The Boar Stone: Book Three of the Dalriada Trilogy (57 page)

The food was a dollop of stew, full of gristle from an unknown beast. Nevertheless, at the sight Minna’s mouth salivated. She pulled the plate towards her and sniffed. Closing her eyes, she took the steam in and rolled it around her mouth. Yes, it was safe. She would never forget Maeve’s eyes, fanatic with hatred.

She began to eat, her eyes glazed, focusing only on the taste of salt and the heat on her tongue. The commander here wanted to question her. She must have some strength in her bones to face him, if it mattered at all.

When sunlight was falling through the window to the bare floor, the door opened once more. Minna struggled to sit up, stiff and cold, blinking in the sudden glare.

Into the cell came a soldier wearing a well-oiled mailshirt and helmet with cheekpieces that framed a pair of pale grey eyes. A sword was looped over his back. He carried a stool which he set down, then occupied.

He braced his hands on both knees, his neck roped with tendons, forearms thick and scarred. ‘I am the
optio
reporting to our commander. We have been informed that you are closely attached to the household of the Dalriadan king.’

Minna kept a still face, though her heart had broken into a gallop.

The man folded his arms, reciting a well-worn formula. ‘I want to know exactly how many men he has, what his plans are, and his aims. You will tell me.’

She pulled herself straight. Her thoughts darted to Broc, and a wild pang came to name him, to beg this man for her brother’s aid, to pretend. But then she knew she could not. She would dishonour Donal and herself. She would dishonour Cahir’s love. She had made her choices. ‘I don’t know anything,’ she said clearly, though she quailed inside. ‘I feel I am unable to help you.’

The
optio
’s eyes flickered at her perfect Latin. Then he smirked. ‘By the blood of the Christos, I’ve lived my whole life among you heathens. I know when you lie, how you lie, and how long it takes to get the answers I need.’ From a belt at his waist he withdrew a dagger and turned it over in his hands.

Minna’s eyes followed it. The soldier smiled and sat forward again, placing the dagger across one knee.

Chapter 53

‘T
he Romans have run before us, like women!’ Gede scorned. He and Cahir were alone in the Pictish king’s tent, the two armies having met up once more at the appointed time south of the hills. Now, the wide and fertile vale of Eboracum lay flat and open before them, leading on into Britannia.

Gede snorted as he poured two cups of mead. ‘They are cowardly, mindless beasts. We should have faced them like this long ago.’

Cahir took the proffered cup, then nursed it on his lap, wondering how to reply. For him, winning was all that mattered – the thrill of that still burned his heart. He glanced at the vessel of mead Gede was propping on a side-table, and saw it was a silver ewer of Roman make, the table a carved one of shale. Above them, an ornate Roman oil lamp hung from the roof pole, dainty and incongruous in this tent of rough furs and bloody weapons.

He wondered for a brief moment where the plundered goods came from – how many villas and towns burned, how many women killed. Minna had begged him to take his men’s oaths that no civilians were to be harmed by the Dalriadan army. He had gladly given her that promise, but there was no way to control the Picts. He hoped that most of the populace had fled before the might of their advance.

‘What news have you of the Saxons?’ he said, briskly changing tack.

‘I have had word from King Cerdic that they intend to land at Petuaria on the estuary, and take the town and river crossings. They can hide their fleet there and come down upon the Roman flank from the north.’ The two kings had decided to move rapidly down the main Roman military roads and take a stand above the
colonia
of Lindum to await the southern forces which no doubt were already being gathered. If Nectaridus took the bait, enraged at this invasion of the rich midlands, then he would find not only an Alban army waiting for him, but the bloodthirsty Saxons bearing down on him from an unexpected direction.

Cahir nodded, staring into the pool of amber mead. Neither had drunk yet, for the air between them was, as ever, prickly rather than companionable. He glanced up and saw Gede’s piercing eyes fixed on his hands around the cup, which robbed him of any desire to stay and trade war stories.

He swiftly decided his presence was better served elsewhere. With the Pict and Dalriadan armies camped beside each other, the atmosphere was tense with brittle talk and sneering laughter. Fistfights broke out every day between the two tribes, and there were squabbles as the men scoured the land for food. Some groups had even drawn swords trying to scrounge from the same abandoned farmsteads.

‘I thank you for the offer of a drink,’ Cahir said politely, rising, ‘and yet I remember I have called a meeting of my own men, and will be late.’

Gede shrugged, the tattoos on his face stark in the overhead pool of lamplight. Those painted falcon eyes stared right through Cahir’s flesh. Unhurried, Gede sipped his mead. ‘Then we will leave tomorrow to give us time to scout out our flanks and rear. Some petty commander might yet be regrouping the remnants of their northern forces behind us.’

‘Tomorrow.’ Cahir picked up his helmet. ‘And it might be better to separate our men slightly as well. Their tempers will fray if the Romans take too long.’

‘Not too separate.’ Gede smiled coldly. ‘After all, we need each other.’

‘How can I know any more than you do?’ Minna repeated hoarsely. ‘They planned to land a large force and destroy the northern army – hasn’t this already happened?’

The
optio
’s face hardened at her faintly taunting tone. ‘I want to know their ultimate plan.’

Minna stared at the sunlight flaring off the dagger, then bared her teeth in a smile. ‘Why, to march south and attack Roman soldiers where they find them. But you already know this, too.’

Quick as an adder, the
optio
was on his feet. He grabbed her tangled braid and dragged her head back, and she bit her lip not to cry out. His eyes were pale orbs that showed no mercy, no vulnerability. ‘Enough insolence, my pretty whore. I want to know exactly
where
he is going and
why
.’

A stink of unwashed skin and sour sweat wafted over her, and
garum,
the fish sauce that laced all Roman food. Fish guts fermented in the sun – how Minna had loved the taste once. A whimper squeezed past her teeth.

‘You will answer me,’ the
optio
said with a brutish smile, ‘or I will hurt you.’

And without warning his dagger nicked the hollow of her throat. Minna cried out, the lurch of terror breaking something open inside her. And the
sight
came flooding in like a sunrise over hills, so strong and bright the truth was outlined for her to see in vivid colour.

There was a baby in her belly
. Cahir’s child, a nub of a thing, its spirit no more than a faint echo of life.

She clapped her hand to her throat as the soldier released her. Blood seeped through her fingers …
There was a baby, and it would die, too.
She could not fill her lungs because of the vice that tightened around her.

Satisfaction flared in the
optio
’s eyes. His voice dropped, and he stroked the blade around the curve of her ear. ‘I need you to speak,’ he murmured, like a man would to his lover, ‘but that does not mean I need your body unmarked.’ And he took her arm and dragged the blade across her white wrist.

She moaned as another line of red appeared, the blood beading on her skin. The
optio
smiled and stepped back, and suddenly Minna was dizzily remembering Cahir drawing a dagger across his soft flesh, the same warm skin she had kissed. A fist seemed to squeeze her chest and it all started to go dark. Dark, and cold.

At the final moment, a warm light arrested her descent into blackness. She was supposed to listen. Rhiann’s voice came back to her, something she had forgotten from the
saor
dream.
At the times of greatest travail we will be with you.
Her Sisters, the priestesses. Minna clawed at the stone floor.
Help … help me
.

As she wavered on the edge of the precipice, there came a brush of butterfly wings on her shoulders and throat, a touch alighting on her temples and eyelids. But there was no one else in the room. She caught a sob in her throat. The
optio
’s smile blurred before her. A rustling began, like wind blowing through a forest. Her eyes sank closed.
I’ve fainted, then. Cahir will think me so weak
.

But the rustling became whispers echoing on the walls, layers of voices murmuring. Minna straightened, struggling back from the dark place. Each voice began whispering different things, snatches of thought and idea which wove into a kind of song, drawing her with them. The butterflies became invisible fingers, soothing her, calming her panic to give her clear sight. Breathing hard, she blinked and raised her chin, listening.

‘Speak or I bring this blade to your veins!’ the soldier growled. ‘And worse, witch, will come when I give you to my men. Have you thought of that?’

She shuddered awake, stretched her chin high, no longer slipping into darkness. Her back was absolutely straight, the grace of the Sisters holding her. ‘Witch, you say?’ She smiled, her heartbeat striking loud and slow in her breast. ‘You have heard, then, Caecilius Rufus, of my island of witches in the Western Sea.’

There was a shocked silence.
She knew his name. The whispers told her
.

‘On a day of sunshine, the holy witches died on Roman swords. And have you heard, Caecilius Rufus, how for ever after those soldiers could seed no woman’s womb, their manhoods weakened and poxed?’

A pause. ‘What vileness is this?’ the
optio
demanded. ‘What madness do you utter?’

There were lights behind Minna’s eyes. She felt the blood drying on her skin. She heard the baby, a tiny, gasping cry, and held it close. ‘No madness, Roman. You
have
heard of this slaughter – for all these years later you still fear to violate the wise-women of Alba.’ She leaned forward. ‘Know then that
I
am of these witches, and I too can put a pox on you, and all that you are will wither away.’

Enraged, the
optio
stepped close and struck her across the face. ‘You lie … it is all lies!’

Her head snapped back, the lights dancing. She hardly felt the pain in her jaw and lip – she only saw the fear far back in his eyes. She smiled again, tasting blood. The voices flew about her head more urgently, the ghostly fingers stroking away her hurts. ‘Caecilius Rufus.’ The singsong voice that now came from Minna did not seem to be hers, and she listened to it with a distant dreaminess. ‘You stole three
solidii
from your father when you were nine, and he beat you until the skin came off your thighs. You killed a kitten once, by stringing it up in a noose of twine and watching it die. No one knows that. The first woman you bedded laughed at you …’

The
optio
grunted, his hand rising again.

‘On the Wall you collected taxes, and made money behind your commander’s back.’

The soldier’s fist wavered in the air, and he fell back one step and then another, the whites of his eyes standing out in his pale face.

She got up on her knees. ‘You raped a blueskin child once, and you’ve never banished her eyes from your mind. They haunt your dreams still.’

‘No.’ His voice was strangled.

Slowly, she pointed at him, the blood oozing from the cut on her arm. ‘You loved a man,’ she said softly. ‘It surprised you. He fought alongside you, and you loved him, and when nights were cold you shared warmth and showed nothing of what you felt in your face. He died, so near to you that in every dream you see the blade pierce his flesh again, and wonder why your own flesh was not there to take the blow.’

The soldier’s body was quaking now, and her finger with it. ‘Violate me,’ she said very softly, ‘and I will bring down upon you the wrath of every witch who died that day on the Sacred Isle. Your manhood will shrink and rot, until you scream for release from pain. Your shade will be followed even unto the halls of death, and never left in peace.’ Then she opened her throat, and what came were the first lines of Davin’s song, which spoke of the love of Rhiann and Eremon.

The barbarian words reverberated off the plaster walls, doubling back on themselves. They were words of great love, hope and belonging, but this soldier thought them curses, marking his flesh.

With a gagging sound he backed against the door. You are ours now, no matter what you say,’ he gasped. ‘We can use you as hostage to capture your lover, to force him to surrender. He is a man, and can die by the blade.’ Halfway out the door he forced himself to speak again. ‘Know that your men hang from the walls for the ravens to feed on. We toasted their deaths with ale.’

He slammed the door behind him, and Minna fell to all fours, panting. Gradually the butterfly touches faded and it became colder. The whispers in the room grew fainter, until there was nothing but the banging of a loose shutter outside in the breeze.