rome and Egypt.”

Her husband took a slightly different tack. “Your wife is very beautiful,” he told Marcus, inclining his head in a slight bow. “You are a fortunate man.”

“I’m not—” Gwen began, but Marcus cut her off. “Yes. She is lovely, isn’t she?”

The merchant grinned widely and spread his hands. A jeweled ring glittered on each of his thick fingers. “Such a beautiful woman must be adorned with beautiful cloth. As my own beautiful wife is.”

His wife blushed. Gwen could not tell if her reaction to her husband’s compliment was genuine or part of a practiced sales effort. The merchant turned back to his wares, making a show of lifting and examining each fabric with a critical eye.

“None of these common cloths will do your wife justice,” he told Marcus seriously. “With hair like moonlight, she should be clothed in radiance. If you will wait just a moment …”

Rising, he inclined his head and disappeared through the leather flap that served as the door to the rear of the stall. A moment later, he called his wife to help him locate something. The woman rose. “Please stay just a moment longer. It will be worth the wait, I promise you.”

“Let us go,” Gwen whispered as the tent flap closed behind her. “Before they come back.”

Marcus covered her hand with his and leaned close. “That would be quite rude. And anyway, don’t you want to see what they bring out?”

“Nay. I do not. He thinks—”

“You don’t like being mistaken for my wife?” Marcus’s tone was light, but his eyes were grave.

Her heart lurched; her next words were sharper than she’d intended. “That man cannot truly think we are married!”

“Why not?”

“Because ye are a Roman and I am—”

“Perhaps he simply believes we are lovers,” Marcus said bluntly. “But does not wish to embarrass you.”

“Marcus …”

The merchant, followed by his wife, emerged from the back of the stall, carrying a large package wrapped in oilcloth. Sweeping a fine blue wool aside, the man laid it on the table and unrolled the covering.

“When my eyes beheld your lady, even before you approached my humble shop, I knew she must have this. Only one as fair as she could do it justice.”

The oilcloth fell away, revealing a silver fabric so fine and delicate it looked like liquid moonlight. The merchant reverently lifted the material, shaking out the folds. It rippled over his outstretched forearm.

Gwen stared. She had never envisioned such finery. Hesitantly, and only after much urging by the merchant, she reached out and touched it. The fabric was cool and smooth, almost like water—it felt as if she were dabbling her fingers in a stream. What would it feel like on her bare shoulders and breasts?

“Silk,” the merchant said proudly. “From the East. It looks delicate, but I assure you it will not tear. When I purchased this particular length, I vowed I would not sell it until I found a woman worthy of its brilliance.”

Leaning forward, he draped a length of the fabric across her torso. “You, my lady, are that woman.” His gaze shifted to Marcus. “Your wife is a rare treasure.”

“Yes, she is,” Marcus agreed. He paused. “How much do you want for it?”

The merchant named a sum that had Gwen gasping. Even with her limited knowledge of Roman coins and prices, she knew it was exorbitant. It was very near to the amount Marcus carried in the purse hidden in the folds of his toga, with which he meant to purchase two Celt slaves.

He caught her gaze. “If you’d like the cloth …”

“Nay,” she said swiftly, taking a step back, away from the sensation of the silk on her skin. It was beautiful beyond anything she’d ever imagined, but it was not for her.

Nothing of Marcus’s Roman life was for her.

“I do not want it.”

It was a lie, and from the look Marcus sent her, he knew it. But he did not insist. “I’m sorry,” he told the man.

The merchant gave a theatrical sigh as he folded and rewrapped the silk. “Your wife is a modest woman. Such a prize is indeed worth far more than silk.” Leaning toward Marcus, he added in a low voice, “All the more reason to reward your lady’s virtue. I am not at all sure the fabric will be here tomorrow. I am afraid if you pass it by now, and later change your mind …” He trailed off suggestively.

Marcus smiled and shook his head. “I’m sure such a rare and beautiful cloth will be gone before the day is out. Regrettably, I will not be its new owner.”

He guided Gwen toward Lucius and Breena, who’d already moved several stalls past them and stood inspecting a brace of haddock at a fishmonger’s. “The mercer spoke truly. That silk was made for you.”

“I cannot agree. It was beautiful, aye, but not for someone like me.”

“You sell yourself short. You deserve to be draped in silks.”

“Silk has no place on Avalon.”

He sighed, and she felt him withdraw a bit into himself. “I suppose it doesn’t.”

She stopped and turned to him. “And I would not have ye waste your money on something so trivial. Far better you grant freedom to some of my people instead. That’s worth far more than all the silk in the East.”

“Still, I would not have minded seeing you lying in my bed with nothing but that silk draped across your body.”

She felt her cheeks heat.

“Tonight I’ll spread furs for you to lie on. I’ll—”

Fortunately, Breena’s call interrupted Marcus’s erotic musings. “Marcus! Gwen!” She waved from across the aisle. “Father and I were wondering where you had gotten to.”

“We were giving you an opportunity to shop,” Marcus said with a laugh. Matius’s arms were already overflowing with parcels. “And it looks like you took advantage of it.”

“I’m hungry,” Breena declared. “We should find some food and drink.”

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Marcus said. His gaze strayed to the far end of the market, where the temporary slave pens had been erected. “Father and I need to leave now,” he said to Gwen. “Will you be all right in the crowd without me?”

Stay,
she wanted to tell him, but his purpose at the slave auction was far more important than her petty fears and memories. “Go. I’ll be fine with your sister.”

“I’ll take good care of her, Marcus,” Breena said, linking arms with Gwen. “Matius won’t let us be crushed.”

“Oh, well, that’s all right, then,” Marcus said with a wink at the lad.

They made an agreement to meet at the cart for the ride home, then Marcus and Lucius strode toward the slave pens. A toga-clad patrician coming out of the viewing area gave them the barest of nods as he passed.

“The other patricians think they are crazy, to buy slaves and then free them,” Breena said with some amusement.

“And they truly don’t care that they are ridiculed behind their backs?”

“They are mocked to their faces as well. Father barely notices—he was a soldier, after all. He says after what he’s seen in battle, no idle talk can ever have power over him. And Marcus? He has the thickest skin imaginable. He does what he wants, always.”

They stopped at a food vendor’s stall, where Breena ordered Gwen and herself sausage and warmed spiced wine. By the time the sun was overhead, and they had visited a dozen more stalls, Gwen was more than ready to abandon the shopping expedition. The crowds frayed her nerves. The odors of people, spices, perfumes, and garbage, combined with the greasy meal she’d eaten, made her head ache and her stomach churn. Each time a passerby jostled her, she fought a fresh surge of panic. She desperately needed some open space and fresh air.

She breathed a sigh of relief when Breena declared her purchases complete. They left the crush of the market and headed down the road leading out of town. They’d almost reached the field where they’d left their cart when several mounted Legionary soldiers came pounding up the road. Sunlight glinted off their crested helmets; their horses’ hooves sprayed mud. Immediately, Breena and Matius moved to the side of the road.

Gwen didn’t follow. Sudden fear had paralyzed her limbs. One of the two lead soldiers shouted at her; the pair of riders split, flowing around her, leaving her staring at the officer riding in their wake. The man reined in his mount, drawing up sharply an instant before he would have trampled her.

His head and shoulders were cloaked with blue-black light.

Strabo.

“Gwen! What are you
doing?”
Breena shouted as Strabo’s escort reined in around their commander. She hurried to Gwen’s side and tugged her arm. “Get out of the way!”

Gwen barely heard her. Strabo, here in Isca! What did it mean? Had he given up the search for Avalon? Abruptly, Gwen realized several days had passed since she’d felt Rhys in her mind. Was she too late? Had Avalon already fallen? Merciless fingers of fear closed about her throat.

Strabo’s angry voice accosted her. “What is the meaning of this? Get out of—” He stopped, his dark eyes widening above the cheek guards of his helmet.

Gwen’s breath left her. Breena’s grip was firm on her arm, and Matius had moved to stand beside her. Strabo’s aura flared dangerously, then settled into a dark, angry glow. His eyes challenged her. The wolf inside her responded, rising on all fours, its hackles lifting. Its silent growl vibrated deep in her bones.

Great Mother! She could not shift here, in front of half the population of Isca! A Roman sword would slice her in two before the transformation was complete. Closing her eyes, she fought the Deep Magic with every shred of her will.

The wolf snarled, but backed off. Gwen exhaled a long breath.

“Good day, Legate,” she heard Breena say. “Please excuse my cousin. She should be more careful.”

“Indeed.”

Gwen’s eyes flew open. Breena had stepped in front of her, attempting to shield her from Strabo’s scrutiny. As Gwen stood half a head taller than her would-be defender, it was a fruitless effort.

Strabo examined Breena intently for a moment, then, to Gwen’s great surprise, he inclined his head. “I am sorry to have startled your …
cousin,
is it?” He eyed the mud splattered on Gwen’s tunic. “I fear I may have ruined your clothing,” he said to Gwen. “Where may I send reparations?”

“ ’Tis not necessary,” Gwen choked out.

“Is it not?” His dark aura flared.

The wolf, barely settled, raised its head. Hastily, Gwen averted her eyes. The beast laid its head on its paws, but remained watchful.

“May I respectfully suggest, ladies, that you keep to the side of the road in the future?”

“Of course, Legate,” Breena replied. “Good day to you.”

“Good day.”

Gwen’s knees went weak as Strabo kicked his mount’s flanks and continued toward the fortress. She had to grip Breena’s arm to keep herself upright.

“Don’t worry,” Breena said, her arm encircling Gwen’s waist. “I don’t think he recognized you.”

On the contrary.
Gwen was sure that he had.

Marcus did not know if the woman he’d bought, or her newborn son, would live.