abduction promised to preserve that truce you say Rome desires.'
'Galba used her for peace?'
'Galba understood the Wall in ways that his commander never could.'
'And Caratacus was Galba's agent.'
'Arden was no man's agent, and no man's dupe. It was he who suggested trying a second time to capture the woman, not Galba.'
'But you said Caratacus wanted revenge, not peace.'
'I say the motives of Arden were as transparent as those of Galba were complex. The rest of us could see it in his eyes and his manner.'
'What? What was he after?'
'Not just what the woman could do for us, but the woman herself, of course.'
Why am I surprised?
'Don't you understand what happened?' Kalin asks. 'He'd been ensnared by her during that first ambush in the forest. The capture had nothing to do with war or revenge or Roman plotting. He simply couldn't rest until he won her for himself.'
XXVI
As Valeria's abductors rode up a grassy hill to the earth-and-wooden fort that crowned it, her eyes desperately sought escape. Surely cavalry patrols were searching for her right now! Not only did she need rescue, she had information vital to the Roman cause: that Galba's informant was, in fact, the brigand who'd first ambushed her. Just what this meant she wasn't sure, but Marcus needed to know that the agent who'd told the Petriana about the druids in the sacred grove actually seemed faithful to the barbarian side. Either that, or he was a scoundrel who played each camp against the other. Why? Was this Arden trying to foment a full-scale war? By capturing a senator's daughter, he'd surely taken a dangerous step toward one.
She looked toward the tall and arrogant man riding ahead of her, his unbound hair falling in a mane to his shoulders, his sword strapped across his broad back, his arms bare and brown and corded with muscle as he gripped the reins of his stallion, his neck revealing the glint, when he turned, of a golden torque of valor. His manner seemed careless now that he was back in his own country, and that was good. His confidence would be his undoing.
The chieftain's fort crowned the hill like a tonsure, circling its crest with a ditch, earthen dike, and low palisade. The crude enclosure protected a large, timbered central building, a dozen round Celtic houses with peaked thatched roofs, and pens and corrals for livestock and horses. Twin wooden towers flanked the gate, warriors on the platform of each blowing horns of welcome as the raiding party rode the winding path up the slope. More barbarians crowded the fort's log parapet, yelling and jeering.
The climb gave a grand view of the country they'd just ridden through, and Valeria looked back across the gray hills to the south. The world looked wild and disturbingly empty, a haven only for barbarians and beasts. She imagined for a moment she saw out there a flash of armor from pursuing horsemen, pounding to her rescue, but then admitted it was just the reflection of the sun on distant ponds. She imagined she saw the white of the Wall, but admitted it was only low, distant cloud. She did notice that at the base of the hill were more houses, a ramble of grain fields, and an enclosure for horses. Could she steal one and ride away on her own? Or would they lock her in a wicker man, the flame kept ready for her husband's approach?
The Roman aristocrat glanced down the line of horsemen to poor Savia, hoping her maidservant might have ideas that had eluded her. Yet the slave didn't return her look, having slumped into despondency. If Arden's promise of freedom had encouraged the woman, Savia gave no sign. Even her complaints had ceased. Valeria had never felt so hopeless.
Arden Caratacus, in contrast, rode like a prince, his fist lifted to the whoops of men and cheers of women, savoring his triumph like a general of Rome. They called to him from his fort. 'You've brought us a Roman kitten, I see!' 'Did she not stick your horse this time, topple-bottom?' 'Does she fuck as well as she fights?' 'How much gold can we squeeze with this one?' And then howls and shouts as they rode between the two towers. 'Where's your husband, my pretty? Has he lost you?' 'Rome must be ripe for robbery to give up the likes of you!' 'This is what Romans get for burning sacred trees, tyrant bitch!' The fortress courtyard was a bog of mud, straw, and manure, a trampled forum in which dogs leaped, horses pissed, and children screamed and scampered. Cooking smoke drifted from the buildings, and flies orbited a dung pile. As the mounted warriors swung down into the mire, the mob streamed off the earthen dike to greet them in an exultant tide. Valeria and Savia stayed stiffly mounted, disdainful of the filth and fearful of the host of alien blonds and redheads who crowded around. While most of this enclosure was drab, the clothing of both sexes was a complicated pattern of browns and bright colors, Valeria noticed, all checks and stripes and diamonds. Their jewelry was heavy and ostentatious, their weapons oversize, their hair a deliberate cascade of curls. There was no subtlety or stoicism among them; all was for display. The women were as boisterous as men, rude and coarse-tongued, and their children wrestled and punched and squealed. Most in the crowd were young, and all were fit, so why didn't they have energy for simple paving? The place was a sty, and not one of these Celts had the breeding to even notice. Males were pummeling Caratacus in welcome, and females were giving him hugs and lewd kisses, all of them exultant at the capture of an aristocratic Roman. She was a trophy.
Only one woman didn't share the mood of triumph. She searched the riders' faces with growing dismay and then ran wailing to the shrouded body of the Celt that Clodius had killed with the javelin, throwing herself against the horse that bore the corpse and sobbing sorrow to her gods.
Arden glanced in sympathy but made no move to comfort. Death was the warrior's fate, and everyone knew it.
Instead, he raised both arms to quiet his rabble. 'I've brought you guests!'
They howled anew, buffeting the Romans with taunts. 'Take the fat off the one and fit it to the bones of the other, and you'd have a single decent captive, Arden!'
'Does the regal one like to gallop?'
'Give me the other for my barn! She's got the butt of my horse, the udders of my cow, and the pout of my prettiest sow!'
Valeria sat straight, determined to maintain aristocratic indifference. You are a daughter of Rome! Secretly, she feared she was about to be raped.
Caratacus motioned for quiet again. 'And as guests of the clan of Caratacus, tribe of the Attacotti, land of the Caledonians, these women are to be treated as you'd treat your mother or sister. These captives are weapon and resource if treated well; useless if foolishly harmed. I say to them now that I guarantee their safety with my own heart and arm-and if any trespass against them, then they have trespassed against me.' He glanced around in challenge. His warning briefly subdued the crowd.
'And trespassed against me,' another rough voice added. Valeria felt a shock of recognition at the sound. Cassius! It was her bodyguard, who'd disappeared at the ambush. 'I protected her once, and I'll do so again,' the ex-gladiator told his new clan. 'I had no quarrel with the girl when I ran to freedom.' He shouldered his way to the front of the crowd, more thickly muscled than any of them, now a great Celtic sword at his side.
Arden nodded and went on. 'I've freed the fat one named Savia, but she'll work in the Great House as she worked for Rome. Eventually she'll choose her own future. The skinny one is called Valeria, and she's going to tell us more about her husband and his men. Don't insult her, for she's a great lady in the city of Rome.'
They hooted in derision, laughing at their great lady.
'No, listen!' Arden protested. 'We can learn from her!'
'Learn arrogance and corruption and crushing taxation!' one man shouted.
'Learn treachery and ruthlessness!' added another.
'Valeria will learn from us in turn: the pleasure of life among the free and proud Attacotti!' At this they roared approval. There was promise and a glint of humor in his eyes as he looked at her then, as if he knew her heart and understood her fears. She found it disquieting that he believed he could understand anything at all about her, and disturbing to find herself grateful for his small charities. This man was her husband's enemy and friend's killer.
