Caillean blinked, for the man spoke the British tongue like a native. It was a measure of the degree to which Britain had become Roman that the native folk should regret the lack of an Emperor.
“I see they killed your bodyguard, lady,” said the man driving the cart. “Did you have slaves to carry your litter? You don’t any more – no doubt they’ve taken to their heels.” He drew up in the road beside her and stopped, staring at the bodies of the Bacaudae. He looked at her again and made an ancient sign of reverence.
“My Lady — I see that the gods watch over you. We’re bound the other way, but we’ll take you to the next village, where you can get litter bearers and guards.”
He helped her up into the cart and wrapped her in a dry blanket. Some of his men lifted the bodies of the young priests into the wagon. Caillean, huddled in her cloak and the farmer’s rough blanket, reflected miserably that from now on she would be getting the best of whatever these folk could offer her, but no power on earth could bring her to the Forest House before Samaine.
Gaius was surprised to find the road south from Deva crowded with other travelers. It took him a moment to remember that they must be going down to the festival. But the glances he got as he rode by were not friendly, and after a time he felt it wiser to turn off the road and take a path through the hills so that he could come at the Forest House from the direction of Father Petros’s hermitage.
A cold wind was rattling the bare branches like bones, though for the moment it had ceased to rain. Samaine was the feast of the dead; the Romans considered it a day of ill omen. Well, he thought, it was certainly that for him. But he did not consider turning back. He had fallen into a fatalistic mood he remembered from his days with the Legions; the grim acceptance men find sometimes before battle, when survival is less important than honor. He was not sure he had any left, after the last few days, but he would redeem what he could, no matter what it cost.
As he rode, the beauty in the autumn woods moved him despite, or perhaps because of his grim mood. Gaius realized then that in the past year or so he had learned to love this land. Whoever triumphed in the current conflict, he would not go back to Rome.
Hard as he tried to fulfill Macellius’s ambitions, he had never completely belonged in his father’s world, yet he was far too Roman to feel anything but an impostor among the tribes. But the trees did not despise him as a barbarian or the stones hate him as a conqueror. In the peace of the forest, Gaius was at home.
He saw smoke rising from Father Petros’s hut, and thought for a moment of going in. But the place made him remember Senara. Gaius did not think he could bear that memory, and he was certain he would not be able to keep his temper if the priest came out with any of his holy platitudes.
He supposed that his errant legionaries would be hiding somewhere until nightfall. He tethered his mount loosely enough so that it could pull free if he did not return soon and began to make his way carefully around the building, keeping to the woods that edged the cleared land.
Dusk was falling before he saw movement in the bushes ahead of him. Cautious as a cat, he moved forward. Two soldiers were crouched in the lee of some hazels. They had been dicing to pass the time, and now they were arguing about whether or not to light a fire.
“Flavius Macro!” Gaius snapped in his best tone of command. Automatically, the man came to attention, then looked wildly around him.
“Who is it —” the second soldier had his hand on his sword. Gaius trod loudly on a branch to warn him and moved into the last of the light.