Calgaich the Swordsman (26 page)

"You didn’t answer the quaestor,” Ulpius snapped.

Calgaich looked casually at the angry tribune and smiled a little. "Are you so angry, Tribune, because you want this barbarian
cumal
for yourself? Or is it that you are interested only in the golden-haired barbarian women?”

Lucius Sextillius looked quickly at Ulpius. "What is this he says, Ulpius?”

Fomoire came close to Calgaich. "Do you love this
cumal?”
he whispered.

"The gods forbid! I am still betrothed to Morar.”

"But you don’t want her in the playpen of this foul Roman?”

Cairenn had turned to look at Calgaich. Her face was impassive, but her great emerald eyes held his.

Calgaich shook his head. "No, Fomoire.”

"Then leave this to me.”

Cairenn heard Fomoire’s words to Calgaich. Somehow she trusted this strange man. Her people had not been afraid of the Druids. Only the Romans feared their powers.

Lucius eyed Cairenn again. "Cover yourself,” he ordered. "They’ll have to scour you with brick dust and water before you can serve me.”

"I will never serve you,” Cairenn thought. She felt the gaze of the assembled men on her as she bent to retrieve the ragged Asturian cloak. Calgaich moved toward her as if to help cover her lovely nakedness.

"Stay where you are,” Sextillius ordered him. "Slaves need no help. They are for the sport of others.” His eyes wandered to Fomoire. "You,” he said. "I am told you are a bard.”

Fomoire bowed his head a little and held out his slim hands. "With certain skill, Your Honor.”

"What else can you do?”

Fomoire smiled knowingly. "I have little skill in bed, with woman, boy or man, quaestor.”

Sextillius stared wide-eyed, then he broke into his shrill, cackling laughter. "Amuse me, bard. It is said you are a conjurer. Show me.”

"May I approach?" Fomoire requested. "I am harmless."

Lucius waved a plump hand.

Fomoire walked forward, while gesturing with his fine hands. In each palm were three pebbles. "Quaestor," he murmured, "can you blow a strong breath on my two hands and blow two pebbles from each of them, leaving but one pebble on each palm?"

"No man can do that, trickster."

"I can."

"Do so then!"

The Druid bent back each forefinger to hold the center pebble in each hand tightly to the palm. He then blew hard on each palm and the four pebbles pattered onto the mosaic floor.

Sextillius stared, and then he roared with shrill laughter. "Well done! Well done! But you must do better than that to earn your way to Rome.”

“Rome,
Quaestor?" Fomoire’s eyes widened.

Sextillius shrugged. He rubbed his hands together. He looked at Calgaich. "To have Calgaich mac Lellan, the son of a Caledonian chieftain in hand, a man who is considered to be the best swordsman in this accursed fogbound island, and perhaps in the world, is reason enough for me to end my tour of duty here. Then, too, I have many other barbarians being collected all over Britannia, to be taken to Rome for the Games.” He looked at Bron. "As well as a shipment of such great beasts, who fight to the death in the arena." He smiled at Fomoire. "Then, why not take you too, trickster?" The quaestor studied the Druid. Then he looked quickly away as though he did not like what he saw.

"He’ll have to do more than simple conjuring tricks, Uncle," Ulpius put in.

The quaestor nodded. "That is true." He smiled winningly at Fomoire. "Otherwise, trickster, you will be taken from here and put to death." His voice had changed from one of simulated warmth to a graveyard iciness.

Fomoire seemed nonplussed. He eyed Ulpius Claudius. "This is a brave soldier of Rome. He has said he could match the skill of our great swordsman Calgaich, with the famed short sword of the Roman legions.”

“There is none better in the use of the
gladius,
trickster,” Lucius admitted.

“You will want to save our Calgaich, for the amusement of the crowds at the Games in Rome. But will the tribune face me with the
gladius
in his hand?”

Lucius stared at Fomoire. “Are you jesting? Are you mad? Or perhaps you are somewhat skilled in the use of the
gladius?
I do not want an exhibition of swordplay here, which would certainly result in your sudden death.”

Ulpius held up a hand to Montanas. “Give this fool your
gladius,
Centurion.”

Fomoire shook his head. “I need no weapon against you except a finger.”

“He’ll split you like a goose,” the quaestor warned.

“Let me but place a fingertip on his wrist,” Fomoire requested, “then he may draw,
if he can,
and kill me on this spot.”

It was very quiet in the audience chamber. A drapery moved in a draft. Leather creaked as some of the soldiers moved to get a better view of the anticipated slaughter. A large drapery hung from ceiling to floor on the wall behind the chair of the quaestor. It seemed to Calgaich that someone was behind it, looking through a parting in the material, but he could not see who it was.

The tribune stood in front of the Druid. “The man is mad. Look at his eyes, Uncle. See how they stare at me? There is a well of madness within each of them.” His voice trailed off.

“Are you afraid, Tribune?” Fomoire asked. “See? I am unarmed.”

“Let him try, Ulpius,” Lucius suggested. “But don’t kill him if he fails. Wound him a little, perhaps, a very little, so that he may learn the error of his ways.”

Ulpius dropped his hand to the hilt of his sword.

“Wait,” Fomoire warned. “You are not to draw before the placing of my finger, Tribune.”

Ulpius nodded. Fomoire extended his forefinger, looking at the same time into the tribune’s eyes. The Druid placed the tip of his finger in the center of Ulpius’s right wrist. He held the Roman's eyes with his. "Draw and slay, Tribune," he suggested softly. “If you can . . ."

"This is murder!" Cairenn cried.

Ulpius gripped the hilt of the
gladius.
The muscles of his bare arm stood up and his knuckles whitened. He could not draw the weapon.

The quaestor stood up for a better view. "Draw, Ulpius!" he cried.

The tribune's face worked. His chest rose and fell. His right arm shivered with the strain put upon it,
but he could not draw!
There was really nothing holding him from drawing; nothing, that is, except the tip of a slim forefinger pressing against his wrist, and something in the eyes of the prisoner that made it impossible for him to draw his
gladius.

Sweat broke from Ulpius's working face. It ran down from his temples to his cheeks and then glistened on his bronze
cuirass.
It was obvious that he was now in boneshaking pain, for his body shivered like a sapling in a driving spring storm. He tried to speak, but words did not come to his writhing lips.

"Ye gods!" Sextillius cried. "Never have I seen the like! Even the Egyptians can do nothing like this!”

Fomoire smiled, but he did not take his eyes or forefinger away from the Roman. "Now, Tribune," he suggested cheerfully, "I will take away my poor finger, but you must not, you will not, draw your
gladius
until commanded to do so by the golden-haired woman who stands behind that drapery." Fomoire looked away from the tribune as he stepped back, withdrawing his forefinger from Ulpius's wrist at the same time.

Suddenly Ulpius found his voice. He cursed violently as he tried to draw his sword. If ever hell and murder had been etched on the face of a man, they now contorted the features of Ulpius Claudius.

A golden-haired woman stepped from behind the draperies. "Morar! Morar!” Calgaich cried. He started forward and then stopped because of the warning glance she gave him.

She was dressed in a
stola
as white and soft as that of Sextillius. It fell from beneath her full breasts in gentle folds, drifting over her rounded hips to her sandaled feet.

Her long golden hair was curled and dressed in an elaborate fashion and fastened high on her head with a gold band. She seemed already to be a Roman woman. Calgaich’s loins ached for her, and anger rose in him that she should see him as a prisoner of the pig, Sextillius, rather than the proud champion he had been when they were betrothed.

Cairenn, too, was awed by Morar's incredible golden beauty, but she felt sadness, also. Here was the woman Calgaich truly loved. Cairenn still held her head high, the rough cloak around her shoulders, but her heart was heavy.

Morar moved gracefully to stand beside Sextillius’s chair. She did not look at Calgaich again, as if to say to him, “Beware. Now is not the time for our reunion.”

“Lucius,” Morar said in her musical voice, “shall I test the word of this trickster?”

Lucius smiled. He saw nothing else but this exquisite creature in front of him, holding him by her great blue eyes even as Fomoire had held the tribune in subjection. “Please do, Morar,” he replied.

Morar turned and extended a slim and lovely hand. “Draw, Tribune!” she cried.

Ulpius at last ripped the
gladius
from its sheath, raised the sword, and ran toward Fomoire with murder in his blazing eyes.

“Ulpius!” Lucius shouted. “Do not kill him, you fool!”

Calgaich moved forward and thrust out a foot. Ulpius fell headlong, sliding over the smooth mosaic floor until his head struck the wall and he lay still. He raised his head painfully and looked at Morar, then he dropped back to the floor. A thin trickle of blood wormed its way across the bright tiles.

Morar laughed like a pleased child. Her laughter rang throughout the gloomy audience chamber and brought a pleased look to Lucius.

Calgaich studied Morar. There was something different about her. She was still golden of hue, but there seemed to be a dark aura about her that puzzled and repelled him.
Morar has changed much since you left for Eriu, Calgaich,
Bronwyn had told him.
She says and does strange things
.
Even now
,
as we talk here
,
she is drinking wine with Ulpius and his greasy pig of an uncle, Lucius
. And where was Bronwyn now? What else had Morar taught her gentle sister? Morar was his betrothed, but it was Bronwyn who had risked her life and honor to come to him.

Morar walked to the quaestor, and every man in the room had his eyes on her swaying hips as she did so. What is more, Calgaich thought, she
knows
they are watching her.

"What do you intend to do with these people, Lucius?” Morar asked.

The quaestor seemed to brighten like a good little boy under the radiance of the woman. "The trickster has earned a place in my entourage. He goes to Rome. Calgaich also goes, of course, with his hound, to test their survival in the Games. The one-eyed man will provide fodder for the arena.”

"And the dark-haired woman?” Morar queried. She turned and gestured toward Cairenn. For a moment the two women stood locked in a strange communion, Morar golden-haired like the sun and Cairenn dark and lovely as the night. Sextillius, with his enormous depraved appetites wanted them both.

"Well, I had thought—that is—she's a slave, so they say, to that barbarian there, who has no rights, no rights to her at all, Morar, so I thought...”

She smiled. "You thought you'd give her to me as a serving maid for an early betrothal gift. Isn't that it, Lucius, dear?” As Morar leaned over Sextillius, her white
stola
fell away from her full breasts. Her arm rested lightly on the back of his chair.

Calgaich stared at her. It tore through him to see Morar playing up to Sextillius to get her way. He took a step forward, but again Morar sent him a warning glance. Fomoire, too, glanced sideways at him. "No, Calgaich,” he whispered. "It is better this way.”

"What the hell is she up to now?” Calgaich asked, anger in his voice.

"Who knows? But at least the slave woman will live.” It was true. Morar had saved Cairenn from the certain fate of Sextillius's bed—at least for a time. But he loathed the wiles she used to get her way.

Lucius Sextillius pursed his lips. He had to treat this golden woman with great care. She was the ward of a powerful barbarian chieftain, and it would never do to rile the wild Novantae beyond their usual waspishness. Then, too, there was her virgin sister, almost as beautiful as Morar. Lucius had designs on both of them. Two such sisters in his bed at the same time! The gods
could
be kind at times.

“Well, Lucius?” Morar asked. Her great blue eyes seemed to hint of something he had not dared to hope.

Ulpius sat up. He rested his back against the wall, while he dabbled rather foolishly at the blood trickling down from his scalp.

Morar glanced at Calgaich. She knew she had him puzzled, but that had never been difficult to do with that great lout of a swordsman. The slave woman meant something to him. Morar was sure of that. Cairenn might be a useful weapon in Morar’s reconquest of Calgaich.

Lucius sat back in his seat and waved a grandiloquent hand. “She is yours, my der.” He smiled at her. “You see? Anything you desire is yours. You need but ask me.”

“Stand fast,” Fomoire whispered to Calgaich. “I can sense that great rage of yours. Stand fast, Calgaich.”

Cairenn felt great relief at escaping the pig Sextillius and his loathsome bed, but she did not understand why Morar had rescued her. Was it a gesture of kindness from one woman, who had been given as a hostage by her uncle Bruidge, to another woman, who had been dragged from her chieftain father’s
rath
and presented to Calgaich as a lowly servant? Somehow Cairenn knew there was another, darker reason. She thought Morar the most beautiful woman she had ever seen, but she did not trust her.

“Ulpius,” Lucius said, “my work here is done. I am returning to Rome to give a personal report on conditions here in the north. I will leave in two days for Dubris to take ship for Gaul. It is my wish that these prisoners, along with the others that have been gathered here in the north, travel with us. Enroute to Dubris we will pick up any other consignments of prisoners and animals destined for the Games in Rome.”

“A triumphal entry, my Uncle?” Ulpius asked tartly.