Calgaich the Swordsman (27 page)

Lucius nodded. He had not missed the acid tone in the tribune’s voice. “I plan to sponsor several days of games in the Flavian Amphitheatre with a motif of these northern barbarians and their savage hounds.”

Ulpius knew his uncle had greater plans than a triumphal entry into Rome. Lucius wanted publicity, of the sort that could be gained by pleasing the mob in the arena. He wanted it to be known that he, Quaestor Lucius Sextillius, acting governor of the province of Britannia, was the unquestioned authority on conditions along the Wall of Hadrian. There was no doubt but that he would also claim credit for dealing with Bruidge, the chieftain of the wild, unconquered Novantae, and for gaining Morar and Bronwyn as hostages, as well as garnering the barbarian prisoners.

"You understand, Nephew?” Lucius asked. There was a silky tone in his voice. Despite the soft, porcine appearance of Lucius, he possessed a backbone of iron in matters of political importance.

The tribune nodded. "Who shall command the escort, Uncle?”

Lucius twiddled his porky little fingers. He held up a hand and studied a ring. "Decrius Montanas should be more than capable of that, Nephew.”

Ulpius scowled. "I had thought...”

Lucius waved a hand. "I think your work here is more important than a simple matter of escorting these barbarians to Rome.” He looked directly at Ulpius.

"Well, I had thought that my mother, your dear sister, would like to see me, my Uncle,” Ulpius insinuated.

The quaestor flushed. "My beloved sister Tonia,” he said coldly. "All right, damn you, Ulpius! You shall command the escort.”

Their eyes met like fencing blades. Antonia, the elder sister of Lucius and the mother of Ulpius, her only child, was a political power in Rome, behind her bumbling senator of a husband. It was the Lady Antonia who had seen to it that Lucius had received his appointment as quaestor in Britannia and that Ulpius had been appointed tribune, despite his youth and lack of experience, to accompany his uncle to the wild northern frontier where reputations were easily made and more easily broken. Lucius would do well to see that he returned to Rome.

"The audience is over,” Lucius announced. He placed his two hands on the sides of his chair and heaved himself up like a fat sow getting out of a mudhole. He held out his arm to Morar.

She ignored him and spoke softly to Ulpius. "Have the slave woman taken to my chambers. First see that she is washed and given proper clothing. Do not harm her.” She glanced once back at Calgaich, but her eyes betrayed no emotion.

Calgaich knew it would be foolish for her to respond to him. He had to believe this was the reason for her cold manner. She had spared Cairenn, and she must have done this for him. He felt sick as he watched her take Sextillius’s arm and walk gracefully from the chamber.

Guards moved forward to lead the prisoners out. Cairenn managed a tremulous smile as she passed Calgaich to be taken to the woman he loved. The fates were strange that she should become servant to Morar. There had been a mysterious feeling passing among the three of them— Cairenn, Morar and Calgaich—and only time would unravel their destinies. For now, she was safe.

Calgaich, Fomoire, and Guidd One-Eye were marched out into the star-sparkling darkness. Once again the heavy storeroom door slammed shut behind Calgaich, but this time he had companions to share his imprisonment—Fomoire, the Druid, Guidd One-Eye, and great Bron, the wolfhound.

The moon shed a soft ray of light through the barred window of the storeroom to illuminate Fomoire’s pensive face. “Sixteen years, a long sixteen years in training, to fail at the first of the final tests. Sixteen years as a Listener and an Ovate to reach the first of the Bardic tests, then to fail. Can you understand that, my warrior friend?” Calgaich was poking about behind the straw bales while Guidd searched among the great container jars. “No,” Calgaich replied shortly. He looked at Guidd. “Any luck, old wolf?”

Guidd shook his head. “The only spirits around here must be in the head of that damned priest there.”

Fomoire smiled. “Let me look,” he suggested. He stood up from the bale upon which he had been lying and reached down behind it, then he turned with a big jug in his hand. He pulled out the stopper. “Wine,” he said. “Falernian, at that.”

“How long have you known it was there?” Calgaich asked suspiciously.

“Since we were thrown in here.”

“Damn you! That was hours ago!”

Fomoire smiled. “I thought we might use it to bribe our guard.”

Guidd shook his head. “Fat chance, priest. Those are not Asturians out there. They are legionnaires.”

Fomoire shrugged. “Then we might as well drink this before they find it.”

They sat down in the straw with their backs against the bales. Bron come out of the shadows and lay down beside Calgaich. The wine jug made the rounds.

Calgaich scratched behind Bron's ears. “I thought most of you priests had been stamped out by the Red Crests.”

"We were too strong for them. We lived as ordinary people, such as yourselves—hunters, herdsmen and craftsmen.”

Guidd eyed Fomoire’s slim, tapered hands. "I’ll be damned if you did.”

"I was a leech, a healer of the eye sickness, a teller of tales, or whatever else I could do rather than break my damned back working for a living.”

"Your friends could not have thought too much of you to let you drown slowly in that stone coffin,” Calgaich commented dryly.

Guidd grinned. "That is true! What great sin did you commit for such a punishment?”

Fomoire drank from the jug. "I was not being punished, my illiterate friends. I was there of my own free will.”

"What does illiterate mean?” Guidd asked suspiciously.

"That you can’t read or write,” Calgaich told him.

“You
can,” Guidd said.

"But there is no written language among your people,” the Druid commented.

"He was speaking of Latin,” Calgaich said.

Fomoire eyed Calgaich with new respect.

"His grandfather was a Roman,” Guidd explained. He drank deeply from the jug and then wiped his mouth. He looked slyly sideways at Calgaich.

Fomoire stared at Calgaich. "Is that true?”

Guidd spat. "Tribune
Legatus Legionis
Rufus Arrius Niger of the Twentieth Legion. He was Calgaich’s mother’s father.”

"And she?” Fomoire asked.

Calgaich looked at him. "Her mother was a chieftain’s daughter of the Selgovae.”

"Then you are one-quarter Roman blood.”

Calgaich nodded. "You figure well,” he agreed dryly.

"Calgaich mac Lellan, the greatest swordsman in all Britannia, is part Roman.” Fomoire shook his white-haired head.

“I don’t talk much about it, priest,” Calgaich warned.

"Where is your grandfather now?” Fomoire asked.

Calgaich shrugged. "He is a senator. I’ve heard he was recently inspecting the forts of the Saxon Shore and is soon to return to Rome, to make his report personally to the emperor.” He did not want to discuss the subject further. It was something of which he was not proud. “I said at the time I found you that you were mad. Why were you there in that stone coffin, Fomoire? To be there of your own free will must surely mean that you are mad
.
^”

“Because of ambition, friend
.
^”

Calgaich laughed. “Ambition? To lie naked in icy water with a great stone upon your chest to hold you fast? A great ambition, friend
!
^”

“For sixteen years I trained for the third degree, that of Bard. As a lad I learned of the thirteen secret societies of my brotherhood—the Society of Beavers, and those of the Mice, Wolves, Rabbits, Wild Cats, the Owls and all the others. It took extraordinary skill and immense patience to learn by ear the long-versed poetic tales of the gods, of law and astronomy, of music and many other things. That took twelve years, and for three years after that I studied and learned omens and magic
.
^”

“Such as you exhibited to the Perfumed Pig
?
^”

Fomoire smiled. He waved a deprecating hand. “I can teach those simple tricks to even Guidd here, wild and clumsy as he is
.
^”

Guidd lowered the jug and glowered, one-eyed, at the Druid. “Take care, priest
!
^”
he snapped.

“I jest, good woodsman! To continue—I studied medicine and learned the crafts of the leech and the healer. I could have remained as a Listener, or even an Ovate, but I was not satisfied. I wanted to be the truest of all Druids —a Bard. You found me undergoing the first of the tests for the Bardic Degree
.
^”

The jug went the rounds. The measured trampling of nailed sandals sounded from the courtyard. Tribune Ulpius Claudius was taking no chances with his prisoners.

“My brother Druids brought me to the sacred grove
,
^”
Fomoire continued. “They placed me naked in the icy water, with just my nostrils above the water level so that I might breathe. The stone was placed upon my chest. It was impossible for me to remove it by myself. The head priest whispered a subject into my ear before I was placed in the water. The test was to compose a poem of great length, in the most difficult of bardic metres, on that subject. My brothers would have returned just at dawn. I would have been taken from the water to be given a harp.

I would then have had to compose a melody on the harp to accompany my poem… His voice died away and he reached for the jug.

Calgaich leaned forward. "But you cast a spell on me to make me release you from that coffin.”

Fomoire lowered the jug. "I could not compose that poem. I knew I could not compose a melody to go with it. I was sure that if I was taken from the water I would have failed that most fearful of tests.”

"At dawn?” Calgaich asked. "I saw no Druids in the sacred grove.”

"They must have known the Romans were coming.”- "How could they have known that?” Guidd asked.

"They have ways, woodsman. If the Romans had found me in that coffin they would have driven a pilum point through my heart and left me there.”

"Perhaps that would have been better than that which you now face,” Calgaich suggested.

There was a lurking fear in Fomoire's clear gray eyes. "I dare not return to my brotherhood. If they ever found out I left that coffin by the help of anyone other than the brotherhood . . .” He reached for the wine jug. He drank deeply. He smiled a little. "Besides, I have always wanted to see Rome.”

"You have no choice,” Calgaich said. He leaned back against the wall and looked beyond his two friends. "Can you foretell the future in the lees from that wine jug, Druid? What lies in store for us, eh?”

"I don't know.”

"You have the gift of second sight.”

"Within reason. I know this much—nothing can prevent us from being taken to Rome.”

Calgaich nodded. "I felt as much. There they will feed you on dainties and you'll be allowed to live in luxury while entertaining the Roman two-legged swine. For myself, Guidd and Bron here, there is only one ending— death in the arena. They shall not find us an easy mark, Fomoire.”

"Only the gods know that, Calgaich.” Fomoire looked sideways at Calgaich. "This golden woman, this Morar, has great ambition. She plans to go far. Lucius Sextillius might find that he has taken an adder to his bosom.”

"For the love of the gods, priest!” Guidd cried.

Calgaich clapped a hand on Guidd’s back. "It’s all right, old hound. The mad priest is probably right.”

"Then you’ve put her out of your mind?” Guidd asked. Calgaich shook his head. "I didn’t say that.”

"She had a hold on you,” Fomoire said. "There is something I sense in her. She is old, and wise, in a sense, far beyond her years. There is evil within her. A lovely chalice to hold such deadly poison. We saw how she worked that fool of a quaestor. She has him and the tribune wrapped around her little finger.”

"Be careful,” Guidd warned Fomoire.

Calgaich suddenly smashed a fist into his other palm. "By the gods! I must have been blind. She was with Fergus all along. Was I so blind with hate that I couldn’t see that?”

Fomoire looked questioningly at Guidd.

"Morar was Calgaich’s betrothed,” Guidd explained. "She did not expect him to come to Rioghaine, after he had deserted his auxiliary unit and had been captured. She thought that would be the end of him. He returned unexpectedly and he found her with his cousin Fergus, the only son of Bruidge, uncle to Calgaich.”

"She lay naked in a bedchamber. Fergus was half-dressed. When I burst in on them she cried rape. Fergus fled to a guard’s hut. There was only one solution.” Calgaich slowly touched the scar on his face as he remembered that awful scene of Morar crying, and then the bloody battle that followed.

"And for her false accusation, you killed your cousin Fergus. Did he not try to tell you otherwise?” Fomoire asked.

"I was in a rage. I went to the guard hut and called him out. He came saying things I would not listen to. Finally he took up his sword like a man.”

"And died, falsely accused.”

"Yes, he died. Unjustly.” Calgaich sat silent as the jug passed around again. Then he said, "I wonder now if the only reason she became betrothed to me was because I was the son of Lellan and next in line for the chieftainship of the Novantae."

Guidd nodded wisely. “I think you are one of the few Novantae who did not think that, Calgaich.’’ Guidd moved a little farther away from Calgaich, still not sure of his loyalty to his love for Morar.

“Then,
why didn't you tell me? It would have saved my cousin from an untimely death?" Calgaich demanded.

Guidd laughed bitterly. "I'm not
that
big a fool! No one could talk to you about Morar in those days, or he’d risk
a
blade in his guts."

“And my Uncle Bruidge, is that why he turned on my father? Did he know Fergus was innocent?" Questions were coming quickly to Calgaich’s mind.

Guidd shrugged. “He might have guessed. But he didn’t know for sure. Fergus was his only son, and his death alone was enough to make Bruidge crazed for revenge."