The Owl Prince Page 14

Darius let out a slow breath. “The onagers.”

  “The onagers, the missiles. They took it all. And put it to good use.”

  With difficulty, Darius clamped down on his horror, mindful of the soldiers watching. They had kept three onagers—high-powered catapults—at Sylvanum, along with an array of explosives and siege weaponry. It had been assumed they wouldn’t need them, but Roman thoroughness forbade assumptions—the Empire knew next to nothing about Hibernia, after all, and it was possible that the natives were more advanced than their Britannian neighbours, perhaps even advanced enough to inhabit walled cities that would need to be broken. The notion that the Hibernians might capture a Roman fort and claim its store of weaponry for themselves had doubtless never entered the minds of the military strategists who had supplied the fleet.

  The Celts weren’t capable of matching Rome’s firepower. So they had simply appropriated Rome’s firepower. It was a strategy almost sinister in its simplicity.

  “Do you think—” Darius stopped. “Do you think that was the plan all along? That the attack on Sylvanum was about more than destroying the fort itself? We don’t store that sort of weaponry at Attervalis or Undanum.”

  “I don’t see how they could have found out where we store our onagers,” Marcus said. He let out a slow sigh. “Though I also didn’t see how they could work out how to use them, and it seems they’ve managed that. You must teach me your gift of foresight, Commander. As you once reminded me, it was I who let the Trojan Horse into Sylvanum.”

  Marcus’s voice was bitter. Darius saw the regret and self-recrimination in his face. He didn’t try to argue against it, or insult Marcus’s honour by claiming all the blame for himself. Marcus wasn’t a child in need of coddling. Darius merely placed a hand on Marcus’s shoulder, pulling him to a stop.

  “Mistakes are part of the fabric of leadership,” he said. “You’ll make others, probably many, but you’ll also have your successes. Your goal is to have the latter outweigh the former. No man has ever accomplished more.”

  Marcus gave a hollow laugh, but Darius could see that his words, as well as the warmth in them, had lightened the burden he carried. Marcus gave Darius a long look. “I am glad you aren’t dead.”

  Darius laughed, though it sounded strange to his ears, tinged with exhaustion and something that he could only characterize as a lostness. “We’ve made progress, you and I.”

  “Yes, I’m sure it’s quite the surprise to you that you’ve converted another man to your legion of admirers.” Marcus’s gaze held Darius’s for a moment longer than necessary. “I have no doubt you’ll acquire a few more, given that you can now add ‘risen from the dead’ to your reputation.”

  “Have I a reputation?” Darius said.

  “Agricola talks of you often.”

  Darius smiled faintly at the mention of Agricola’s name. He pictured the old man—though he was barely into his forties, Agricola seemed to have simply bypassed middle age—leaning over some map, grizzled brow lowered over those startlingly jewel-like eyes. When Darius had served in Britannia, he and the general would sometimes stay up late into the night, debating points of strategy. Agricola had insisted that Darius take the lead in any face-to-face negotiations with the Britannians. “We have an easy relationship. My father died several years ago, and I often saw him in Agricola, though they are nothing alike. I’m sure he speaks favourably of other men.”

  Marcus shook his head. “See, that’s precisely what I mean. Do you know how many people see that dried-up bowl of pottage in a fatherly light? And no, he doesn’t speak that way of other men. You seem to be the only one able to bring out that side of him.”

  Darius wondered what Agricola thought of what had happened at Sylvanum, and if he would still have the man’s esteem. He followed Marcus into the fort.

  Attervalis was laid out almost identically to Sylvanum, with its broad via principalis or central street, its forum and barracks and supply buildings. Darius felt like a ghost. The sense of lostness persisted—he wasn’t sure if he felt lost himself, or if it was a feeling of lacking something vital. Every man he passed stared at the Roman in barbarian clothes, and some even did a double-take, no doubt assuming on the basis of his clothing and pale skin that he was a barbarian himself. Marcus paused to speak to two men in the principia, who he introduced to Darius as tribunes. Darius made the appropriate greetings and responded to the men’s surprised welcome, though he barely heard his own words. Marcus led him then into the commander’s house.

  Darius almost wished he hadn’t. Albinus’s presence was everywhere—in the tidily arranged shelves; the rug of Venetian design; the small clay figurines on a table that had clearly been carved by a child’s hand. He had only met the man a handful of times, but had respected his quiet competence. He knew Albinus’s men had, too.

  “He fell when the wall was breached?” Darius said.

  Marcus shook his head. He poured Darius a glass of wine and handed it to him. “After. He led an attack on a Robogdi village, a place called Nestag, in retaliation for Sylvanum. We’d been reliably informed by one of our scouts that many of their warriors had gathered there after their attack on our fort.”

  Darius started. “Then the Robogdi bested you at their village?”

  Marcus sipped his own wine. “No, of course not. It was a rout—they put up little resistance. Albinus took a knife wound to the stomach—not deep, but it became infected. He died within two nights.” He paused. “Would you like to hear why we defeated the Robogdi so easily?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?”

  “Oh, the elves have no discipline, no strategy—yes, that’s true. But that night, there were no Robogdi warriors at Nestag. Not a one. Among the dead we found mostly women and teenagers, and a few old men. In the dark, our soldiers couldn’t tell the difference.”

  Darius felt cold. “Then you destroyed a village full of women and children?”

  “Yes.” Marcus set his glass down on the table and strode to the window. “It was regrettable. The warriors must have caught wind of our approach, and abandoned Nestag, and their people, to their fate. A coward’s choice, surely, but hardly surprising from men so wholly uncivilized.”

  “There are many words I’d use to describe the Hibernians,” Darius said slowly. “Cowardly wouldn’t be among them.”

  Marcus shrugged. He went on to detail Albinus’s illness and the man’s decision to place Attervalis in Marcus’s hands, how he’d sent out scouting expeditions—including the one Darius had stumbled across—to try to track their enemies’ movements. Darius was barely listening.

  It didn’t make sense. Darius didn’t believe that Robogdi warriors would abandon their womenfolk to die in their place—not because he had any great respect for the Robogdi, but because it wasn’t behaviour consistent with any race of men he had encountered, and Darius had encountered many. No. There was something else going on.

  But what?

  He thought back to the reports from before Sylvanum had been attacked, of how the Robogdi had gathered at Glyncalder, a settlement within marching distance of Sylvanum, for their solstice celebration. He theorized now that this had been misinformation cleverly fed to their translator; the Robogdi had been gathering for an attack, using the solstice celebration as cover. He thought of the group of Celts captured so easily by Marcus. He thought too of the choice of weapon, nightfire, which not only robbed the Romans of their ability to fight, but their dignity. And how, as he now suspected, the Hibernians had somehow learned of Sylvanum’s stock of weaponry, and had planned accordingly, attacking Sylvanum first and using their gains to cripple Attervalis.

  There was a plot underway, Darius was certain of it. Somehow, he sensed the same devious mind at work. Darius wasn’t the most skilful warrior, not did he excel at battle tactics, but he could read men. Agricola had valued him because of it. If all that Darius suspected was true, whoever was directing the allied Robogdi and Volundi forces was a dangerous man indeed. Darius had never known a barbar
ian mind capable of strategy, at least not to this degree.

  What had Rome gotten itself into on this green isle?

  And what was the strategy now? What possible motive could have led the Robogdi to abandon their women and children to slaughter? What did they gain from it?

  Marcus seemed to have noted Darius’s inattention. He motioned to the wine. “I’m not trying to seduce you. We have the food and drink checked daily.”

  Darius blinked, then gave a wan smile. He had forgotten he was holding a glass. “So. What is Rome’s next move? Have you had word from Agricola?”

  “We have, just this morning. Our orders are to strike the Robogdi and the Volundi hard. We have a supply ship on its way that will more than make up for the weaponry we lost at Sylvanum. Agricola is also in the process of reassigning one of the cohorts from Britannia to Hibernia. An additional five hundred men, together with the added firepower, will make for a suitable demonstration, Agricola thinks. Once we find out where their warriors are massing, we’ll strike.”

  “A demonstration,” Darius repeated uneasily. “Agricola wants to make an example of them.”

  “Naturally.” Marcus eyed him. “You have concerns.”

  “A hard strike will close off any possibility for negotiation,” Darius said.

  “Negotiation? What is there to negotiate after the depravity of Sylvanum?” Marcus’s tone was heated, but he checked himself. He regarded Darius with a wry smile. “But of course, you would still press for negotiation. But there does come a time, Commander, when talk is simply not an option. After Nestag, it is unlikely that the Robogdi will have a strong desire to negotiate with us.”

  “Then send messengers to the Volundi,” Darius said. “Let us attempt to put a wedge in their alliance. Rome is not an unattractive suitor; there are many advantages we can offer. If nothing else, opening negotiations will buy us time to learn about these people. We know so little about the Hibernians, Marcus. I fear we are moving too quickly to deal with them—if we are underestimating their strategic capabilities, the results could be disastrous. We already have an example: Sylvanum.”

  Marcus sighed. He ran a hand through his hair, giving Darius a long look. “All right, all right. We can discuss strategy. But I will hear none of it until you’ve eaten.”

  He led Darius through the Commander’s quarters to a spacious dining room simply but beautifully tiled with Roman tesserae. A row of windows afforded a view of the sea, blue-grey beneath a cloudless sky and speckled with rocky islets. The shadows were deep; it was not long until evening. Marcus spoke to a servant, and soon baskets of the heavy bread gifted to them by the Darini were brought in, along with cheese, figs, walnuts, and roasted trout fresh-caught from a Hibernian stream. It was an odd repast, a mixture of Roman and Celt, but Darius had grown used to Celtic food in recent days, and welcomed both cuisines equally.

  “I expected more survivors from Sylvanum,” Darius said as they seated themselves. He tried not to allow the wrenching disappointment to seep into his voice. “Yet I’ve seen no familiar faces.”

  Marcus swallowed a mouthful of trout. “There are some. Close to one hundred. One of the surveillance parties I sent out today was mostly Sylvanum men—I’ve kept them together to avoid rejigging Attervalis’s units.”

  “That’s wise,” Darius said.

  “Among them is someone you may remember,” Marcus said, a slight smile on his face. “I’ve already sent him a message about your return. He should be arriving shortly.” Indeed, it was only moments before there was a knock at the door, and Scipio entered.

  Darius’s face broke into a smile. He embraced the other man without hesitation, then stepped back, uncertain if his gesture would be awkwardly received. But Scipio, fortunately, was smiling with the same easy cheer Darius remembered.

  “Back from the dead, are you?” the older man said fondly but without overt surprise, and Darius thought back to the years they had spent together on campaigns in Gaul and Britannia. “This one’s good at getting out of scrapes,” Scipio added to Marcus. He pulled up a chair and helped himself to the food. “You should hear the story of his return to Isca Dumniorum after the natives held him hostage during trade negotiations. They ended up carrying him back to the fort in a litter after he used that honey tongue of his to convince them to accept less than they had been offered.”

  “You make me sound like a swindler,” Darius said with a laugh. “As much as I was authorized to promise them, I promised. I simply presented it to them in a different light.”

  They fell into easy conversation, though Darius couldn’t stop his gaze from drifting critically over Scipio. After all they’d been through together, he’d grown expert in reading the other man. He detected a heaviness in his posture that had not been there before, and wondered how much of it was due to Sylvanum.

  “It wasn’t the most noble of partings, was it?” Scipio said, in response to Darius’s expression. “Never mind, man. It will make for a thoroughly tantalizing story one day, in some villa courtyard in the Albans…”

  Darius surveyed him. “You are truly all right, my friend?”

  Scipio gave a slight grimace, but the amusement didn’t leave his eyes. “I hate to admit to it, but I have experienced greater embarrassment in my time, Commander. Wealth is not always a blessing in adolescence, admitting too many opportunities for debauchery…I only regret that I could not keep a sound enough mind to defend my colleagues, as you managed to do.”

  Darius looked away as the memories from that dark night surfaced. Scipio placed his hand on the younger man’s shoulder, as Darius had done for Marcus. “Perhaps one day you or your cold-blooded captain can explain to me how one keeps one’s head after swallowing a quantity of nightfire. Or do the brains of men like you share no blood at all with your nether regions?”

  Darius smiled. “I wish I could claim such a thing. I was myself overcome by the drug, as you know.”

  “Yet you still managed to rescue what men you could. And one of those men—” He nodded at Marcus—“made it to Attervalis, and organized a search party that rounded up all the survivors it could, myself included. And there is also a story circulating of how you saved one of the men from being ravished, despite being under the influence of the drug yourself. You’re not an unpopular figure among the soldiers.”

  Darius shook his head. “Any accolades they’ve chosen to bestow upon my memory are little deserved. I don’t believe that resisting the urge to rape someone or being wounded by barbarians warrant acclamation.”

  “The men would rather follow you,” Marcus said with his characteristic bluntness. “You’re an experienced commander with a reputation established long before Sylvanum. They know you have Agricola’s esteem. I’m green. The only reason I became commander of Attervalis is because the men above me were killed—or wounded, in the case of Albinus’s captain, who’s presently recovering from a nasty head injury in the infirmary.”

  “I hope you’re not suggesting what I think you are.” Darius raised his eyebrows. “Sylvanum’s soldiers don’t know me.”

  “They will soon enough. You’ve already won over every man you’ve spoken to.”

  Darius gave him a look. “I hope that our last…encounter hasn’t coloured your opinion of me. I assure you, I’m not the Apollo you’re implying. Please don’t tell me your next words will be an ode to my eyes.”

  “Don’t worry,” Marcus said with a characteristic glower—and, Darius thought, a slight flush—“your modesty is safe from me. In any case, I’m not talking about your looks. It’s the way you talk to people. You could win over the Emperor’s wife and his lover both before dinner is served, and then have Augustus himself eating out of your hand before dessert.”

  Darius’s thoughts turned, as they had with regularity since he’d left that shadowy grove, to Fionn, and the Celt’s refusal to answer even the most basic questions. “My powers of persuasion are not universally effective, I assure you. And I have little appetite to take up a new
command.”

  “Why not?” Marcus looked genuinely perplexed. “Surely your injuries are not so severe—”

  “I’m well,” Darius said. “It’s—” He stopped. In truth, he didn’t know what made him recoil from the idea of accepting another command. It wasn’t because of Fionn. He certainly didn’t relish the idea of hurting Fionn, and would make every effort to avoid it. He hadn’t developed any warm feelings towards the rest of Fionn’s race, though, and he knew his conscience would give him little resistance were he to meet any other Celt on the battlefield. Yet his experiences in the Hibernian wilderness had given him the sense that this was all wrong. Not just Agricola’s orders, but Rome’s very presence here.

  Hibernia was not their world. It was a world of monsters and demons, and Darius couldn’t begin to guess at the consequences they would face in trying to wrest from them this green island and place it into the Empire’s cold, logical grasp.

  Scipio was watching him. “The men don’t blame you for Sylvanum, Commander.”

  “Is that it?” Marcus rounded on him. “And after that pretty speech you gave me about how I shouldn’t blame myself for that mess?”

  Darius rubbed his eyes. He swallowed his last bite of bread and rose. “Perhaps, gentlemen, we could discuss this further in the morning. It’s been a long, strange day, on the heels of several long, strange ones. Surely you can bear the burden of command another night more, Marcus.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The next day, Darius managed to gracefully extricate himself from command—for the most part. Under the guise of safeguarding Marcus’s dignity, he suggested that he share the position of captain with Scipio until they received further instruction from Agricola, which would likely come within a week or two.

  Darius gave Marcus and Scipio an overview of his fears as far as the mysterious Celtic mastermind was concerned, though he managed to make only a dent in Marcus’s skepticism.

  “The nightfire was clever, no question,” Marcus said. “But as to the rest, I remain unconvinced that the elves are mounting any sort of elaborate scheme against us.”