The White Mare: The Dalraida Trilogy, Book One (10 page)

‘You don’t have to stay,’ he offered, idly scanning another letter. Tacitus was silent, looking mutinous.

Then a honeyed voice flowed into the space between them. ‘You asked for me, my lord?’

The voice was dusky, speaking lilting Latin, and the woman’s colouring matched her tones: hair as black and glossy as raven feathers, eyes of ebony. She wore the simple dress of her people, but her lush, rounded curves robbed the plain robes of their modesty.

Without taking her dark eyes from Agricola, she unpinned her cloak and handed it to the waiting slave, then walked in front of the new-lit lamp. ‘My lord,’ she murmured to Tacitus, bowing her head. She’d positioned herself so the light came through her fine linen shift. From where he was, the boy could not fail to see every part of her outlined in all of its glory.

Tacitus was far from stupid. He grabbed the unopened letters, and with a terse nod to Agricola, swept from the tent. The woman smiled slowly.

‘You shouldn’t intimidate him like that,’ Agricola said.

‘Oh, I can’t help it! He’s too prim!’ She pouted.

‘He’s also family, and a tribune. You should give him the respect he deserves.’

Her pout grew deeper, until at last Agricola smiled. He was struck, as always, how a face that escaped true beauty could be so seductive. A droop at the corner of each eye gave her a heavy-lidded look, and those obscenely full lips diverted attention from a snub nose.

A second slave had arrived with the evening meal: roast duck from the marshes, barley bread and Egyptian figs, washed down with Gaulish wine. Behind him a third slave carried a steaming basin of hot water, fragrant with bog myrtle. Agricola gave the woman a seat on the bed, and they picked at their food as the slave washed their feet. Foot-washing was a custom of the British tribes; the only one Agricola approved of.

‘Does this cursed ground ever dry out?’ He watched the water in the basin swirl with mud.

The woman waved dismissively with one hand, while placing figs in her mouth with the other. All her appetites were strong, it seemed. ‘If you would not wear such shoes! Let me get you a pair of our boots. They are sheepskin: fleece inside and hide outside.’

Agricola shook his head, as the slave wiped his feet dry. ‘Good, solid Roman issue is fine for me. I won’t have my men thinking I’m going native. You yourself are problem enough.’

Her smile was arch as she reached out to stroke his leg. ‘You won’t get rid of me, though, will you? I make you happy.’

‘In bed, yes.’ Agricola did not flatter himself that this witch found him attractive. He was nearing forty, and a beaky nose, greying hair, and the deeply-lined face of a soldier were not what pretty young women desired. She wanted his power, that was all, and he knew it. In his life he’d seen this a thousand times. In the imperial courts of the madman Caligula and the despot Nero there’d been many such people, fed by an unending lust for power. She thought she ruled him, when in reality he would merely play with her until he’d had enough of both her body and her information. His interest in one of them would wane soon enough. He wondered, idly, which one it would be.

Her smile faltered. ‘Come now, I make you happy in other ways! It was I who opened the gate to Alba for you. If my people resisted, you would have had to fight for every step!’

This was true – not that he had any intention of admitting it. ‘Your assistance is always appreciated, madam, although I reward you well enough.’ He touched the ring on her finger. It was an intaglio, a garnet carved into the head of Mercury. His other gifts included the best Samian tableware and fine glass goblets, and amphorae of olive oil, sweet wine, figs, and dates. He knew she lusted after such civilized things, and that this supply of goods would assure her loyalty for a time yet.

He rose to the table, took up a creased parchment and a stylus, and sat back down, unrolling the map on to his lap.

‘We are here, on the south side of this inlet, is that so?’ He pointed his stylus at some crude lines on the scroll. It was not a Roman map, but had been pieced together from reports by the Greeks, who received their information from the Phoenician traders before them.

The witch looked at the map, a slight frown touching her soft brow. ‘Our lands end here,’ she ventured, pointing. ‘The tribe on the other side of the Forth are the Venicones.’ She gave a tiny, smug smile. ‘This is what I came to tell you. My messengers have just returned. It seems your little raid, and my … persuasions … have convinced the Venicones leaders to surrender.’

Agricola nodded, reaching out for his wine goblet. Although he was pleased, he took the news lightly. The minds of these barbarians were like quicksilver, and what they said today rarely applied the next. Yet if it was true … it would just make his eventual success easier, that was all. ‘And what of the peoples beyond the Tay?’

The woman’s eyes flickered, and Agricola fastened a cool hand on her wrist. ‘Tell me the truth. My scouts will find out soon enough, and then our … partnership … will be over. Understand me?’

Her cheeks flushed, and silently amused, he watched her bring herself
under control. When she was angry her eyes darkened to glittering black beads. It was most diverting. He released her wrist.

‘I have little news,’ she finally admitted. ‘North are the Vacomagi, the Taexali – and the Caledonii. There is a weak link there, which I am pursuing, but it will take a little more time.’

Agricola sipped his wine thoughtfully. He already knew that the Caledonii tribe would be a challenge. By all reports, they were so powerful that the Greeks used their name for all the peoples of Alba.

The oil lamp sputtered in a stray gust of wind that crept under the tent flap, and he looked into the leaping flame, tapping his stylus on the map. Vespasian’s last orders were to group on the banks of the Forth. The territory to the south would remain in check, thanks to the witch. However, further north and west was another matter. He’d heard that the Highland tribes sported tattoos on their faces as fierce as their reputations.

He must send a full report to the Emperor, before awaiting further orders. Vespasian may even want to come and join him for the final push, to be there when they reached the limits of Alba and claimed all of it for the Empire. In the meantime, there was always much to do. They needed a full assessment of the terrain, a population survey of the conquered lands, and a reliable system of local food supply.

He briskly rolled the map back up. The army had been on the move for two seasons, and they’d be glad to halt for a while and build more permanent quarters.

The woman was looking around her with that studied nonchalance she often used. Abruptly, he smiled and touched her hand. Rapid mood changes were disconcerting, he’d found, and made people easier to control. Under his fingers, her skin was warm and smooth. He gestured to the slaves to take the food and leave.

The woman was smiling too, now. When the tent flap fell back into place, she took the map from his hands and placed it carefully on the table. She knew how much he valued his maps. Then, while he lay back on the bed, she took down her hair, dropping the jewelled pins into the bronze bowl by his bed, one by one. He found the faint chimes strangely compelling.

At last her hair was around her shoulders, a fragrant mass of ebony silk that reached her waist. ‘Are you still hungry, my lord?’

At the purring note, Agricola pulled her down across his lap. ‘I have not even begun to satisfy my appetite.’

He was surprised to see a flash of real lust in her eyes. With all of her Roman sensibilities she was a barbarian at heart, then. As a people they were ruled by the uncontrollable fires that burned in their souls. He had learned to quench his own fire with cold will, but this the tribes would never do. That was why Rome would always triumph.

In a moment, these thoughts were banished from his mind, as she sat up and stripped off her shift, guiding his hands to her heavy breasts. When she straddled him, he was enveloped in a swathe of her hair.

It smelled of the moors around them.

The lamp-flame was low and flickering when a sound at the tent flap brought Agricola instantly awake. He recognized the voice of Tacitus, speaking to his door-guard. With a hint of irritation, he eased himself from under the woman’s body, and pulled on his discarded robe.

When he raised the flap he glimpsed Tacitus in the gloom, and a figure behind him with an imperial insignia on his arm. Then his son-in-law moved into a pool of torchlight, and Agricola saw his stricken face.

A thousand cries of alarm sounded in his mind. Was it his wife? His daughter?

‘What is it?’ he demanded.

‘It is our Divine Father, Vespasian.’ Tacitus was hoarse with grief. ‘The Emperor is dead.’

Chapter 9

H
ow much do we know?’ Linnet patted Liath’s nose, as the horse eagerly snuffled at her fingers.

Rhiann was leaning on the mare’s stall, her cheek pillowed on one hand. She shook her head. ‘Not much yet. The new messenger is up at the King’s Hall. I sent Brica to find out what’s going on. I just could not …’ She shrugged.

‘I understand.’ Linnet reached out and tucked a stray piece of Rhiann’s hair behind her ear.

The whole dun was ablaze with the news of the Romans, but amidst it all Rhiann just felt sick. The sickness had settled into a hard knot deep in her belly. It wasn’t fear of the invaders, though. The King’s death and the dread that came with it had muffled the alarm around her, and left her in a cold cocoon of her own making.

Next to her, Linnet sighed. ‘I should have told you before, daughter, but I did have hints of this.’

Rhiann straightened sharply. ‘You knew about the Romans? And you never told me?’

Linnet hesitated. ‘I didn’t
know
,’ she stressed. ‘I heard it in the tremors in the land, in the cries of the birds – but it did not come to me in the seeing bowl. You of all people know that you rarely see what you wish.’

Rhiann stared at the sun falling through the stable door, and blinked as it blurred. ‘Then have you seen anything of me, my fate, aunt?’

Linnet averted her eyes. ‘No, daughter.’ She grasped Rhiann’s hand where it rested on the stall. ‘But whatever comes, I will be there for you, always.’

Rhiann heard the note of fierceness, and looked down at the elegant fingers entwined with her own. Linnet’s nails were stained with traces of some berry dye, and on one finger her gold priestess ring glittered.

She knows something
. A flare of hurt bloomed in Rhiann’s chest.

After the raid and the murder of her foster-family, Linnet had held
Rhiann on countless nights, stroking her hair, forcing down the bitter draughts that brought her back from the edge of darkness. But once Rhiann was out of danger, a gulf had opened between them, a gulf wrought by secrets and duty. They were not a mother and daughter. Linnet was a priestess, and saw things Rhiann did not; felt things that must go beyond human love. She knew that the tribe must have its heir.

How Rhiann wished she were a child again, following Linnet through the woods as she named each plant, told her what powers it had, what sickness it could cure. No man had darkened her horizon, then. No man … no Romans, either. They were always just a tale for the fireside, not real people at all.

Suddenly, Brica’s shadow fell across her face. ‘The men of the Eagle are building camps,’ the maid burst out, clenching and unclenching her hands.

Rhiann let her breath out and looked up. ‘What?’

‘I was outside the King’s Hall, and I heard everything. The Romans had been marching quickly, but just as suddenly, they’ve stopped. They are building a big camp with walls. They mean to stay, but they can’t move around in the snows.’

‘So.’ Linnet straightened and moved into the light. ‘Thank the Goddess: we have a respite.’

The men from Erin had been offered all the comforts given to high-ranking visitors – plentiful meat and ale, and soft bracken beds in the guest lodge. But for a week, Eremon’s trade meeting had to take second place to the Roman threat.

The council sent its own scouts south to gain more news, and discovered that the Romans had indeed halted, and were building long-term quarters. After the first shock, the tribes of Alba had been given an unexpected breathing space.

The Epidii druids sacrificed a white bull to the gods in thanks for giving their land a long dark that lasted for many moons. No troops could move through the mountains in the snows and storms, not even on horses.

But rest, the tribe could not. When the icy rivers that fell from the mountains thawed, and the sun came north again, so would the Romans.

Another storm wrenched the last leaves from the trees, leaving a haze of bare branches along the river. But though it remained heavy with cloud, the days fell still once again, and Gelert sought out Talorc where he was inspecting his new chariot team along the water meadows.

‘I wish you to take the
gaels
hunting on the Isle of Deer.’

Talorc frowned, and pulled the harness tighter across the black stallion’s chest. ‘But I should stay here, to guard the dun.’