The Dawn Stag: Book Two of the Dalriada Trilogy (33 page)

Suddenly she heard a slip and curse, as a sailor stumbled off the end of the gangplank from her ship, an amphora in his arms. This, and the thought of how angry Agricola would be, were enough to rouse her. ‘You!’ she barked, straightening. ‘I did not pay more money for that wine than you will ever see in your life, only for you to spill it into the river!’

The man gaped at her, open-mouthed.

‘Put it safe in the cart,’ she ordered, through gritted teeth, and find me someone to take a message inside the fort.’

The man bowed. ‘Yes, lady.’

Because of her bribes, he at least knew she was important, even though she had kept her hood up for the entire journey down the coast from Alba. It would not do to embarrass Agricola openly, after all. She had not seen him for more than five moons, for when he was not subduing the wild northern tribes, he must govern the province itself. Every long dark he came south with his men, the four legions he commanded dispersing to their fortresses in other towns. Then he attended to all the business that had been delayed while he was in the field – correspondence with the emperor and visits from leading citizens and officials of the southern cities to discuss taxes and complaints and building programmes. There were, as Agricola explained to her, always minor rebellions to quell, outlaws terrorizing citizens in country estates, tribes defaulting on payments, and native princes pleading for aid against their enemies.

Samana knew all this would have been dominating Agricola’s thoughts and energy. Yet she was gambling that her body, expensive gift and new idea would all help to quell his fury when he found her on his doorstep.

A native boy skidded down the muddy bank out of the dark fog, and once she had given him her message, and a coin for his troubles, she asked him where travellers stayed when they came to town.

The boy sniffed. ‘Officials and messengers all stay in the fort,’ he offered unhelpfully.

Samana shook her head. ‘Not inside. Is there anywhere in the village?’

The boy’s white teeth flashed in the gloom. ‘My aunt has the only inn, lady. It’s cheap.’

Samana clinked her other coins in her hand. ‘Clean is better than cheap; I do not wish to be assaulted or robbed.’

The boy shrugged. ‘Sometimes traders come, who want a good bed and meal. It is clean.’

‘Then take me there. And remember: when you deliver your message to the commander, say
only
that a gift awaits him at the river, and his benefactor awaits him at this inn of yours. You will not say it is a lady, you will say it is … one who bears the mark of the panther.’ She smiled to herself. Agricola once said she reminded him of a black panther he saw in a theatre in Africa, although she did not know what such a creature was. She stared down at the boy severely. ‘You will only get the other half of your money if he comes alone, and if you deliver this message to him exactly as I have said it.’

The boy nodded and pocketed the coin she dangled before him, then darted off so quickly she had to shout at one of the sailors to guard the stores, before hurrying after him.

The child led her into the maze of buildings by the river, most of them stinking of fish, tanned hides and damp, and she was so busy dodging the puddles that she failed to notice where they were going. Those few people about were huddled in cloaks, their boots barely crunching on the gravel paths, yet from far above, on the fort walls, came the thud of marching feet and the muffled clank of weapons.

Suddenly the boy stopped before one of the only properly constructed buildings, a long, low house of wattle-and-daub, with a dripping thatch roof. He left her then, and a show of her precious coins to the woman innkeeper got her ushered through a smoky den of men and bright-painted women, already gabbering drunkenly, and along a corridor to a tiny room, which fronted the path. The woman who led the way paused at the door to light an oil lamp with a pine taper, and as the room filled with soft, wavering light, Samana saw that there was a narrow, straw-filled bed, a three-legged brazier, a bedside table and a bench set before the window.

As the woman bustled around, lighting the coals in the brazier bowl and muttering about the chill fog, Samana pulled back the blanket on the bed, and from the smell she could tell it was reasonably clean, the sheets laundered, the ticking fresh. It would do.

When the innkeeper left, Samana opened the shutters on the single window and looked out over the foggy river, wrapping her cloak about herself with mingled terror and elation. She had done it! Agricola wouldn’t turn her away, not now. He had been away from her body for more than five moons, and though she knew he would have sought relief elsewhere, surely no whey-faced southern whore could be any match for her beauty or sexual prowess.

Over the next few hours, the afternoon gloom deepened. Samana riffled her damp hair over the brazier to dry it, hung her cloak over the door, and sat on the bench and dozed, jerking awake at every noise on the path outside. Irritable and aching, she roused herself long enough to order some hard cheese and cold fowl from the innkeeper, then picked at the clay platter without enthusiasm. Finally, she realized that it would not do to be so ill of temper when Agricola came, so she ordered a basin of hot water and sponged herself, combed her hair and dressed in his favourite red robe.

The fog outside was darkening into night when at last he arrived.

There was no knock at the door; he just burst straight in and stood staring at her, until the innkeeper had puffed her way back down the corridor. Then he kicked the door shut and unwound the long cloak from his head and shoulders and tossed it on the bed. Underneath, he was dressed in his plainest tunic and boots, with no armour or insignia of rank. He had taken a chance coming here; she knew it. Samana adopted a meek expression and waited for the explosion.

‘What the …?’ In a familiar gesture, Agricola ran his fingers through his damp, grey hair, the harsh lines beside his mouth deepening. ‘What are you doing here? Is there trouble on the frontier? Why didn’t you send a messenger?’

Samana forced a smile and swayed closer to him, wetting her lips with a pink tongue. ‘There is no trouble. I needed to see you … to speak to you in private.’

Agricola’s eyes widened. You mean, you had no reason for coming?’

‘I needed to speak with you about military matters,’ she replied evenly.

‘Gods!’ he barked, his nostrils flaring. ‘There are high-ranking officials here. My wife is here … my life is here! How dare you come when I gave you no permission to do so!’

Bitterness rose in Samana’s throat, but she kept the smile in place. She never glimpsed such scruples when he was buried between her thighs! Well, I am here now.’ She raised her chin, wondering how best to handle him. He admired boldness, that he did, so she put her hands on her hips. ‘And I came to deliver my gift in person. Does a shipment of the best Falernian vintage not sweeten my arrival? We can drink some of it here.’ She glanced towards the bed.

‘
Wine?
’ Agricola stared at her for a long moment, and then at the table, where she had set out her implements: the enamelled pan to heat the wine, the spices, and the strainer, as well as two red samian-ware cups. The hard line of Agricola’s mouth softened, and abruptly he threw back his head and laughed. ‘I might have known the panther would not remain caged in the north for long.’

Encouraged, Samana swayed forward and curled her arms around his neck. After five moons, his growing boredom with
her
would surely have been replaced with boredom for his own enforced captivity – the tedious feasts, the tedious wife. Now Agricola ran his hands up her body, roughly cupping her breasts, and sure enough, the fire flared in his dark eyes.

‘Go on,’ she purred, ‘admit you’ve missed me. Admit you are bored with your slack-eyed whores and your endless dinners and your fat, sleek administrators and your talks and letters and orders and—’

‘Enough,’ he growled, and his mouth came down on hers, wrenching, violent, sliding to her neck as she threw her head back, and down into the cleft between her breasts. Then the bed was beneath her, and he was above, and soon his back was a leaping shadow against the wall, as all his frustration poured into her in a frenzy of thrusts.

Samana pretended her moans and cries, too wrapped up in the glow of renewed triumph to focus on the sensations in her body.
I’m not beaten yet
, she thought fiercely, as he lay on her afterwards, the sweat slick between their bodies, his breath rasping in her ear.
Nowhere near beaten yet
.

In the north of Alba, Calgacus, king of the Caledonii tribe, paced the timber battlements of his fort, the Dun of the Waves. He was a tall man, lean and muscled despite his advancing years, beak-nosed and sharp-eyed. He barely felt the biting sea-wind on his face, for the Epidii messenger just arrived from Eremon had delivered news to light a fire in any old warrior.

‘So,’ Calgacus muttered to himself, gripping the edge of the palisade with sword-hardened hands, staring out at the sea as it darkened with the dusk. Below him, the belt of trees by the river was already deep in shadow, and torches were being lit on the battlements. ‘My young Erin friend wants to bring the Romans to me.’ Calgacus grinned, surprised at the spark of excitement that flared up in his soul at the thought of Eremon’s plans.

He had considered himself past such fiery exploits – a grave, ageing king whose only role was to extend advice to bold young princes like his Epidii ally. But then, he’d discovered early on that Eremon had a way about him, a gift for oratory that could stoke the fading coals in a man, and prod him out of complacency. And Calgacus had also been brooding on the Romans for the entire long dark, as the sea storms howled around his firelit hall. They would come north eventually, there seemed little doubt of that, and the rich Caledonii lands were probably their first target.

Better to go down fighting than hiding in my hall
, Calgacus thought now, stroking his jutting jaw, staring up at his royal banner rippling on its gold-tipped mast. He wasn’t so old that the idea of glorifying his name had lost its allure either.

Calgacus grinned again, and turned his eagle face to the wind, letting his cloak fly behind him.

Far in the west, the dusk was still and golden over the sea, as Nerida stood watching the messenger striding away to the guest lodge.

‘So Rhiann will return to us, and soon,’ Setana remarked from the bench against Nerida’s house.

Nerida nodded. ‘She asks us to send riders to the priestesses in the northern tribes, asking them to come for Beltaine. She has already dispatched those to the southern tribes.’

‘Then the great change we have sensed is drawing near now, Sister.’

Nerida sighed, her shoulders bowing with the weight. ‘I know.’

Suddenly Setana stood by her side, and they clasped hands, as they had many years ago when their skin was white and unlined. ‘The dreams, the visions, they hint at an ending,’ Setana murmured. ‘Though how it will come to us, I do not know. It rises like a distant wave, growing ever closer: now I can hear the far roar; now I sense the wind driven before it. Yet we must not fear.’ Her soft voice cracked. ‘Our Mother wants us not to fear.’

Nerida tightened her fingers. ‘You will help me, then.’

Setana shook her head, and the shells woven into her grey braids sounded faintly. ‘Our fates are tied together, dearest friend, and so we will help each other.’

CHAPTER 30

T
he first sip of Falernian wine slipped down Samana’s throat, though she was too excited to note its taste.

Agricola had left the bed now and, after shrugging on his tunic, he dragged the bench to the brazier. The coals in the iron bowl glowed brightly, but it was their only light, and the rest of the room was entirely in shadow.

Samana reached across and put her wine cup on the table. As she slid forward, she held the sheets up around her breasts with one hand, covering her nakedness. There was a time and a place for such things, and that time had passed for the moment – now she needed him to listen to her.

Swiftly, she finished relating the details of the visit she had recently made, to an old Damnonii priestess who had managed to remain in her isolated hut despite the ravages that the Romans had unleashed on her tribe. Yet despite Samana’s urgent tone, Agricola’s eyes never left the curve of her breasts, visible through the damp linen that clung to her body. Samana wrapped an arm over them, biting down frustration. He was not excited about what she had to say. Not yet.

When she paused, Agricola tossed back a careless gulp of her expensive wine, stretching his bare legs along the floor and yawning. ‘Your women priests – these Sisters – are healers, you told me, muttering chants over birthing women. What care I for them?’

Inside, Samana allowed herself the slightest curl of contempt. Warriors would never understand the power of the spirit. Weak arms did not make a weak mind. ‘No, my lord. The Sisters can do more than that, especially when they act together, with one will. But they have not wielded that power in a military manner for generations.’

He frowned, scratching lazily behind his ear. ‘And they have now, you say.’

Unconsciously, Samana had been leaning forward, her arms tightening about her knees. Now she realized what she was doing, and forced herself to play with one of her blue-glass bangles, breathing deeply.
Never be desperate before him
.

‘I have … inserted myself back into the web of the Sisters, my lord, just on the edges. And some interesting rumours have come drifting over the high mountains. Last sunseason there was a powerful rite on the Sacred Isle. The old priestess I spoke to knew little more than that; she herself lives alone and receives her news only sporadically.’ Samana paused, noting the bored cast of Agricola’s hard mouth as his gaze wandered over the window shutters and shadowed walls. She waited for it all to change at her next words. ‘
My lord
, what she heard was this: the rite was to give strength to the Novantae … and the Epidii war leader who came to their aid. The rite delivered a great victory over Roman soldiers at the time of the longest day.’