Timewatch (34 page)

With satisfaction, he remembered his last meeting with the Roman commander. They had met in secret in Londinium at the former home of a wealthy merchant. The house had a thatched roof and was made of clay, which had been plastered and decorated with a blue trim.

It was not his first visit to that noisy town of some 30,000 inhabitants where the streets swarmed with slaves running errands for their masters, men leading donkeys burdened down with goods, litter bearers carrying wealthy matrons, children shouting at each other, and boisterous soldiers of different nationalities, ranging from the short, swarthy Mediterranean types to tall, fair-haired Gauls.

The servant who had answered the door had taken him straight to a small but elegantly furnished room boasting a wooden floor. Seutonius sat Roman-style on a low couch and beckoned him to do likewise on another couch facing him. Several pottery lamps, with designs of birds on them, gave a dim but adequate light that flattered the grizzled visage of the Roman, whom he judged to be in his early 60s. He could be anyone's grandfather, this man with the stocky frame, his skin weathered and wrinkled like an old wineskin and hardened from too many marches through too many countries. But his eyes were cool and calculating.

“Wine, Mabon?”

Seutonius gestured toward an amphora standing next to some red-pottery tableware on a small table. The wine was a very good vintage; he could still remember its rich fruity flavor. They went through the preliminaries of inquiring after each other's family and health.

As usual, the Roman came right to the point. Running a finger around the lip of his goblet, he said, “I am troubled by reports from my spies of dissatisfaction among the Iceni. But they are only one tribe among many who plot against us. As soon as I dispatch the nest of vipers of one set of rebels, another takes its place.” He paused and looked at him.

“Then you must cut off the head of the serpent.”

“How?” asked Seutonius, putting down his goblet and crossing his arms across his broad chest.

“By smashing the Druid stronghold of Mona and the Archdruid with it. You will never find success in Britain otherwise, for it is the priests who control all things.”

Was it contempt he saw for a moment in the Roman's eyes as Seutonius asked, “How is it that you, a Druid, can recommend destruction for your own kind?”

Mabon felt the tension in the room rise a notch. The next few minutes would be crucial to his plans. With anguish, he thought of the destruction of the sacred groves, but he resolutely focused on his goal: to offer up Britain so that Ireland might be preserved in order that the old ways might survive and he with it as the highest-ranking Druid in the land. Of course, the Archdruid would perish in the massacre, leaving the way open for him, Mabon, to direct the sacred mysteries, but from a safe place across the Irish Sea.

Calming his breathing, he said, “Perhaps we can arrive at a plan whereby we both may profit.”

That night the two of them had formed a plan whereby his foes would be eliminated and, more importantly, the greater plan about which the Roman knew nothing, carried out. He had realized then how important it was to remove the boy, Bran. Like the raven, the boy's namesake, whose cries presaged doom and war most terrible, so would Bran meet a doom whereby he would be a sacrifice to ensure the continuance of a world where the common folk would be ruled by those superior to them, men like himself—Mabon.

CHAPTER 46

It could have been worse. After helping unload the horses and mules—a real pain, literally because his arm was getting so bad that he couldn't even lift it—the Decanus, who was like a sergeant or leader of his contubernium, took one look at him and ordered him to stay with the boats.

The other guys kept throwing looks of pity at him. They didn't know how relieved he was not to have to kill anyone. He had done his fair share of that in Vietnam. Hideous memories were always hovering just below the surface, ready to leap out at him.

It was bad enough listening to the shrieks of the dying horses. Hit by flying javelins, whose barbed heads must have hurt like hell, they squealed like demented souls. Watching the burning human torches was even worse.

From where he stood in one of the boats, he had a pretty good view of everything. He'd tried to keep an eye on the rest of his contubernium, who seemed to be doing okay so far. In the general melee, he'd lost track of them. Then he'd noticed Marcus, recognizable by his lumbering gait, reminding him of a particularly vicious goose that had once chased Dan on his grandfather's farm, charging up the hillside with several others of their group.

On the slope of the hill were two people trying to escape, but they didn't have a chance, not against trained soldiers. He'd seen it happen a world away: women and kids mowed down, whole villages set afire, the innocent slain with the guilty.

The pair had stopped running. Probably figured they didn't have a chance.

Damn it, run! Don't just stand there and take it!

Now the man was taking something off from around his neck and throwing it in front of the soldiers, who were running up the hill. And there was Marcus, stopping and snatching up the thing, and Gaius right behind him, putting his hand out as though arguing about it.

Must be a pretty valuable piece. Smart of the guy to delay them like that.

Now the two had taken off. Marcus and the rest couldn't have cared less, it seemed. If two people escaped for a few hours, it was nothing to them. They'd round them up eventually. After all, this was a small island. In the meantime, they were standing around arguing about who should get the piece.

You could hardly blame them. Marcus was your professional career soldier, all business, no sentiment, who had every intention of living to collect his pension and picking up enough along the way to make his retirement comfortable. Pensions for veterans were pretty small, which encouraged guys to pick up what loot they could—a kind of portable pension fund.

Meanwhile, the couple were hightailing it over to the far side of the hill, right over to where the rest of the Roman fleet was anchored. Of course, they didn't know that. A grove of trees hid the fleet from sight. A shame. After all that display of sheer guts, it seemed so unfair for them to be caught.

So what could he do? He had his orders to stay where he was. Soldiers who disobeyed orders could expect severe punishment, like being stoned to death. But he couldn't just stay here and watch them be caught and executed on the spot.

Without really thinking, Dan found himself running in the direction of the young couple. No one challenged him. The other soldiers were all too busy hacking away at their enemies to pay any attention to him.

“Hey, you over there!”

They'd seen him now and pulled up, fear apparent on their faces. Why, they were only kids! The boy put an arm protectively around the girl.

“I won't hurt you.”

They were looking suspiciously at him, and why shouldn't they? They had no reason to trust him. Look at what the rest of the legion was doing to their home.

“Going that way, you'll run into the whole Roman fleet, and even if you could hide for a while in the trees, you'd eventually be caught because Seutonius has plans to set fire to all the groves.”

“Then where can we go?” asked the girl, her face screwed up in an expression of despair.

“Come with me. I'll escort you over there.” He pointed away from the main body of the legion and toward what would be called the Irish Sea in later times.

The boy hadn't moved. “Why should we trust you?” he asked.

“Because you haven't a hope in hell of getting out of here if you don't. Mind you, I can't guarantee anything, but at least it's a chance. You're not likely to get stopped if you're with me; if we are, I'll say you're my prisoners.”

The boy stood there stubbornly. “You still haven't told me why you're helping us.”

Images of Laney came into his head: Laney with her head flung back dancing to the music she loved; Laney weeping over a baby bird that their cat had killed; Laney tossing her hair over one shoulder as she twinkled at him and teased him; Laney, who couldn't bear to see suffering in any form.

“For my daughter, Laney,” he said simply.

Hope dawning in his eyes, the boy asked, “Who are you? Where are you from?”

Dan opened his mouth and then closed it, not sure what to say. Then he said, “Why do you care? Let's get going before my buddies catch up to us.”

He waved his sword at them, but the boy refused to move. He had guts but not much sense.

“Your name. Who are you really?”

They could go on like this all day, but there wasn't time, and what would it hurt to tell him his name?

“Dan.”

The boy started violently. “Dan Morgan?”

“Yeah, why …”

“It's me, J.J.” The boy started to shake. Shock, maybe. He had to get them out of here.

“Bran, you know this man?” asked the girl in disbelief.

“Yeah, he's someone from my time.”

For the first time, the girl smiled. “The gods are truly smiling upon us.”

Holding his sword in his left hand—just to make things look good in case anyone was watching—Dan explained where they were headed. He didn't have to urge them to hurry. In fact, he found it hard to keep up with them.

“Hey, not so fast! They'll think you're trying to get away from me.”

They slowed down a bit after that.

As they came into sight of the fleet, a soldier hunkering down on the beach looked up and shouted, “Hail. What do you have there?”

“Slaves. They'll fetch a good price in the market.”

The soldier looked bored. He nodded and said disinterestedly, “They look strong and healthy, but be sure you bind them well so they don't escape.”

“Okay.”

As they jogged past the soldier, Dan could feel a prickling all down his spine and a feeling that hostile eyes were observing them. They seemed so exposed out here. Not until they reached the cover of some stunted trees did he feel more comfortable.

J.J. stopped and turned around. “We can make it from here,” he said. “There's someone with a boat close by who's going to take us to Ireland.”

He thrust out his hand and said, “Thanks, Dan. I really appreciate your help.”

No doubt about it: the kid was different, more mature.

“See you back home soon,” said Dan—if they didn't get killed first. His unspoken words must have shown in his eyes because J.J.'s mouth tightened, but he said nothing, just gave his hand an extra little squeeze and then put his arm around the girl's shoulder and walked off.

Poor kids. Nice, middle-class kids like J.J. weren't used to running for their lives, although it was happening to kids in other parts of the world.

If he and J.J. got out of this alive, he'd throw one hell of a party when they got back home. After that, he'd get his life together. No kidding.

Feeling ridiculously pleased with himself, he strode back to his boat, sat down, and waited for the others.

CHAPTER 47

With a tightness in his chest, J.J. watched Dan's retreating back. He wanted to yell, “Come back! Don't leave us here alone!” But he wasn't a kid any more. People were depending on him, people like Bryanna, who had charged him to take Devonna to Ireland, and Devonna, too, who was trudging along beside him, her head down as though she were thinking furiously.

They were out of the trees now, he saw. No soldiers in sight. Good thing. After the bloodbath they'd just escaped, he could see why a lot of people tended to be paranoid about the Romans.

With no cover out here, just a long line of surf breaking on a rocky beach, they were totally exposed. Where was Breandan, who was supposed to be waiting with a boat? Was that part of their escape going to get screwed up like everything else?

Devonna was checking out the scene now, too. As if guessing his thoughts she said, “Breandan should be waiting for us somewhere close by. Look, over there!”

She pointed to a pile of jumbled rocks and then broke into a run. She was so fast he could hardly keep up to her without slipping on the pebbles.

A dark head popped up from behind the rocks, then the rest of him. Breandan began jumping up and down and waving his arms. When he saw them, he jumped into a boat.

Did the water ever warm up enough to go swimming here? It was freezing, turning his feet into two icy stumps. The breeze poked fingers into every exposed part of his body and raised goose bumps all over him.

It seemed like ages before he and Devonna half fell into the boat. At least they were safe for the time being. But the boat looked so small! They were going to cross the Irish Sea in that? His dad's boat was bigger and it had a motor. This tub had a sail, true, but it didn't exactly inspire confidence in him.

“Bran!”

It was Mabon! He must have followed them here.

“Come here, Bran. I must speak with you.”

The old man was being his usual arrogant self, ordering people around. No way was he going to get out of this boat and wade through that cold water just to talk it up with Mabon. He was too beat, his legs were tired, and he could hardly stand anymore. Sitting on the rough plank that served as a seat, his head drooping, he could barely keep his eyes open.

“Bran, there are matters of great import that we must discuss before you leave.”

Mabon's voice was pitched low, but it carried perfectly and set up a resonant tingling in him. Maybe he
should
go see what the old guy wanted. They still had time …

“Bran! No!” Devonna's hand was clamped hard on his arm so that he couldn't move, not without pitching them both into the sea. Breandan, he noticed with disinterest, looked as if he was going to puke; he was that scared.