When this is over I will be happy to spend the rest of my life running my farm, he thought as he rubbed his eyes. I was not cut out to be a conspirator.
And this was the moment that the Arch-Druid, who in his way had been a force for stability, had chosen to die. If Gaius had believed in the Christian hell of which Julia spoke, he would have cursed the old man to its flames for his timing. Mithras alone knew who the Druids would choose to succeed him, but even if his successor was friendly, it would take time to establish the kind of understanding Ardanos had had with Macellius. But at least the news had brought Gaius to a decision. The question of adoption no longer mattered. If the country was about to explode in revolution he had to make sure that his son was safe. His father’s informants had confirmed that the current High Priestess was still Eilan. Armed with an official message of condolence from the Legate, he was going to see her.
He had dressed carefully for the occasion, in the Roman style but with a Celtic sense of display, in a tunic of saffron linen embroidered with acanthus leaves at the hem over dark red doeskin breeches, and a mantle of light-weight maroon wool held by a golden brooch. At least no one could expect him to wear a toga when he was riding. But despite his fine clothes, as he turned his mount up the avenue of trees leading to the Forest House Gaius realized that he was nervous. He had just pulled out the first grey hairs at his temples. Would Eilan still find him handsome?
They led him into a garden where someone shrouded in a blue veil waited beneath a shady arbor covered with eglantine. He knew she must be the High Priestess because the same dolt of a bodyguard who had fainted when the cattle stampeded at Beltane all those years ago was standing near by, glaring at him. But he found it hard to believe that this erect, veiled figure was Eilan.
“My Lady . . .” He paused, and compelled by something he did not understand, bowed. “I have come to offer the condolences of the Legate at Deva on the death of the Arch-Druid, your grandfather. He will be greatly missed. He was . . .” he thought for a moment, “a remarkable man.”
“Our loss is great indeed,” she answered, and though her tone was colorless, his pulse quickened. “Will you take some refreshment?”
In a few moments a maiden in the drab garb of a novice was setting down a tray with honey cakes and a flagon of some drink made with herbs and berries and water, he supposed, from the Sacred Well. He drank, trying to think of something else to say and, looking down, saw that the fabric of her veil was trembling.
“Eilan,” he said in a low voice, “let me see your face. It has been too long.”
She gave a little laugh. “I was a fool. I thought it would be safe to see you again.” She shrugged then and pulled back the veil, and he saw that her eyes were wet with tears.
Gaius blinked, for Eilan looked not older so much as more like herself, as if the girl he had known had been only a blurred sketch of the woman she was to become. Despite the tears and the neck that seemed too slender for the weight of the golden torque, she looked strong. And why not? he thought then. In her own sphere she has wielded as much power as any legionary commander, these past years. This woman could not be the Fury who had so frightened him. His vision blurred with old memories. He wanted to throw himself at her feet and declare his love for her, but that lout with the spear would be on him in a minute if he moved.
“Listen, for I do not know how long I can stay here,” he said quickly. “War is coming — not because of your grandfather’s death, but because of events in Rome. I can tell you no more, except that there will be a rising against the Emperor. Macellius hopes the British will support us, but there is no telling which way things will go. I must get you to a place of safety, Eilan, you and the boy.”