The Owl Prince Read online

  THE OWL PRINCE

  BOOK ONE OF THE GREEN LABYRINTH SERIES

  Alex Faure

  Copyright © 2019 Alex Faure

  All rights reserved

  Author’s Note

  The events and individuals described in these pages are fictitious. The broader historical context, however, is real. In A.D. 82, during the reign of Emperor Domitian, the Romans occupied England and Wales, in addition to much of the known world. Roman Britain was under the command of Governor Gnaeus Julius Agricola, a general who subdued the fractious tribes and made incursions into Scotland (then called Caledonia). It was an era in which the Empire was nearing its high water mark, which would be followed by a slow and inevitable decline. While there is little evidence to suggest that the Romans invaded the island they called Hibernia, and which we now know as Ireland, I’ve taken the liberty of imagining a world in which they did.

  Chapter One

  Summer, 82 A.D.

  Darius nodded, and his men forced the Celts to their knees.

  It had become a familiar routine, though they’d never captured a group this size before. The Celts who inhabited this green, haunted island fought to the death, or not at all. Darius had seen only a handful flee before the Roman onslaught in the four months he had served in Hibernia. And yet today they had captured twenty enemy warriors and dragged them back to the fort with little effort and no loss of Roman life.

  Another triumph to add to Rome’s list of early successes in this far-flung backwater.

  “Captain?” Darius said to his second, Marcus Lentulus.

  “We caught them spying on the fort, Commander,” Marcus replied. “Armed with bows and arrows. Likely hoping to pick off the next group of surveyors we sent out into the forest. Like last time.”

  Darius paced before the Celts, his gaze running over each face. Some of the captives were enormous—the Celts were larger, on average, than most Romans, not that it mattered. Most were fair, their hair ranging from wheat-pale to a rich, deep gold that caught the sunlight shafting through the clouds and gave them an almost holy appearance. They wore close-fitting trousers and tunics, which were filthy, covered in dirt and blood.

  Darius stopped before one, a youth with hair as red as ripe berries. Darius had never seen hair that colour before coming to these lands at the edge of the Empire. He suppressed an urge to reach out a hand to touch it.

  The young man stared back at him, his eyes an equally strange shade of grey-green, the colour of the sea around Cyprus. His moon-pale skin was spattered with brown marks—some suitably violent form of freckles, Darius guessed. Possibly a disease.

  Darius forced his gaze to the next captive. He didn’t believe the stories—that the Celts on this island, unlike the motley but tractable tribes of Britannia, were closer to wild beasts than men, the descendants of savage dryads who peopled the endless green forests. Yet gazing into a face that strange, he wasn’t surprised by how easily such stories spread.

  He stopped before a dark-haired boy who wouldn’t meet his eyes. With one finger, Darius lifted his chin. The boy, who was trembling lightly, raised his pale eyes to meet Darius’s dark ones.

  Darius knew how he must look to the boy—fierce and glowering in his armour, taller than most Romans, a man not yet thirty with the weight of an Empire at his back. Or, at least, that of the 7000-strong force of Romans stationed at three newly built forts along the Eastern Hibernian coast, the first wave of many.

  Darius saw his suspicions confirmed in the boy’s face. The Celts, bestial barbarians that they were, often sent children into battle in lieu of men. Darius didn’t permit the capture of men younger than sixteen. He guessed this one to be fourteen at most.

  “Release him,” Darius said, removing his hand from the boy’s chin. The soldiers moved to comply. “Give him food and water and turn him out of the fort. And that one.”

  “Commander?” Marcus blinked at the man Darius indicated, a yellow-haired Celt with a murderous gaze. “He isn’t—”

  “No,” Darius agreed. “But he has a deformity in his foot. It would have hindered his abilities. His choice to fight in spite of the handicap brings him honour. His capture brings us none. Release him.”

  The men complied good-naturedly, being used to such directives from their idiosyncratic commander by now. The soldiers of Sylvanum were in a good mood. They’d finished construction on the fort only four days ago, and the nights since had been filled with merriment.

  Marcus, after a short, reluctant pause, nodded, his grimace imperfectly suppressed.

  Darius eyed him. While the soldiers might be used to Darius’s unusual style of command by now, Marcus had been at Sylvanum only a week, after a stint at Attervalis, the fort to the north.

  “Captain Lentulus?” Disdain crept into Darius’s voice. If a man had something to say, he should come out and say it, even if it would cause his superior officer to fly into a rage.

  Marcus pressed his lips together. He saluted, then left to attend to his duties. Suppressing his irritation, Darius turned to give instructions regarding the remaining captives. He watched as the Celts were led away. They would be questioned by the translator tomorrow, and then executed.

  One of those Celts, his balance upset by his bound hands and feet, stumbled against the well. His bonds mustn’t have been secured tightly, for his hand came free, and he steadied himself against the moist stone, his head bowed over the water as if yearning for a drink. The Roman guarding him merely helped him find his feet and secured his hands again. No captive had ever suffered a beating at Sylvanum—another of Darius’s orders. What was the use in hitting dead men?

  “What do you make of it?” said Scipio, Darius’s former second. He was a red-faced man in his middle forties, philosophically good-natured, and had served with Darius in both Britannia and Gaul. He had taken his demotion in stride, making way for Marcus, the hero of a recent series of skirmishes that had pushed the enemy tribes of Hibernia into further retreat.

  Darius had been less philosophical when he’d received the news, delivered on the last ship from Britannia and written in Governor Agricola’s own hand. Darius didn’t want some green soldier on his first mission abroad acting as his second, regardless of how well he swung a sword. Sylvanum might not be the largest of the three Hibernian forts—that was Undanum. But Sylvanum was the most precariously situated, hemmed in by dense forest on all sides, while Undanum and Atteralis perched on rocky sea cliffs.

  “Likely a breakaway force,” Darius said, his thoughts still on Marcus. “It was certainly not a planned attack.”

  “I wouldn’t quite call it an attack, as it was our forces who discovered them. Are the elves capable of planning?” Scipio said it with a snort, using the latest epithet to gain currency among the men. ‘Elf’ was a loanword from one of the Germanic tribes for a race of leafy beings with little sense but ample malevolence.

  “They’re Robogdi,” Darius said darkly. “We don’t know what they’re capable of.”

  The Robogdi, led by the feral King Culland, were the most troublesome of Hibernia’s enemy tribes, having attacked several Roman expeditions. They had an established feud with the Darini, the Empire’s allies, whose king had extended Agricola the invitation to invade. King Culland might call himself the King of Hibernia, but he was a pretender to the title. The true King of Hibernia was Giareth of the Darini, servant of Agricola and the Emperor Domitian. Eventually, the Hibernian tribes would accept this, and bow to him as one people. But until then, there would be problems, messy ones.

  We need more men.

  It wasn’t the first time Darius had thought it. Rome had been in Hibernia less than a year, and it often seemed that the island occupied little of Agricola’s attention. The general was convinced that Hib
ernia would be an easy conquest. Darius rarely disagreed with Agricola, but in this case, he found himself questioning his judgment.

  “All the elves look alike to me,” Scipio said. “How can you tell they’re Robogdi?”

  “The Robogdi are fairer, on the whole.” Darius said it absently. “Golden hair. Eyes like the sea off the coast of Epirus. Did you say our men discovered them?”

  “Yes. Marcus came upon them standing in a clearing, staring through the trees at our men like startled owls. They tried to fight their way out, of course, but Marcus had them surrounded.”

  Darius frowned, a little shiver going down his back. “He caught them by surprise?”

  “From the sounds of it. Marcus isn’t the type to downplay his accomplishments, so I took him at his word.”

  Darius watched the last of the Celts disappear in the direction of the prison block. “Station additional sentries on the walls tonight. And instruct the senior officers to gather in my quarters in two hours.”

  Scipio nodded slowly. “It doesn’t smell right, does it?”

  “No.”

  Darius had served two years in Britannia before being transferred to Hibernia to oversee the construction of Sylvanum. Rome had so far fought no battles with the Hibernians, only skirmishes—perhaps that was all the barbarians could muster, given that their island was divided into multiple warring kingdoms. Darius knew the Celts to be an ethereal people, with the ability to fade in and out of their interminable forests like a breath of wind. On several occasions, while leading men through those dark lands, Darius had sensed eyes upon him. Turning, he had met the gaze of a Celt peering out from behind a tree a few paces away, a Celt who had evidently been trailing them for some time, undetected by any of Darius’s scouts.

  Scipio was watching him. “Do you think it’s safe to hold them here?”

  Darius considered it. He had learned never to assume that you could predict a Celt, which meant nothing, and everything. “Execute them immediately.”

  “The light’s fading. We won’t be have time to—”

  “Leave the bodies for the wolves.” Darius strode away, leaving Scipio fumbling over a hasty salute.

  Darius paused at the gate, which had remained open following the return of his soldiers. Up in the watchtower, several men were singing as they raised the Roman standard over the new fort. Beyond the gate lay a peaceful meadow that separated Sylvanum from the immensity of the forest. The sun shone, gleaning off the wings of insects that hung in the air like a glittering spell. Behind them, a dark wall of trees.

  It was familiar, this Hibernian scene—beauty and savagery, intrinsically linked. Darius could hear the nearby river slicing its way through the dusky woods, chasing its own foamy rivulets to a chasm, all that weight of water thundering against earth and stone. Darius had seen that river, had stumbled and torn his way through those forests with his men on exploratory surveys.

  One more year.

  Rome ensured its soldiers had comfortable retirements, and Darius was nearing the end of his twelve-year service, having joined the Empire’s ranks at the youngest possible age. He thought of the short, docile trees in the Sicilian hills where he had spent his youth. The dry wind, which carried the scent of terracotta and sun-warmed earth.

  Darius’s hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. He had no one waiting for him. His beloved father was dead, and he had no siblings. A meaningless string of lovers but no wife. He had no absent companions to yearn for, and so he put his yearning into the idea of the land itself, its smell and sound and taste, sensual as any lover.

  It was all he had. It was enough.

  One more year on this green island. He would help Agricola build more forts and tame the tribes, cementing Roman rule in Hibernia. Then, at long last, he would make his way back to Sicily. His father’s olive groves, where he had gamboled as a boy, and spent long days napping and reading in their shade, now belonged to him. He would not leave them again.

  Darius glanced down at his hand, tight on his sword hilt. The scars that criss-crossed his knuckles stood out in stark relief.

  He motioned to the men, and they closed the gate against the gathering dark.

  Chapter Two

  Darius strode through the barracks. The air was sweet with celebratory triumph—every soldier seemed to have a smile on his face. Darius found his mood lightening as he walked. As an experienced officer of Rome, he’d seen both good and bad times, and knew to cherish the former whenever he could. The new fort was beautiful, in its practical Roman way, all tidy lines and sharp angles, a testament to the might and ingenuity of the Empire.

  It was full dark now, and Darius paused for a quick wash and a shave in the Spartan baths before completing his survey of the defenses. He could have left it to Marcus, he supposed, but habit kept him on his guard at all times.

  Habit, and something more than that. The Celts’ bizarre capture was a riddle in want of a solution. The executions had been carried out without a hitch, the bodies deposited at the forest’s edge. Their plans, if they had any, had been taken with them to the grave.

  He pushed back his frustration as he stepped through the door to the officers’ quarters. His footsteps thudded against the rough stone floor. Gradually, he became aware of something else.

  The sound of carnal pleasure.

  Darius frowned. Had one of the officers left his door open? Darius had no objection to his soldiers seeking pleasure in each other—campaigns were long, after all, and Darius well understood the demands of the flesh—provided they did so discreetly. Yet this couple was making enough noise to wake the dead. Were they drunk?

  Darius followed the noises to a little-used corridor. There he found, half-hidden in a shadowy alcove, two men locked together, one driving hard into the other.

  The closest man—a centurion called Evander—was fully clothed, having merely lifted his skirt above his waist, while his smaller partner was naked save for his boots, his clothes scattered as if they had been haphazardly torn off. The smaller man’s hand was at his own cock as Evander held his hips and fucked him. He was emitting lustful moans, and pushing back sinuously against Evander as the bigger man pummelled him, flesh slapping against flesh.

  As Darius stood there, wondering vaguely what to do, the moans reached a crescendo, and the naked man came messily across the flagstones. Evander let out a low cry, and his body spasmed, driving one last time into his partner.

  Darius stepped forward, expecting the two men to jump to attention, red-faced and stammering, at the sound of his boots. Instead, the naked man turned and began caressing the other. It was Gaius, a young recruit from one of the northern provinces.

  As Darius watched, Evander pushed Gaius against the wall, kissing him with an almost violent passion. Gaius murmured something into his mouth. Evander, unbelievably, was already hardening again.

  Darius retreated, disquieted. Evander and Gaius continued to display an utter obliviousness to his presence, though he made no effort to quiet his steps. As he put distance between himself and them, he heard Gaius’s moans recommence.

  It wasn’t the first time that Darius had seen men, long cooped up in hostile outposts and separated from their wives and lovers back home, demonstrate similar abandonment when finally allowed the release of sex. But he hadn’t known Gaius appreciated men. In fact, he understood him to be stridently on the opposite side, based on overheard gossip from soldiers who had tried to tempt him. Darius had never understood men of that inclination—he himself bedded any partner who was attractive and willing. He had once flirted outrageously with a blushing courtesan in a tavern, only to feel, after they retired to her quarters, something hard pressing against him. He had fucked her anyway, and enjoyed himself no less for the surprise.

  Well. Clearly Evander had landed on a convincing argument.

  Darius would speak to them both in the morning. Evander and Gaius were good men, and Darius doubted they would require more than a reprimand to encourage them to be more circum
spect in future.

  As he strode into the briefing room, a low-ceilinged space anchored by a sturdy table, the officers snapped to attention. Darius nodded his greeting.

  “Well?” he said, pouring himself a cup of wine. He added a generous amount of water. He wanted a clear head.

  “Our scouts found nothing, Commander,” Marcus said, speaking before the more seasoned men could open their mouths. It was his right, as second, yet still Darius found himself suppressing irritation. Marcus was the sort of man who could inspire antipathy while rescuing a horse from a burning barn. “There’s no evidence of some larger plan on the part of the Robogdi.”

  “And Glyncalder?” Darius said. Glyncalder was the nearest Celtic settlement, and inhabited by the Robogdi.

  “All quiet. Sir, might I make a suggestion?” Marcus didn’t pause long enough for Darius to respond. “After our next capture, we should preserve the life of at least one of the elves. Attervalis’s translator could—”

  “There will not always be time to wait for the translator,” Darius said. Alaine, the wan Britannian man who spoke the language of Hibernia in addition to Latin and his own strange tongue—the only man of such talents that the Romans had been able to scrounge up, so far—was several hours’ ride away. “And in any case, these Celts rarely give up their motives, even under duress.”

  “Perhaps we’re too kind to them,” said Atticus, the hulking centurion in charge of Sylvanum’s small equestrian force.

  The men chuckled. Most of them. Marcus, Darius realized, looked vaguely ill, his face flushed and sweaty. Cassius and Milo, Darius’s highest ranking centurions, seemed engrossed in the map on the table. Cassius leaned in to point at something, his arm brushing Milo’s.

  Darius swallowed his wine, thinking. “Tell me again how we came by our captives today. Don’t leave out any details.”

  Marcus, for once, didn’t leap to speak first. Instead, the fort’s chronicler, a dark-eyed man of twenty named Viturian, described the Celts’ capture. It struck Darius again how improbable it was, how little it fit with his knowledge of the Celts. It also struck him how close Milo and Cassius were standing together, how Cassius’s hand was resting on his arm.