Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Britain, 140 years after the death of Christ. Somewhere north of Hadrian's Wall.

There are ghosts, north of the wall. Everyone knows it to be so. Crazed, woad-smeared phantoms that prowl the night forests, drinking the blood of Romans and wearing their skins for cloaks. They say that the ghost soldiers creep into camps in the dead of night, slitting throats and sowing chaos. They can control the weather, walk unseen, and everywhere wild beasts serve as their eyes and ears.

Camps lay barren and abandoned as you march past the walls. Burned out skeletons of tents. Spears thrust into the cold earth. Broken shields. The corpses of men and horses. They must be dead men, these creatures that hunt Romans, for there are never any bodies to be seen on battlefields save those of the conquerors. Never any voices save the howl of the wolves and the harsh call of the carrion crows.

Britain is not a good land for Romans. The endless clouds and mist block out the warm light of Apollo's chariot and the damp and the cold creep into men's bones and slowly drive them to madness and despair. It is a land without gods, full of disease, heathens, and death.

Yet, here they are. A centuria of soldiers, separated from their cohort, alone in the mist and the moonlight, each sunk deep into his own thoughts as they stare at their campfires, longing for the light and the warmth of home. On the edge of the small valley, a young man huddles further into the wet wool of his cloak.

"Did you hear that?" hisses his comrade, his hand tightening around the shaft of his spear. The boy jumps, and the crowd around the fire laughs unkindly at his alarm.

"Relax yourself, lad," growls Marius, a grizzled veteran of late middle years. "There are good men on the watch. You needn't worry about the dark."

"It's not the dark I'm worried about," mutters the boy, a peaky, thin-faced young man, Quintus by name, "It's what's in the dark that bothers me."

"What, Woads? Don't worry, boy, we're far from the front. A long way from all the fun." Marius gives Quintus a horrific, gap-toothed grin. Quintus' face pales. Despite the promises of his elder brother Secundus, he does not find the prospect of getting his intestines removed by maddened monsters to be anything close to his idea of fun.
The mist has drawn thicker, closer around the camp. Quintus shivers. "I just hope we find the rest of the cohort in the morning, or they find us," he murmurs, frowning at the dancing flames of the campfire.

"Rest assured, the centurion will see us right," Marius's voice is confident, reassuring, "It's just this damned mist that's-"

His voice stops, cut off in a strangled sort of choke. Quintus looks up and sees Marius' face wide with shock. He could almost imagine that the man had just seen a naked woman, or a man with three heads, were it not for the glinting head of an arrow protruding from his open mouth.

Plip. Hiss. Plip. Hiss.

Quintus watches in horror as Marius' blood drips from the arrow to smoke and sizzle on the logs of the fire. He hears screaming around him, distantly, as though someone is holding a blanket to his ears. The ring of steel, the cries of wounded men. He can hear a rushing, swooping sound in his head. A soldier leaps in front of him, his short sword brought up in helpless defense against the rain of blows from a creature wrapped in furs and leather. Its mouth is open in a wild scream, its face smeared blue with woad and lit with the fierce glow of battle.

The world seems to slow. Quintus hears a voice screaming at him from the back of his mind, telling him to run, to flee from this place and not to stop until he sees the rolling fields of his home. He thinks it is probably his voice, but he cannot move. He sits frozen as the blade of the woad tattooed creature slides through the soldier's chest like a hot knife through butter. The blade is jerked out, and Quintus watches the red gout of blood that splatters the creature's face and arms.

It turns on him then, eyes bright and fearsome, covered in the blood of his comrades. Like a hare held fast by the gaze of the wolf, Quintus shivers helplessly as the creature stalks towards him, its teeth bared in a vicious grin. With the same desperate courage as the rabbit, Quintus fumbles for his sword, shaking it loose from its sheath with trembling hands. He holds it before his face as though its mere presence will protect him from the inevitable.

He feels a white hot pain in his chest. As though from a thousand leagues away, he looks down to see the hilt of a sword protruding from his chest. He realizes, with the clarity of his approaching death, that he has seen one before. Its twin is hanging over the fire in his father's house, where it marks the proud glory of a cavalry officer. He marvels at the revelation that the hand holding the sword is the same olive tone as his own. The braces about the wrist, worn and battered leather, bear the mark of Sulis, Rome's most celebrated tanner and leather worker.

He looks up into the face behind the sword and sees none of the unreasoning madness he has been taught to expect. Only a deep and long-smouldering anger in deep brown eyes marked by the weariness of long years far from home. Or perhaps, Quintus considers as the blackness begins to cloud the edges of his vision, perhaps it is the anger of a man who has found home far from where he ever expected it would be.

Britain, 125 years after the death of Christ. Hadrian's Wall.

The camp was cold. It was always cold up on the Wall. Cold and wet. Po sat by the fire in front of his tent, staring into the blue-black blade of his father's sword as the whetstone ran steadily along it.

Hiss-snick.

He shouldn't really have had it as an infantryman. It was a long-bladed thing, lighter than the standard issue with a slight curve to the blade, designed to cut into infantry from the back of a horse, but he'd kept it all the same. A gift from his father, a reminder of all the stories his mother had told him as a child. All the glory and honor she had wished for him.

Hiss-snick.

The slow, repetitive motion was soothing and he let his mind wander back to home. It had been nearly thirteen years since he had seen Rome and the further he got away from it, the harder it was to remember. It existed as a bright spot in his mind, defined only by things about Britain that were slowly driving him mad. Soft linen. Warm baths. Good wine. His mother. He felt a twinge of guilt as she entered his mind. It had only been thirteen years and already he had forgotten quite what her face looked like, just quite the way she smelled.

Hiss-snick.

One more week. One more week of service and he could go home. The campaign in the north was going well, by all accounts. His company had captured a Pictish raiding party north of the wall a week ago, but there had been no action since, only endless cycles of guard duty and inspection, inspection and guard duty. As though summoned by his thoughts, Snap loomed out of the dark into the circle of the fire, dragging his helmet from his head with a sigh.

"Your watch, centurion," he said as he plunked wearily down on the turned logs they had dragged over to the fire. Snap looked like Po felt, the dark circles under his eyes drawn in stark detail by the flickering shadows of the fire. His cloak, once a deep scarlet, had faded to a dusky pink and his armour had seen more use than repair.

Hiss-snick

Po slid the whetstone down the blade one last time, inspecting the edge in the orange light. "Thank you," he replied, sheathing the sword as he rose. "Anything exciting to report?"

"I don't report to you, centurion," Snap replied with a weary grin, "but even if I did I'd have nothing to say. Those blue-painted buggers are as silent as dead men and just as personable."

"To be expected, I suppose." Po drew his cloak closer around his shoulders, loathe to leave the warmth of the fire. "And it makes for an easier watch."

"About as easy as watching the grass grow."

"Fascinating and diverting. I'll probably love it."

Snap grunted, sliding closer to the fire, his shoulders hunched against the damp wind. "Some luck."

Po wound his way through the camp to the guard compound. Strictly speaking, it wasn't solely his watch. The bulk of the guard duty fell to the men in his century in an attempt to ease the tension that came with a large body of soldiers with nothing to do. It hadn't helped much, but it was something. They were restless, he could see it in the changing stances, the spears resting on shoulders that jerked upright at his approach.

He took his time on the walk around the compound, talking quietly with each man, passing out words of encouragement or discipline, whichever was needed. As he took his place at the gate, he was startled by a voice from behind him.

"That is a fine sword, centurion." The Latin was light and precise, with a lilting quality that fell strangely on his ear. He turned slowly, his eyes resting on a small man whose pale hair glittered in the light of the torches that burned on posts around the compound. He sat cross-legged on the ground, hands folded in his lap, gazing up at Po with impassive eyes. He had seen the man before, talking with the other prisoners in small, quiet groups, but had never paid him much attention. The man nodded to the sheathed blade at Po's hip. "Not standard issue, I think."

"No," Po said slowly, "it isn't. Nor is Latin standard issue for Picts, I think."

The man shrugged. "A fair point." He smiled, accentuating the crooked cast of his face, "It would seem that neither of us are quite up to regulation."

"I can’t say as I’ve ever been much for regulation."

The man threw back his head and laughed, a delighted sound that startled the guard. Spears were gripped tightly and more than one face turned toward Poe with questioning eyes. He waved them down with a smile as the Pict's mirth faded.

“I’m glad I could amuse you.”

“As am I. There is little in the way of diversion to be found by staring at the mud.” The Pict gave a rueful grin.

He was an interesting man to watch. When he spoke, his face was bright and animated and yet, when he was silent, as he was now, he was utterly still.

"You seem quite calm, for a prisoner," Po remarked, his curiosity piqued.

"Would it help me to be otherwise?"

"No, I suppose not." Po crossed his arms, leaning against the gate, "unless fear would drive you to plans of escape, or some other activity."

"I do not need to plan for escape." The calm response was unsettling, the smile that followed it even more so.

"Oh?" Po asked. Something about the man's comment took the light banter lurching to the side, setting off warning bells in his head. He waited, hoping for some reply, but none came, only the same, eerie stillness. Po frowned and, with no small degree of difficulty, turned his back to the prisoner, looking out into the scattered fires of the camp as he rolled the Pict's words over in his mind. The only way a man wouldn't need to plan for escape was if he was resigned to his fate. Or, whispered a voice in his head, one that had saved his life in countless battles, if he was expecting to be rescued. He shivered. Rescue would do little good. They were camped on the north side of the wall, but only barely. It was less than a half day’s ride to the wall’s garrison and the camp was certainly not lightly guarded. It would take some kind of sorcery to mount a rescue from the midst of a hundred heavily armed and watchful Romans. Sorcery, or suicide.

The evening’s watch continued in peace and he had nearly banished the insistent itching on the back of his neck when the first arrow sang through the dark to thud into the gate beside his head, jolting him roughly from his contemplation. Shouts and the sounds of battle rose in the dark and Po watched in disbelief as the camp erupted.

"Shield wall!" he yelled, pulling his own heavy shield from where it rested against the gate to smack into the ground in front of his body. "Shield wall!" Only seven of the ten men who had manned the compound heeded his order. The other three lay dead, Pictish arrows letting their blood seep into the muddy grass. The others rushed to his side, looking as shocked as he felt, faces pale, eyes wide. The shields of their tiny wall had only just locked together when a wall of howling, blue-faced Picts swarmed from the tents before them, weapons raised. “Steady!” Po called, gripping his spear tightly as his heart pounded in his chest. To his surprise, however, the bulk of the swarming men split and flowed around their little wall, attacking the wooden stakes of the compound instead. Po wasn't sure which was worse, the armed men falling on his spear in front of him or the suddenly vocal mass of angry men at his unprotected back. His mind raced, trying desperately to find a way out of this for him and his men, but the options were rapidly running out. One man on the flank fell, an axe in his neck. It made no sense to hold, but if they broke, they were dead…

On a sudden impulse, Po took his hand from his spear and reached behind him for the gate. The unarmed men, he decided, were the better option. The bulk of the Picts were hacking at the bars of the compound, so there must be something there that was more valuable than Roman lives. Perhaps, if the attackers found what they were looking for, his men would see the dawn. The gate swung open and he stepped inside, shouting for his men to get out of the way. The prisoners streamed out in a packed mass, flooding towards the camp. Only one did not joined the maddened rush, standing slowly and brushing the dirt from his woollen trews and walking toward the open gate. On a sudden impulse that was barely more than intuition, Po reached out a vambraced arm and caught the blonde Pict by the shoulder, drawing his knife.

“You,” he said, pressing the blade against the man’s ribs, “come with me.” The man stiffened, but said nothing as Po steered him toward the gate of the compound. The last of his men still maintained a pitifully small shield wall against the stakes, faced by a small group of howling blue-skinned fighters. “Call them off,” Po growled at his prisoner as they approached, hoping he was right.

“Centurion, I don’t think I quite have the influence you-”

“I said call them off!” Po let the knife do his negotiating for him, the tip parting the rough cloth of the Pict’s tunic like sun through the mist, pressing into flesh. His mind was racing, trying to catch the edges of sense in the wild madness that had taken over his world. Fires burned all across the camp, the linen of tent walls feeding billowing black smoke to the lightening sky. Screams still echoed through the night, but they were fewer. Any officer with half his wits would have long since called a retreat, letting the living flee into the enclosing woods. The red shadows swarmed with fur-draped bodies. There would be no way out through the camp, only slow, painful death. To his relief, his prisoner called out a few harsh words, an edge in his voice, and the small knot of warriors lowered their weapons. Only three of his men remained, each battered and frightened.

“Form up!” Po said sharply as he drew alongside them. They obeyed, spears clattering against the hard leather of their shields as they drew into a straight line. “Now slowly back.”

They crept slowly toward the sheltering arms of the forest, spears raised. The boughs had nearly closed over them before the Pict spoke, still in that low, infuriating tone. “You may wish to release me here, centurion.” Po grunted in response, his eyes still on the dim outline of the Pictish war band in the flickering smoke of the camp, facts falling together in his mind to form a picture he didn’t care for in the least. The branches of a large pine tree cut off his view as they finally gained the safety of the trees, and he drew a slow breath before he spoke.

“Only if I had stepped completely outside my mind.”

“I don’t see how-”

Po took the man’s shoulder, spinning him to look in his eyes. “Just tell me that was nothing more than a rescue party,” he said evenly. “Tell me they have what they wanted and will leave us to make our way safely back to the wall. That this is not part of a determined offensive push.”

Silence greeted him. “I thought as much. Thirteen years of service in this gods-forsaken country have not been without their lessons,” he continued grimly, drawing the Pict’s arms behind his back and fishing in his belt for a bit of twine, “and unless I miss my mark, I expect that, by dawn, every bit of land between here and the Wall will be covered with Pictish warriors who would like nothing better than to mount my head on a spear shaft and parade it before the Wall.”

“I dare say they would like other things better,” the Pict grunted as he pulled the twine tight.

Po let out a harsh bark of laughter. “As you say.” He spun the man around once more, studying the dim outlines of his face in the filtered light of the full moon. “So, as of this moment, my job is to get these soldiers to Vercovicium alive and, preferably, unharmed. Your job,” he added, tapping the blade of his knife lightly against the Pict’s chest, “if you value your life, is to help me.”

“I see. And if I don’t?”

Po shrugged, “Then I’ll cut your throat right here and be done with you. I have no use for you, and I’ll be damned if I send you back only to have you dog my steps.”

“I don’t think you would do that.”

Po felt his temper fraying rapidly in the face of the man’s impenetrable calm. They didn’t have time for this nonsense. He stepped forward, backing the prisoner up against the bole of an oak. “Just keep pushing,” he snarled, “and you’ll see what I would do.”

“There is no need for threats, centurion,” the Pict said softly.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Po responded, taking a slow breath before deliberately sheathing his knife. “Now let’s get walking.”

*

The grey light of dawn filtered through the leaves as they made their way through the low bushes and scraggly trees toward the small stream that, if Po remembered rightly, would cut them a straight, covered path through the stretch of open plain that stood before Hadrian’s Wall. With any luck, they would pass undetected. His men had been silent through the night’s walk, following his direction with a grateful dependence. Marcus and Tristan, twin brothers from the north of the empire, had only just completed their first year under his command. Pale and wide eyed, they stuck close together on the march, hands twitching toward their swords at every sound in the dark. To Po’s relief, the guard decanus, Phineus, had also survived the night’s slaughter. A Numidian from the far south, Phin had seen his fair share of battles, both for Caesar and his king. He brought up the rear and knowing he was there, nervous but steady, eased some of the worry in Po’s mind as they began to follow the stream bed south.

As fingers of delicate pink began to caress the horizon, he called a halt and all five of them sheltered under the twisted arms of a stand of willows. “No fires,” he told the others, just for something to say, “and get some sleep. I’ll take first watch.” They all knew it, of course. Fire would have their little camp crawling with Picts in no time, but that didn’t make sitting hungry and cold in the watery morning sun any more pleasant. He wrapped his cloak as tight around his shoulders as he could manage and propped himself up against the trunk of a willow as the other three stretched out in the tall grass. The Pict made no move to lie down, but instead sat cross-legged on the ground, icy eyes resting on Po. The stare was just as unsettling as it had been the night before and Po looked down at the damp ground. “You may as well sleep,” he murmured, ”we won’t move on again until evening.”

“Difficult to sleep with one’s hands in this particular position,” the man replied, shrugging his well-muscled shoulders. Po nodded.

“You have a name, Pict?” he asked. If there was to be no sleep for either of them, he may as well gauge what kind of prisoner he had on his hands. It might help him to understand what it was in the man’s eyes that made his skin want to crawl off his body and hide.

“We do name our children, yes,” he replied loftily, “and no, we don’t feed them to the wolves, or any of that other nonsense you Romans seem to believe of us.”

“What is yours?”

The blonde eyebrows rose, a smile playing over the bearded face. “You’re awfully cordial all of a sudden, centurion.”

“Just answer the question.”

“I am named Lugh, son of Obi, son of Kveggan. Men call me Druid, teller of tales, Silverhanded, bearer of Lightsaber the Green.”

“And what do women call you, Lugh of the Many Names?” Po asked drily, unimpressed by the litany.

“My sister calls me brother,” Lugh answered, “and most others call me Druid.” He smiled. “What do your men call you, apart from centurion?”

“Nothing,” Po replied, “but I was named Po.”

Lugh’s eyebrows drew together. “Just...Po?”

“Yes,” Po said shortly, still feeling the sting after all these years, the memory of being a slave-born child looking up to the shining world of a Citizen. “Something wrong with that?”

“No,” Lugh studied him for a moment, still frowning. “No, it is a fine name. Do you think you might do away with this?” He flopped his arms, indicating the twine around his wrists.

“Looks just fine to me,” Po said evenly. “Better than my own knife in my ribs.”

The druid sighed, raising his eyes heavenward. “What on earth would cause me to stab you, centurion?”

“I’ll just let you think on that awhile,” Po replied, “Give you something to do while you’re busy not sleeping.”

Lugh said nothing, his smile only growing wider at Po’s sarcasm. A gods-damned druid. No wonder he was so calm. The right to walk across a battlefield unharmed must give a man a sort of confidence in his own safety. Po spat in the cold mud to avert ill luck. He had hoped Lugh was a prince, a chief of some rank but little value that would lend them much-needed influence should they stumble into the arms of Pictish scouting parties. Instead he had captured the only member of a tribe that was really worth fighting for. He cursed his poor judgement, though he did so half-heartedly. The only thing that might have been worse than taking Lugh with them would have been to do as he had threatened and leave him dead in the woods. He sighed, watching the sky slowly begin to fade into a soft grey in the watery dawn.

“Tell me, centurion,” Lugh broke the silence, “what is it you plan on doing once we reach the end of this bit of cover you’ve found us?”

Trust to luck? Run like the wind and hope the gods would be merciful? Die like men with their shields up and Pictish spears in their bellies? All were possible, and Po had hoped to avoid thinking of them until they drew closer to the wall.

“That is no business of yours,” he said, glaring at the grass.

“Ah. So you don't have one.” Lugh gave a heavy sigh.

“I can't see how my plan matters much to you,” Po snapped, needled by the disappointment in the druid’s voice, “since it would be in your best interest if it was a poor one.”

“Well, precisely,” Lugh replied, “and I had suspicions that you were skilled in tactics. I am pleased to see that I was mistaken, and that my bargaining will not be required.”

“There is very little for you to bargain with in any case.”

“Not as little as you might think.”

“Well I’ll keep that in mind,” Po leaned back into the twisted trunk of the willow, “for when I get that plan together.”

The plan, much to his irritation, proved to be a long while in coming. It was difficult to think clearly, being watched by the patient stare of the druid, and he struggled to work his way out of the mess he had managed to stick himself in. The worst of it was that he didn't have enough information and what he did have was unreliable at best. There was no way to know how far the Pictish offensive had pushed into Roman territory, or whether the forces on the wall had mustered a counter attack. It was possible that others had survived, of course, and that a relieving force was already on its way, but what he feared most, and grew to think most likely, was that the garrison on the wall knew nothing of what had occurred, and they were travelling through a land entirely occupied by enemies.

Still rolling the problem around in his mind, he let the others sleep away the day, knowing they would need their strength for the march ahead.

“You should have woken me, sir,” Phineas said in some reproach as Po shook him awake at sunset.

“Nonsense, decanus,” Po replied, “I need you sharp. I was unable to sleep in any case,” he added as Phineas looked ready to argue. “Wake the others,” he continued, “and tighten your belts. We’re in for a hungry march.”

“Not my first, sir,” Phin grinned as he reached out for Titus's shoulder, “and most likely not the last.”

Po nodded and walked to the stream. The water was cold on his hands, and it might have been refreshing if he had spent the day in a warm bed. Since he had spent it crouched under a tree in a cold drizzle for the bulk of the afternoon, however, it only chilled him from the inside out as he drank.

“May I trouble you for a drink, centurion?” Lugh called to him. He was still seated cross legged, and, though he was not a young man, he smiled brightly, as if his day of being curled up on the cold ground had not bothered him in the least.

“I’ve nothing to bear it to you,” Po answered, “you’ll have to use nature’s tools.”

Lugh raised an eyebrow. “While they’re tied behind my back?” He asked as Po approached.

“The deer manage,” Po observed, hauling the Druid to his feet, “so will you.”

Lugh glared at him, the most emotion he had displayed so far, but he knelt on the stream bank, beard trailing in the water as he bent to drink. He even managed it without any undignified slurping, which Po took to be definite proof of some sorcery or other.

When they had all refreshed themselves as much as they were able, and the sun had dipped below the horizon, they began to march along the stream bed, the trickling water masking the sound of their steps as the last of the light began to fade.

The march proved more difficult than Po had anticipated. Not only did the temperature drop in the night, making their breath cloud before them in the pale moonlight, but the stream bed began to dip and twist in odd places. The path grew narrow, and twice they were forced to cross the water, soaking their boots and leggings in the process. Po could feel the men's spirits sinking as they pressed on, but could think of little to do about it. The distance would be what it would be and, though the endless bending back and forth had most likely doubled it, he had little mind to give up the relative safety of the little gully for the open meadows that broke the tree cover to either side. They pressed on, weary and hungry, and Po was about to call a brief halt, when the distant sound of voices broke through the rill of the stream and the rustle of the leaves.

He froze, holding up a hand for quiet, and the little column came to an abrupt halt, none of them daring even to breathe. The voices continued, rising and falling in the rhythms of animated conversation. Now that he looked closely, Po thought he could see the yellow flicker of firelight in the water ahead, mixed with the silver of the moon. With a sharp wave, he summoned Phineas to his side.

“I need to know who might be waiting for us,” he whispered, gesturing toward the light. “I don't need to tell you that our lives may depend upon it.” Phineas nodded slowly. He carefully removed his cloak, laying it aside so it would not give away his passage, then began to creep forward through the grass and leaves along the bank. It might be Romans, and a small part of Po began to hope that it was, but Phin’s progress through the undergrowth suddenly halted, and his heart sank. Whoever had lit this fire, they could not be friendly.

Quiet as a snake, Phin returned, his eyes wide in the gloom. “Picts,” he explained in a low voice, “nearly a dozen, centurion, camped right on the bank. There’s no safe way past them. We’d have to double back and try to go around.” Po swore softly.

“Good work, decanus.” He whispered, squeezing Phin’s shoulder. Then he turned over his shoulder to Lugh. “Alright, Druid,” he whispered, “time to bargain.”

“Now you want to bargain?” The druid murmured, rolling his eyes..

“That’s what I said.” Po turned further to look Lugh full in the face, “So start talking.”

“This isn't how bargaining is done,” Lugh protested, “I don't even know what’s at stake.”

“The only things we have,” Po said with a shrug. “You bargain with your influence,” he drew his knife and laid it against Lugh’s throat, “and I with your life. I expect that neither of us has much else the other truly desires.”

Lugh looked as though he were about to protest again, then nodded very slowly. “Very well,” he replied. The blade bobbed as he swallowed, “though I speak under coercion, I will attempt to use my...influence, as you say, in your favour on this one occasion, and you will grant me my life.”

Po shook his head, “Not good enough. I doubt this is the only such party lying in wait for us. Besides, that offers you little security, since I may grant you your life on this occasion and choose to take it at a later one. You’ll have to do better.”

Lugh grimaced, as though realizing his mistake, though Po suspected he had known it all along and was only hoping it would not be called out. It had been worth waiting-the only bargain worth making now was the one where they could both win.

“Well spoken, centurion. Let us say, then, that I will use whatever influence I may bring to bear in whatever trouble may arise on our journey between here and Hadrian’s Wall. In return for this offer of my service, you will give reasonable assurance of my safety for the duration of our journey, and give me my liberty upon our safe arrival at the Wall, allowing me to return to my people unharmed. May I have your word?”

Po sheathed his knife and held out a hand, “If you hold to the agreement, I will do the same.” Lugh’s grip was warm and strong. “But if you should break it,” he added, their hands still clasped tight, “then I will kill you.”

Lugh nodded once, “and I you, should you prove false.”

“From beyond the grave?” Po asked, one eyebrow raised.

Luke smiled. “Do you doubt that I could reach you from the Otherworld?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Po let go of Lugh's hand, trying to hide the shiver that had crept down his spine at the druid’s words, “Just tell me what we must do to avoid this party.”

“You need not avoid them at all,” Lugh replied, shadow bobbing in the moonlight as he shrugged, “let me go ahead and we shall pass among them unseen and unheard.” Po’s spine prickled.

“You aren't going to speak with them?” he protested.

“There is no need.”

“This sounds a lot like an ambush, druid.”

Lugh sighed, “We cannot continue like this, centurion,” he said softly, “I have given you my word that I will do my best to secure your safe arrival at the Wall. You must trust me, as I must trust you.” Po heard a smile creep into his voice, “I suppose we both must hope that the other values their life above the defeat of an enemy.”

“Yes,” Po allowed, “I suppose we must. Very well then, Many Names, lead on.”

“Here,” Lugh replied, moving to the front of the ragtag line, “take this.” He passed the edge of his shirt back to Po. “You’ll need it. Tell your men to do the same.” Bemused, Po obeyed, whispering to Phin to take hold of his cloak, and the others to do the same. Each linked to the other in a bizarre train, hearts hammering in their chests, they fell in behind the druid and began to creep forward toward the bend in the creek.

It was cool in the gully now, the last of the day’s moisture rising from the water in soft tendrils of mist. Po hadn't seen them before but, as they advanced, the mist began to thicken, caressing their skin with chilly fingers. He shivered. As they reached the bend, the mist turned to fog, and Lugh’s form was barely an outline ahead of him in the dark, and he followed close on the druid’s heels, grateful for the bit of cloth clutched in his hand as the fog thickened, hiding Lugh from view completely.

He could hardly breathe. He knew the Picts must be close, for the sounds of their confusion were all around as they called to one another through the fog, an edge of fear in their voices. Each breath rasped in his throat, leather creaked with every step, and he was certain that they would be discovered, so loud did each footfall sound in his ear, but they walked slowly on until the sounds of the Pictish war band had faded from their hearing.

The fog began to lift as they carried on, thinning to mist and then to nothing. When they could once again see the outline of every tree and bush in the moonlight, Lugh stopped. Po opened his mouth, but Lugh stepped close to him, a finger on his lips. “Now you must move with haste, centurion,” he murmured in Po’s ear, “they will know that the fog was no natural trick of the earth and we must be far from this place before they think to follow us.”

Po obeyed without question, gesturing for his men to follow as he picked up their pace, but he thought long on Lugh’s words as they marched further into the dark. Druids were only glorified holy men, to the best of his knowledge, though highly skilled and wise ones to be sure. He was fairly certain they couldn't call up the aid of spirits or subvert the will of the gods, but the fog troubled him for a reason he couldn't name. Still, the question dogged his steps; if the fog hadn't been a trick of the earth, then what had it been? And just who had he given an oath to protect?

In spite of Po’s dire proclamations of trouble all along their road south, the rest of their journey was unremarkable. It was cold, of course, and by the time Po glimpsed the rising shadow of Hadrian’s Wall in the mist of an early dawn they were all suffering from a belly-clawing hunger, but they were alive. A weariness has settled deep into all their bones, and even the Druid’s irritating comments had faded the longer their journey stretched on.

“We should make the Wall before moonrise,” Po said as they squatted under the dubious cover of a stand of saplings. Since they had left the stream two days earlier, he had been shocked to find their passage so free from enemies. Lugh claimed that he had worked a spell of concealment for them using the skull of a fawn they had found near the edge of the water, but Po found it more comforting to hope that the enemy had merely become discouraged and given up their pursuit. Not that this was likely, but it helped to stop the hairs on the back of his neck from rising at the thought of Lugh’s magic.

“In that case, centurion,” the Druid replied, “do you not now owe me my freedom?”

Po eyed the open plain that stood before the wall with deep suspicion. “We have not reached it yet,” he said, “and so, since you have not yet fulfilled your oath, I will wait to fulfill mine.”

Lugh sighed deeply. He had made several efforts to win Po’s trust in the past few days, and seemed in a constant state of exasperation at the stubborn suspicion he received in return. “As you wish it,” was all he said.

As they continued their march, Po began to see the dim outline of sentries on the wall’s rampart. There were more of them than he remembered, and he felt a hint of unease stir in his belly. “Stay low and quiet,” he instructed the small party as they drew closer. “And you, Druid,” he added, “should stay back. I don’t want you killed by mistake.”

Lugh gave him a soft smile, barely visible in the fading light, but did as he was bid. It was only just in time, as the gate swung open at their approach and a fully armed company of spearmen came through. Then they kept coming, making straight for Lugh.

Stop!” Po shouted, but the spearmen paid him no heed. He drew his sword and held it at the ready, stepping in front of his prisoner, but was stopped by a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Your oath is fulfilled, centurion,” Lugh murmured.

“Not if I let you die, it isn’t,” Po growled, his eyes still on the approaching spearmen.

“A royal oath,” Lugh said, stepping past him, “is higher than all pacts between men. I would not have you break your oath to your king for my sake. Put up your sword.”

Po wanted to argue, but the Druid had already left him behind, walking calmly toward the waiting spearmen, his hands raised to show he offered them no violence.

To their credit, the guards were not cruel. They only tied Lugh’s hands behind his back and led him into their midst. A thin, long faced man stepped apart from the company of spears and walked toward Po, snapping him a crisp salute.

“I beg your pardon, centurion,” he said, staring at the ground in front of his feet, “we are under orders to take prisoner any Pict that comes before the Wall.”

“On whose authority?” Po asked sharply. Generally, the garrison at the wall was not in the business of taking prisoners.

“The General wishes to hold them for ransom,” the soldier replied, “in return for gold and supplies to see us through the winter, or in trade for any of our captured men who still live.”

“Then I must speak to the General,” Po said crisply, sheathing his sword.

Chapter Text

General Hux was a skinny man who sat perched behind his desk as though it were a battlement that protected him from beings of lesser status. He glared as Po swept aside the heavy fabric of the tent flap and stepped inside his sanctum.

“I hear you have been causing trouble at the gate, centurion,” he said archly.

“There was no trouble at all, sir,” Po replied, giving the general the most casual of salutes. “I simply requested clarification from an inferior and received it in return. I believe the prisoner in question was taken into custody without incident.”

“It is remarkable, all this fuss you’ve caused over a single Pict,” Hux said, as though he had not spoken at all. “I shall be certain to put it in the next report I send back to Rome.”

Po gritted his teeth to keep from yelling. “I am a man who honours my oaths,” he said tightly.

Hux’s brows shot up. “Really? Well, I’m glad to hear it. You should have no difficulty in heeding your orders to reassign yourself and your men to Ren’s legion, then.”

“My men will be happy to obey, general.”

“And you will not?”

“I have sworn that I will protect the life of the prisoner. Surely, a man of honour such as yourself would not force me to forsake an oath.”

Hux steepled his fingers, his eyes narrowing as he stared at Po. “An inconvenient oath you’ve sworn there, centurion.”

“That may be, sir, but the Pict saved our lives.”

“And you are quite certain that you have no ulterior motive here? No subtle wish to return to warmer weather, for example?”

Po blinked. “Warmer weather? I know Pictia is cold, general, but I would hardly have classified the Wall as warmer climes.”

Hux gave him a thin smile. “So, you truly are unaware of the identity of your prisoner?”

“General,” Po said, fighting for calm with every syllable, “my only intention is to remain with the prisoner here at the Wall until I can arrange for his safe return to his people. I have no idea what else you might be hinting at.”

Hux leaned back in his camp chair, folding his arms behind his head. “Well, you may be waiting a while for that, centurion,” he drawled. “It appears you have brought us quite the prize. Did you really have no idea that you were being escorted by the High Prince of the Picts?”

Terror seized Po by the heart, squeezing tight. “N-no sir.”

A skeletal grin spread across the General’s pale face. “I grant you permission to fulfill your oath, centurion,” he said, “and wish you safe travels to Rome. I am sure the Emperor will be most interested in meeting your oath-keeper.”

*
Lugh was being held in a compound similar to the one that had held him and his countrymen at the camp north of the Wall. Po’s heart was heavy in his chest as he approached, and it only wrenched his conscience further to see the smile that spread across the druid’s face at the sight of him.

The smile faded as Po did not return it. Lugh leaned against the bars, a quizzical tilt to his head. “I gather you are the bearer of bad news, centurion?”

Po sighed, dragging his fingers through his hair in frustration. “I don’t know what sort of news it is,” he muttered, “but it appears that you and I are not to be done with each other yet, druid.”

Lugh’s eyebrows rose. “But you have fulfilled your duty,” he protested, “You have guarded my life and I yours-what more have we to do with each other?”

“The general is going to send you to Rome,” Po said heavily. “I gave you my word that I would protect you, and so have been granted leave to be your escort on the road.”

The druid’s face grew pale, but that was the only sign of fear that he showed. “You are not bound to do this, centurion,” he said softly, “I would not ask you to leave your men.”

“While you are forced to leave yours?” Po shot back. “It isn’t much of an oath,” he continued, “if you are constantly trying to release me from it.”

Lugh’s smile was thin, but genuine. “Very well,” he said, “when do we depart?”

“As soon as we can. I will come to collect you.”

*

The road to Rome was a long one and, despite Lugh’s incredulity, relatively safe.

“You have no spears?” the Druid asked as they left Vercovicium with two mules and Phineas for company.

“I have a spear right here, Druid,” Po replied, touching the shaft of the weapon strapped to the mule’s back.

“That will hardly count in a shield wall,” Lugh replied with withering scorn.

Po smiled and looked to the left and right with exaggerated care. Behind him, Phin began to snicker. “I see no enemy shields,” he said, “do you?”

“I wouldn’t,” Lugh replied in lofty tones, “if they were led by a half decent warlord.”

Po laughed outright at the Druid’s attempt to hide his ignorance. “We’re on Roman roads, now, Lugh of the Many Names, travelling through Roman provinces toward Roman cities. Who is there to stand as our enemies?”

He swept his hands out to encompass the whole of the sky. “A man can walk unarmed from one end of the Empire to the other and never fear for his life or for his property, whether he escorts sacks full of gold or troublesome druids.”

Lugh said nothing, only raised an eyebrow to show how little he thought of Po’s confidence. As they walked on, however, he was forced to admit that they did seem to travel in relative safety, though Po still caught him checking behind them every few miles.

The march felt like a holiday for Po, after the long months north of the wall, constantly on the lookout for Pictish spears, but even he was not so overcome by a sense of ease that he did not set a watch. Though he knew their path to be a safe one, he could not quite shake the never ending itch of caution that would not let him sleep unguarded, and he would often wake in the nights when he was not keeping watch to see Lugh staring into the dark as though daring it to trouble them.

On one such night, after Po had relieved Phin’s watch, he studied the Druid carefully. Lugh was not a young man, but well made, with a curious face that caught the fire’s light in strange ways. It never seemed to settle in even lines, but broke and slid over the uneven surface to give an impression of depth and long suffering. His nose had been broken, and a small hollow under one eye spoke of a mighty blow long past.

“What are you watching for?” He asked after indulging his own curiosity for several moments.

Lugh looked up, the firelight catching in his bright eyes. “The dead.”

The answer was unexpected, and Po frowned, looking around at the tall canopy of trees that sheltered them. “Are they here?”

Lugh nodded. “The dead are always near, if we take the time to notice them.”

Po shivered. Spears and swords he knew how to handle, but spirits were a power entirely foreign to him, and one he treated with a deep mistrust. The trees seemed suddenly to loom out of the dark and to carry the threat of unknown horrors. “And will they trouble us?” he asked, fighting to keep his voice steady.

“No,” Lugh said simply. He did not look in the least concerned about their predicament, only watchful. “I have woven a charm of protection around you and the decanus,” he continued, “though perhaps against the best of my judgment.”

Po frowned, “What do you mean?”

Lugh sighed deeply and looked back out at the starlit night. “Not long ago,” he said softly, “your emperor came through this land in a swathe of fire and blood. Your proud legions burned our sacred groves to the ground and put our folk to the sword. These lands are steeped in blood and fire, centurion, and souls that are spear-sent to the other world do not easily forget.” He sat quietly for a few moments, looking out at the night. “These souls cry loudly for vengeance, and they curse me bitterly for denying it to them.” He gave a rueful smile and looked back to Po. “Not a very fitting role for a Druid, protecting my people’s enemy.”

There was a deep and heavy sadness in the Druid’s voice and Po looked away, unable to hold the burden of his gaze. “I am grateful for your efforts,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“There is no need for thanks,” Lugh replied, tilting his head back to stare at the stars. “One day our gods will return to Britain, Po, and they will put every Roman to the sword in repayment of the lives you have taken. All I have done is delay your fate.”

Po swallowed hard. “All the same,” he said past dry lips, “I am grateful.”

He did not sleep well for several nights as they travelled south to Londinium. When he did sleep he was troubled by dreams of blood, fire, and the terrible screams of the dying.

Phineas, by contrast, seemed strangely philosophical when Po told him of the conversation. He shrugged his broad shoulders and said, “Gods are gods. When they come I think they will not worry who they kill, only that they kill. Does a cat care which mouse it captures, centurion?”

Po, who had been raised to hold his own gods in fear and awe, found the discussion discomfiting and did not reply.

Chapter Text

They passed the marker for Londinium on the tenth day of their journey. The white stone pillar had been driven into the earth and marked the remaining distance in cleanly chiseled numerals. It appeared to fascinate Lugh, for he stepped close to it, spitting on the grass before reaching out to run his fingers over the numerals.

“What are these?” he asked, frowning down at them.

Po raised an eyebrow. “The numbers?” He asked in some surprise.

“These?” Lugh was incredulous. “You count with these clumsy lines? And what about these?” He traced over the letters beneath the distance, “Have your wizards worked some magic on the rock to keep away your enemies?”

Poe exchanged glances with Phin before coming over to stand beside Lugh. “Those are letters,” he said, still unsure if the Druid was mocking him, “They tell that we have twenty leagues to go until we reach Londinium. And these,” he added, tracing the smaller letters near the middle of the pillar, “are the marks of the emperor.”

“Ah,” Lugh nodded, the cloud of confusion passing from his face, “then the emperor has placed this land under the protection of your gods.”

“What? No,” Po shook his head, “they are only there to show who caused the marker to be built, this isn’t a temple, there are no marks of the gods on it.”

Lugh looked up at him as though he had grown a second head. “No marks of the gods? Then how will they keep away the curses of your enemies?”

“They...they are not built for such a purpose,” Po replied, bemused.

“The emperor relies on his priests to do that,” Phin came to the rescue, “and Roman priests do not like to fling curses if they can see their enemy’s wizards. They prefer to stay in their temples.”

Lugh scoffed and turned away from the pillar. “We must have fallen far from our gods,” he said, “to have been defeated by such weak magic.”

Po was fairly certain that magic had little enough to do with well ordered shield lines breaking the charges of undisciplined rabble, but he said nothing, choosing instead to fix on Lugh’s mystification in the face of letters.

“Do you not read and write?” He asked as they carried on along the road.

Lugh did not so much as glance at him. “Of course not,” he replied scornfully, “it is not permitted for Druids to read and write. I can use the ancient script to keep tallies, the same as any common slave, and I read the letters we use in our charms and curses, but we do not have the love of parchment prisons that you Romans seem to possess.”

“Parchment...parchment prisons?” Po repeated in astonishment.

“Yes,” Lugh gave a firm nod. “I have seen the writings of some of your generals, and it seems that they like nothing better than to sap the power of their words by imprisoning them in parchment and ink. How can you trust a man who does not trust his own words to exist in the world? How can you pass on your wisdom to your children? What do your bards and your priests do with their lives if they do not preserve the wisdom of your tribe?”

The Druid’s habitual confidence had reasserted itself in the face of such glaring ignorance and it was all Po could do to keep from laughing aloud at the ridiculousness of it all. “They write down our wisdom,” he said at last, responding to the least difficult part of the tirade, “so that when we die our children will read the words we leave to them.”

“And what use will written words be to them?” Lugh challenged him, “words lose their power when they are written. Mark it well, centurion,” he continued, “Your children will be lost and confused in the paper labyrinths you have constructed for them.”

“All the same,” Lugh said as they continued down the road, “if I am to live in your land and among your people, it would be better for me to know your ways and your customs. It may be ridiculous, but you must teach me this writing.” He pronounced it with an imperious certainty that prickled Po’s pride.

“If you think it so ridiculous,” he said sharply, “then why should I bother to teach you?”

“Because I ask it of you,” Lugh replied. Po sighed.

“And folk do your bidding when you ask it of them?”

Lugh nodded. “Yes.”

“I see.” Po hefted his pack more steadily on his back and continued on.

“If you were to teach the Druid, centurion,” Phin said after they had walked south for a few miles, “then I would also very much like to learn.” Mistaking Po’s sigh for a refusal, he hastened to add, “Only if it will be no trouble to you, sir, I know we have another task.”

“No, no,” Po shook his head, “it will be no trouble, only that I will not make you much of a teacher.” And that he preferred not to be ordered about by an arrogant Druid, he added to himself, but he could not refuse so humble a request from Phin and so, when they stopped in a willow-covered hollow by the road, Po began to scratch in the dirt by the fire.

“This,” he said, pointing to the letters in the dirt, “is my name. And this,” he scratched again, “is Phin’s. I do not know how to spell your name, Druid, but I do know how to write your title.” He scratched it next to Phin’s.

“What is the word for ‘light’ in your tongue?” Lugh asked.

“Light?” Po asked, “it is this,” he scratched the L, the U, and the X into the dirt. “Lux.”

Lugh nodded, “that will do, it is the meaning of my name.”

“Sounds much like it as well,” Phineas added, frowning down at the scratched letters. Then he looked up at Lugh. “How do you know the meaning of your name?”

Lugh shrugged. “It is the word for light, I have heard it all of my life. Do you not know the meaning of your names?” He looked between the two of them. Po looked down at the fire, scratching idly with the stick.

“Slaves,” he said at last, “do not have the weight of naming that princes carry.”

Lugh frowned. “Slaves? But you are warriors-do you not take your own names?”

Po shook his head. “No. My mother named me after the street upon which I was born. That is all. I do not know my clan, or my lineage, and Rome does not impose the lavish titles that you carry, Lugh of the Many Names.” It had nearly become a jest between them now, the long list of names and titles that Lugh wore like a King’s mantle, and the Druid smiled.

“And you do not know the name of your father? He persisted. Po found Lugh’s concern uncomfortable, but he shook his head. “No, I cannot even name myself as your slaves do.” Lugh looked at Phineas.

“And you, Numidian? What of your name?”

Phin grinned, his teeth showing white in the darkness, “Taken, lord,” he said with pride, “taken from the man who gave me my place in the legions.”

“Then you are Phineas ap Phineas,” Lugh said with a matching smile, “a warrior of Rome.” The title sounded noble in the Druid’s mouth, and Phin laughed to hear it.

“And you,” Lugh continued, turning back to Po, “are Po Sàmhach, Po the Silent.”

“Hardly,” Po snorted, “I talk often.”

Lugh looked at him carefully, “I am certain you do talk,” he said at last, “but when you do, you seldom reveal your purpose. Perhaps I should call you Po Dìomhair, Po the Secret.”

“You don’t really need to name me at all,” Po protested mildly.

“No, but I would like to,” Lugh said with a sudden earnestness that surprised him, “Names do a man honour,” he added, “and I think you are a man that is worthy of honour.”

“Po Honoris!” Phin laughed, “spell that one centurion!”

“No,” Po said, frowning at the heavy weight of the Latin title, “I...I think I prefer the Druid’s word.” And he scratched the letters as best as he was able into the dust. “I think this is close.”

“Po Dìomhair,” Lugh said slowly, and it made Po shiver to hear his name said with such reverence. “I like that very much.”

Po shrugged, “it’s better than introducing myself as Po, son of a slave,” he said, allowing himself a small smile. “You both must practice the writing of it,” he added, “and tomorrow night I will give you more words.”

“You are a hard teacher, Po Dìomhair,” Lugh laughed as he began to scratch out a crude copy of Po’s letters in the dust, “a hard teacher indeed.”

*

Londinium was a fine settlement, all white stone and wide arcades, bustling with people and beasts. Po had only been to the city twice, and found it to be a full enough place. This third visit, however, was made infinitely more entertaining by watching Lugh’s face as they made their way through the thronged streets, his eyes the size of milk dishes. It was oddly satisfying to see all of the Druid’s pretension stripped away as he gazed around him in slack-jawed amazement. Po held on to the comfort of knowing that this arrogant creature could have all of the terrible mystery stripped from him by the sight of a place so provincial as Londinium.

“Wait until we arrive in Rome,” he said, smiling at Lugh’s astonished look.

“Why?” The Druid asked, “it cannot be more splendid than this place.” He spun on his heel, taken by surprise by a hurrying merchant who jostled past them in a fine robe dyed the colour of summer grapes.

Po laughed long and loud before taking Lugh’s shoulder and pointing up to the small amphitheatre at the city’s centre. “You see that?” he asked. Lugh nodded. “The great coliseum at Rome’s heart would easily fit four of those little theatres.”

The look of complete disbelief on Lugh’s face caused Po to erupt in laughter once again.

“You mock me?” Lugh’s disbelief had turned rapidly to anger at Po’s amusement.

“No, no,” Po protested, fighting to regain his breath, “no, Druid, I do not mock you. I am only pleased to show you sights of which you know nothing.”

“You seem to know everything, Lord,” Phin added, a broad grin on his face, “we are only glad to be able to add to that knowledge.”

Lugh still looked suspicious, but Po managed to soothe the Druid’s ruffled feathers by leading him further down the street and past a great temple of Minerva.

“This,” he said, gesturing up at the high marble arches of the temple’s entrance, “is where our wizards curse our enemies and work evil luck on them, as Phin told you on the road.”

Lugh spat deliberately on the wide steps to dispel the evil of Po’s words, but cast a suspicious look up at him. “I will enter,” he said deliberately, “and see your gods for myself.”

Po followed him through the wide doors. The air was thick with incense and the sound of chanting. Po coughed, as he always did, his nostrils stopped up with the cloying scent, but Lugh showed no signs of discomfort. Po supposed priests were all of a common make immune to strong scent.

They stopped before they reached the altar, which was laid in front of a statue of Minerva twice the height of a man. Lugh gazed up at the goddess’s impassive face and frowned.

“What power does she have?” he asked, folding his arms over his chest.

“She grants wisdom,” Po explained, “and true sight. She also gives our soldiers victory in battle.”

Lugh spat again, his face twisting as he glared up at the statue. “Then I lay my curse upon her,” he said firmly, “may the hands of her priests rot and her prayers stop the throats of her people.”

In an instant, the levity of the morning was forgotten and Po realized with a sickening lurch that he had come to like this man who was one of Rome’s fiercest enemies. It was much easier to kill a man when you knew nothing of his life, his hopes, his dreams. Po shivered and turned to leave the temple, unwilling to examine the bitter disappointment he felt as he remembered Lugh was still his enemy.

Chapter Text

Lugh’s mood stayed black all through the afternoon and, by sundown, dark clouds had rolled in from the west to match it. The rain fell in a steady stream as the three of them sat in the small quarters Po had managed to find for them in one of the resting houses along the river. Poor Phin did not seem to realize what had come over the company and Po did not have the heart to explain. Nor was he in a spirit to respond to the young man’s repeated conversational forays, however, and after several vain attempts Phin gave up the fight and drifted off to sleep.

The realization he had had in the temple would not let Po rest. He had to remain sharp, alert, ever watchful for an escape attempt or some sign of violence. Picts, he reminded himself, were the enemies of Rome. His enemies. The blue painted barbarians that had slaughtered his men and laid waste to whole Roman camps. They were a backward, illiterate people whose only wish was to rain defeat and humiliation on the Emperor and his forces.

Unfortunately, in the watery glow of the torchlit streets below, Picts looked grave, thoughtful, and heavy with the weight of the responsibility for guiding an entire tribe. At least one Pict was. He was arrogant and self-important, of course, but Lugh had also shown himself to be a kind, even generous man. Po’s soul grated under the memory of the Druid’s voice as he had pronounced his new name. Po Dìomhair. Po the Secret. It was a truer name than he had ever been presented with, and one that had been given with more honour and respect than he had ever seen in Rome, despite all he had achieved in battle. He sighed deeply, then looked across the room.

“You can sleep, if you wish,” he said softly. Lugh looked up sharply, the light catching the edge of his face. He looked older, and all the more wild, surrounded as he was by all the trappings of civilization. “I will watch,” he added.

“We are in a building, centurion. It is very unlikely that the spears of my folk will reach you so far south as this in any case.” Lugh’s voice was distant and cool.

“All the same,” Po replied, “I’m unused to a restful sleep, so I may as well watch and let you get some rest in my stead.”

“I do not need a Roman watch to bring on sleep,” Lugh insisted. Po took the rebuff quietly, but he did not go to his bed. The two of them sat in silence. Lugh looked out of the wide window into the rain, and Po looked at Lugh.

At last, Po broke the silence, his words soft and halting in the quiet room. “I was sorry to upset you today,” he said. No response came and so he struggled on with the unfamiliar act of apology. “I did not...well, suffice to say I did not think. It was not hospitable of me to take you there, I thought only of your questions on the road.” He paused again, embarrassment stilling his tongue.

“Forgive me,” he said at last, “I have no great gift for words, but would ask your pardon for the offence I offered you.”

It was strange to wait in the dark for Lugh’s reply. Po was not accustomed to begging forgiveness and the insistent hammering of his heart unsettled him. He was a soldier of Rome, a lord of warriors, and should not care for the forgiveness of his enemies. All the same, sitting on the hard wooden bench waiting for Lugh to speak, he wanted it very much, and hated the feeling.

When Lugh finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. “There is nothing to forgive, centurion,” he said, though his bitter tone offered little in the way of relief to Po’s anxious soul. “You are quite right. I did ask you of your gods and you gave me truth. It is no fault of yours if I did not like what I heard. All the same,” he continued, turning his head away from the window to look at him, “it was a fine apology, graciously given, and I thank you for it. If only more of your people chose gracious manners over the sword, we might have lived in better times.”

“Yes,” Po agreed, “we might.” They did not, of course, and the unspoken words stood between them like a knife. At last, Po took a deep breath.

“If you do not require a Roman watch to ease your rest,” he said, pushing aside his sudden unease, “then I will take a Pictish watch to ease mine and thank you for it.” He wrapped his cloak around his shoulders and lay on the hard bed at Phin’s side. “Wake me if you change your mind.”

*

“Boats,” Po growled through gritted teeth, “are a curse of Neptune on the foolish.” He lay in the foredeck of their small galley, arms firmly clutched over his belly as he tried to keep his sparse breakfast in its place. The Roman captain who had agreed to ferry them across the German Sea had told them to sit out of the way and Po had been happy enough to oblige, content to curse the weather and pray for a swift journey.

To his chagrin, both of his companions ignored his sour comments. Phin sat next to Lugh a little way off and the two of them had not ceased chattering since the galley had left the river and eased her way into the open sea. It was unnatural for men to keep their heads so well on this creaking horror of wood and salt, but neither of them seemed troubled in the least. In fact, as far as Po could tell from the snatches of conversation he overheard, both of them had travelled extensively by boat in the past, though where a man would find boats in Pictia or Numidia, Po could not say. He took a deep breath, fighting down another surge of nausea, and stared up at the iron sky. If he looked up, his misery eased a hair’s breadth, and so he rested his head on the gunnel and determined to count the gulls that swirled overhead.

This occupation lasted him several minutes, as he kept losing track of which gulls he had already counted and was forced to begin again every few seconds. He had nearly reached nine for the first time when a soft thump from beside him made him look back down to the deck.

Phin had settled back in beside him, that ridiculous grin on his face. “You look a bit ill, sir,” he said. It was probably a sincere query, but the grin got Po’s back up and he only nodded. “Shall I ask the Druid to fix you something?” Phin asked. “He made me a charm to placate his sea god and it’s done wonders. I never used to be able to sail at all.”

“Really?” Po replied, “I could have sworn you said you’d been on boats your whole childhood.”

“I was,” Phin confirmed, “but a wide, slow river is nothing like the open sea. The Druid says he’s sailed the seas around the islands to the far north of the Wall and never been ill in his life!”

“Miraculous.”

“And he said he’s seen been on the Severn Sea as well, sir,” Phin added. He was so enthusiastic Po almost wanted to hit him. It didn’t help that Lugh seemed to enjoy the young man’s conversation immensely, while all he could vouchsafe Po was a suspicious glance every half hour or so. Po took another slow breath, trying to let go of his frustration.

“He’s a well-travelled man, our Druid,” he remarked.

“Not so well-travelled as you, sir,” Phin said lightly, “but he’s seen things I haven’t, and that’s all that’s needed to make a fine tale.”

“He’s been telling you tales, has he?” Po asked, trying to hold on to the distraction of conversation.

“Oh yes,” Phin smiled, settling back against the gunnel,” he tells me there’s a lake in Caledonia that is home to a monstrous sea dragon.”

“Truly?” Po frowned, “and how does he know a thing like that?”

Phin shrugged, “he says he saw it, but I don’t believe him. Everyone knows sea dragons need the salt water, same as fish.”

Po nodded. That was only good sense for a sea dragon to live in the sea, not some Pictish lake. “But the charm did work, sir,” Phin went on, “And I only thought you’d like to feel your best before we marched across Gaul.”

“I would, you’re right,” Po agreed, “but I wouldn’t want to put our Druid to any trouble on my behalf. I don’t think he’s too kindly disposed to me these days.”

“Well, I can ask him, anyway,” Phin said, leaping to his feet with an awkward stumble that nearly sent him over the side.

“The charm doesn’t cure sea legs,” he said with an embarrassed smile before going back to sit beside Lugh.

Po went back to counting the gulls. Pacifying sea gods indeed. He’d made an offering to Neptune each time he’d set foot in a boat since he’d been a boy, and it had never done any good, he couldn’t see why some kelp-ridden Pictish spirit should be able to help him now. He couldn’t imagine Lugh agreeing to help him in any case. He had hardly said two words since Po had woken to find him sitting in the same place he’d seen him the night before, staring out the window.

He hadn’t seemed any the worse for his sleepless night either, which only made Po’s bad mood worse. He sighed, no longer bothering to count the gulls that whirled above him in their dizzying spirals. It would be a very long march to Rome indeed if he and Lugh were only to speak through Phin. He began to chart their progress in his mind, picturing the road through Gallia and southeast into Italia. Even the thought of the warm breezes of his homeland filled Po with a deep longing. He had been cold for so very long and could imagine nothing better at that moment than a good long bath-the proper kind with steam and long soaks, not a hurried wash in a mountain spring- and a long, restful sleep in a soft bed. It would be nearly forty days until they reached Rome but just then, on the boat in the miserable rain, Po could almost taste it.

“You are not well, centurion?” Lugh’s soft voice jarred him from his reverie and his eyes snapped open. The Druid was sitting beside him, that unnerving half smile on his lips. Po cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure.

“No,” he said, “I’m on a boat. ‘Boat’ and ‘well’ do not belong together.”

Lugh smiled, acknowledging the joke. “I have prayed to Manandán on your behalf,” he said. He reached into the folds of his long cloak and pulled out a small iron ingot, which he placed in Po’s hand. “This should help your sickness.”

Po looked at the ingot and saw that it was inscribed with small lines and slashes that resembled nothing so much as tally marks on a stewards tiles. “What are these?” He asked as Lugh made to leave. The Druid paused, then settled back down beside him. “That is your name, as far as I can render it, in the script of my people.”

“I thought you said you didn’t read or write?” Po said, looking up from the iron with a frown.

“Not in Latin, no,” Lugh said, the smile returning to his face, “and not to write of our knowledge. But we have some writing for use in our craft. This script binds the iron to you, makes you the focus of the charm. You can imagine,” he added, growing solemn once more, “why names have such importance to us, and why words must be used with such care.”

“Yes,” Po agreed, stroking the iron with the edge of his thumb. It felt solid and comforting in his hand. He doubted it would cure his seasickness any better than prayers to Neptune, but it was reassuring all the same. “Thank you.”

For a brief moment, a frown flickered over Lugh’s face, but it was replaced an instant later with his little smile. He nodded, “it was my pleasure.” Then he rose and went to join Phin once more.

Po looked down at the little nub of iron with his name scratched into it. It looked far more complicated than the Roman version, and he wondered why there were so many scratches. He stroked it absently, returning his gaze to the sky. It had been a kind gift, even if it would not work.

The persistent rise and fall of the boat began to lull him into a half sleeping haze. He dreamt that a tall man had stepped out of the sea, his long beard and hair as black as wet rock and his eyes the blue of a storm. He stepped into the boat, leaving small puddles in his wake as he walked toward the stern. He bent low, placing a hand on Po’s forehead and whispering words in a strange, lilting tongue that sounded very old. He smiled then, a glitter of sun on the waves, and was gone.

When Po awoke later in the voyage, the sun had broken through the heavy cloud cover and his sickness was gone.

Chapter Text

A return to solid land was a balm to Po’s troubled soul. The iron ingot from Lugh felt heavy in his pocket, and he was unsure what to do about it as they began their journey south from Bononia. The road that led to Cavillonum was not as well used as the roads they would find further south along the coast, and they met few other travellers. The weather, however, was fine, and Phineas did all the hard work of maintaining conversation with Lugh as they walked along the evenly laid paving stones of the road. By evening, his head full of the scent of summer, Po nearly felt equal to the task of trying to thank Lugh for his help.

When they stopped to rest in the evening, Po was able to find his words. “I should thank you, druid,” he said as they sat around the fire, “It would appear your gods are stronger than ours after all.”

Lugh’s face was impenetrable. Phin, however, broke into a delighted smile.

“It worked, then, sir? The charm?”

Po nodded, looking down at his hands folded in his lap as his good spirits from the afternoon began to slip away. “Yes, it did wonders. I have never been much of a man for boats, no matter how many offerings to Neptune I make.”

“By that you mean going green at the gills at the thought of water?” Phin teased.

“Something like that,” Po agreed. He could feel a small smile flicker to life on his face, but it had little true mirth behind it as the druid continued to sit wrapped in a cloak of silence. “Though, in fairness to my constitution, I have had very little experience with water.”

“No,” Phin agreed, settling back against the bole of an elm that helped to frame their little camp. “Rome is a dusty place, so I’ve heard.”

“I was not born in Rome,” Po said, “but further south in Neapolis.”

“Closer to water there, then?”

“Not at all. Drier and dustier, if anything.” Po pulled his cloak tighter about his shoulders as he thought of the warm, dry air of home. “Vineyards and olive trees for miles,” he sighed, “and the earth solid under your feet.”

“With a sun hot enough to crack your skull,” Phineas replied with a snort. “No, you should visit Numidia, centurion. The lands along the coast are like a day in the baths.”

“Either way,” Po said, “we will soon be out of the cold.”

“How long did you serve in the north, sir?” Phineas asked, “I know you were there when I arrived.”

Po shrugged. “About seven years, I think. I stopped counting.”

Phin shivered. “A long time to be cold.”

“Yes,” Po murmured, as the decanus turned his attention to his bedroll. “Yes, it is. A long time to be cold.”

The moon rose over their camp as the fire began to burn low. Po had settled himself back against a tree, but found sleep elusive. Lugh still sat still as stone, and Po wondered idly if the druid ever slept. He seemed to drift through the world without allowing it to touch him and, though the marks of age were apparent on his face, Po suspected he was older than he looked. After offering his thanks, he was unsure of what to say. He could not force friendship on an enemy. The thought saddened him, but he allowed it to accompany him into sleep, content once again to let Lugh watch over them for the remainder of the night.

The fine weather continued into the next day, and Po allowed their pace to slow a little as they enjoyed the sun and the sights along the road. He struck out ahead of the group as he had done the day before, his spear doing double duty as a walking stick. The road began to wind through a tangle of woods, and Po felt the hairs on the back of his neck begin to rise. Years of soldiering had changed his opinion of quaint woods. Far from eliciting sentimental appreciation, the gradually narrowing path brought the thought of ambush to his mind. It was a good spot for such tactics, with the trees closing in tight on either side, forcing any company to keep close and string their column out over miles, leaving it vulnerable from both sides.

He had been in a column like that before, caught in the maddening fear of being attacked on all sides, all sense of order and precision stripped away from his unit as the narrow channel of trees became a death trap. Even in the warm summer air, he shivered, gripping the shaft of his spear a little tighter.

A few paces ahead, his heightened caution proved valuable, but not for the reason he had anticipated. The road began to bend around a watercourse that could be heard rippling away to his left. If he hadn’t been watching, he would have missed the way the leaves on the low cover of bush began to tremble in an absent wind. He stopped, swinging his spear easily from stick to weapon as a large brown shape erupted from the tangle of brush, raising a cloud of dust from the road.

It took him a heartbeat to identify the enemy, but the boar had begun to charge before he had really had a chance to consider his strategy. A part of him heard Phin’s shout from behind, but the world had become a narrow, sharp thing, consisting of the space between the boar’s tusks and the gleaming point of his spear.

War spears were not meant for hunting, and the shaft was shorter than he would have liked in the face of the boar’s territorial rage, but Po followed the creature’s movements carefully before crouching low and jamming the butt of the spear firmly back against a paving stone. His heart hammering, he gripped the shaft tight, keeping the point hovering just ahead of the beast’s well-armoured chest.

Filled with the drive to protect its territory, the boar did not slow, but ploughed ahead in a rush, neatly running itself straight onto the point of Po’s spear. The poor thing squealed in pain as Po rose from his crouch, driving the spear point through the boar’s back. He let go of the shaft, allowing the whole bloody mess to fall to the ground as he stood over it, gasping for breath.

The world began to return to its usual scope and Po looked to his right. Phin stood there, wide eyed, his own spear held loosely in his hand as he stared down at the growing pool of blood on the road.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he breathed, “I was too late, I...I didn’t even see it.”

Po’s hands trembled a little as the rush of battle began to leave him. “It’s alright,” he said, shaking the last of the shadows from the edges of his vision. “I was watching.”

Phin’s face twisted in disappointment, but Po clapped him on the shoulder. “There’s no sense in shame, decanus,” he said, “take the lesson and be grateful for it.”

Tightening his jaw, Phin nodded. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“That was some fine spearwork, centurion.”

Lugh’s soft voice made him start, but he was relieved to see the druid looking at him with a new light in his eyes. He shrugged, returning his gaze to the boar.

“It was sufficient to the need.”

“Indeed.”

Po called a halt for the day and they made their way off the road and down the bank of the little stream the boar had been so intent on protecting. A source of meat as bountiful as a full boar was nothing to waste, and they could easily justify the delay by taking the time to prepare the meat.

While it might have been a more delicate morsel if they had bothered to shave the boar, Po’s patience had limits and he opted to skin it, stripping down to his undertunic and laying the beast out on the bank to clean and dress it.

To his consternation, Lugh sat on a rock nearby, watching him intently. He did his best to concentrate on his task, but when Lugh spoke to him, he was unable to suppress the shiver that raced down his spine.

“You are as skilled with a knife as you are with a spear, centurion.”

Po let out a breathless huff of laughter, still staring down at the boar.

“You go from silence to compliments in an afternoon,” he remarked, slicing through the thick ligaments of the hip to detach the leg, “I can hardly keep up.”

The druid was quiet for several moments, and Po thought he had managed to ruin the unexpected goodwill, but when Lugh spoke again, his voice was soft and warm.

“I am sorry,” he said, “I...was not right with my own spirit and saw you as the closest target of my disquiet.”

Po shrugged, “It was natural enough,” he replied, “we are enemies, after all, are we not?”

He looked up in surprise as Lugh sighed deeply. The druid’s face was drawn into a frown of consternation. “I did make an effort to keep thinking of you that way, yes,” he said, looking out at the running water of the stream. “But it has proved difficult.”

“I suppose I should take that as a compliment as well,” Po murmured, returning his attention to the task of cleaning his knife in the stream.

“Is that difficult?”

Po was surprised to hear a note of true concern in the druid’s voice. “No,” he said, settling back onto his knees. They sat quietly on the bank for several long moments, Lugh’s gaze boring into his back as the water slid by on its endless journey to the sea. At last, Po turned to look over his shoulder at the druid.

“No,” he repeated, “it is not difficult for me to accept your friendship. My oath to protect you makes my duty clear. There has been much blood spilled between our people, druid, and neither of us can undo that. I know you must feel that I am taking you to Rome as a prize of war, and I cannot undo that either.” He was quiet for a moment, and when Lugh did not speak, he continued.

“I am long past working for the glory of Rome,” he said, looking back to the water. “And I understand the power of pacts between men. We have been enemies before, and we may well be enemies again, I do not know, but for this time that we have I am content to let my oaths guide my actions.” A little smile twisted his lips at the difficulty of their position and he looked back over his shoulder at Lugh. “I understand if you are not able to do the same. You have a duty to your people.”

“And you do not?” the druid spoke so softly that he could hardly be heard over the trickle of the stream.

“Of course I do.” Po stood, gathering the corpse of the boar. “And one day that larger oath may conflict with others I have sworn.”

“What will you do then?”

Po shook his head, “I can’t know that and nor can you. That is a question for another day.”

He left the druid sitting on the rock and made his way up the bank to the little camp Phin had set up for them. The fire was burning, and he set down the meat with a sigh before stripping off his wet clothes and shrugging into his dry tunic. Phineas stared at the fire, saying nothing until Po had settled beside him, beginning the task of slicing the bulk of the boar meat into long, thin strips for drying.

“I am sorry for my inattention on the road, centurion,” he said.

Po shook his head. “I accept your apology, decanus.”

“You...that’s all? For a mistake that could have cost us our lives?” Phin was incredulous, but Po only shrugged his shoulders.

“Is there anything I could say to you that would be worse than what you have already said to yourself?” he asked.

A small smile came to life on Phin’s face. “Probably not.”

“There you are, then. All is forgiven, you will know to be more attentive to the terrain in the future.”

“Terrain?” Phin asked eagerly, “Is that how you knew the boar would be there?”

“Honestly, no,” Po confessed, “I was working on old instincts. This road is an excellent place for an ambush. I was already nervous and so was lucky enough to see the boar in time. You can see why I was quick to accept your apology,” he added with a smile, “since it was only the luck of the gods that allowed me to see what you did not.”

“Luck and experience,” Phin protested.

“It’s more reliable to have the experience,” Po said, “but if you can get the luck of the gods, take it every time.”

“I wonder if that is what gives the druid his power,” Phin mused, helping him to spit one of the boar’s hind legs over the fire. “You said his gods were the more powerful ones, but I think it is more than that. I think it has to do with conviction”

“Oh?” Po saw a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye and turned in time to see Lugh sit down just inside the ring of the fire. “Do tell. I am sure we are both interested in your theory.”

Following Po’s gaze, Phin saw the druid and began to stumble over his words. “I-it was nothing, really, I just...well, I had been thinking of what you said yesterday, that was all.”

Po nodded. “Yes. go on. I doubt Lugh of the Many Names will strike you down if he does not like what you have to say.”

He glanced at Lugh, who nodded, smiling once more, “No, that is a task for the gods, decanus. Speak.”

The air of command had not faded over the druid’s days of silence, and Phin looked down at his hands, “I meant no offence to your gods, lord.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Po came to his friend’s rescue. “If any offence was to be taken, it was likely mine to take.”

“Sir?” Phin looked up, eyes wide.

Po’s smile grew. “Relax, decanus, I’m not about to discipline you. You said you believed that the power of a god was to do with conviction?”

“Well,” Phin attempted to explain, “I only thought that, since your prayers were not heard and the druid’s were, that perhaps it was because his voice held more power than yours. Perhaps it is conviction, perhaps it is the favour of his gods, I don’t know, I was just...thinking.”

“You have considered the matter deeply,” Lugh said with approval. “And without risking the offence of any gods, you may well be correct. Our gods do not speak to each one of our people. I have studied many years to learn to hear their voices and call on their aid. It is both the benefit and the burden of our station in life.”

“I, in contrast, have not studied in the least,” Po said lightly, “and have never heard the voice of any god.”

“Yet you make regular offerings,” Lugh countered, his eyes narrowing.

“Of course,” Po replied, “My ability to hear the gods, or theirs to hear me, has little to do with our traditions. It is good to be respectful of gods,” he added, “since you never know when they are listening.”

Chapter Text

Po was unsure what exactly had taken place between them, but the death of the boar seemed to serve as a peace offering and as they drew closer to Cavillonum the air in their evening camps seemed clearer and warmer. Lugh, as Phin had predicted, was full of stories and songs that shortened their road during the day, and tales of his people’s heroes and gods that drew them close about the fire at night. He even seemed to sleep a little the further south they traveled, though Po had only caught him at it twice.

In response, Po began to find himself bound closer to his two companions. He and Phin shared their military background, of course, and the brotherhood of Mitras, but their journey proved to him once more that there was nothing better to bring men together than the sharing of tales around the fire. By the time they reached the busier roads close to Cavillonum, he had begun to trust that they might make it to Rome safely after all.

They had not spoken again of gods. None of them seemed willing to breach the comfortable peace that had grown up between them. This tacit agreement did not stop Lugh from spitting to avoid evil luck whenever they passed a road marker, nor did it provide any comfort as they began to pass larger shrines to Diana, Minerva, and Jupiter along the road.

They had travelled nearly fifteen days from Bononia and the warm weather was in its full swing when they were met with the first signs they approached a larger city. The three of them had been walking abreast along the road in companionable silence when a small, rat-faced man stepped out ahead of them, blocking their way.

Po raised his hand for his companions to halt. The man before them was slightly built, but nearly all muscle. He carried a wicked-looking pike and had a smile like a knife slash.

“Taxes for the road to Cavillonum,” he said.

“There is no such tax,” Po called back, setting a hand on the pommel of his sword.

“Looks like luck isn’t on your side today, friend,” the man sneered, “since I’m here to collect.”

“There is another behind us,” Lugh murmured. He shifted slightly, closing off his stance.

Po sighed. “How many can you see, decanus?”

“Three in the scrub on our left, sir.”

“Any bows?”

“None that I can see.”

“Good.”

Po took one step forward, drawing his sword as Phin and Lugh closed rank at his back.

“I wouldn’t speak of luck, if I were you,” he said to the rat-faced man. “Now, are we going to negotiate, or shall we settle this with swords?”

The man’s smile widened. “Three against two? Hardly fair odds.”

“Right. Those are the kind I like.”

Looking smug, the rat-faced man whistles through his teeth. Po nearly laughed as the other three bandits stepped out of the bush, carrying an assortment of sticks and clubs.

“Change your mind yet, lackwit?” said their leader, walking toward them with a swagger that left his pike hanging with its tip toward the dirt.

“Not yet,” Po replied calmly, holding his position.

“Right!” The man’s grin turned to a snarl, “then we’ll be taking that tax off your corpse!”

“On my word, decanus,” Po said softly as the bandits advanced. Once they were close enough he could hardly handle the smell, he gave a whistle of his own and the fight was on. While five on three were not good odds for them, two disciplined soldiers were more than a match for a ragged rabble who were used to frightened pilgrims and unprotected merchants. Po had dropped two men in the first heartbeats of the rout, and turned on his heel to see Lugh sidestep a swing of a bandit’s club before stepping in close with a wicked elbow to the temple that dropped the bandit like a sack of wheat. Phin had dispatched his men with equal efficiency and in moments the would-be bandits lay scattered on the road in various states of death and discomfort.

Po’s first lunge had delivered a rough slash across the rat-faced man’s belly and he now lay in the dust, clutching at his insides as his breath came in short, sharp gasps. For a moment, Po contemplated leaving him to his long and painful death, but his conscience pricked at him and he gave the man a merciful thrust through the throat with the tip of his sword.

“Good to see you’re still in shape, decanus,” he called to Phineas. The Numidian grinned, wiping the blood from his sword. “Not so bad yourself, centurion.”

“I think our druid has us both beaten,” Po said with a grin, turning to Lugh, “doing so well without a weapon.”

Lugh scoffed, though he did look pleased at the praise, “I would not be fit to show my face to my people if I was unable to deal with rabble such as this.”

Po was relieved, though he said nothing of the matter as they dragged the dead and injured bandits to the side of the road. It gave him some peace to know that he would not always have to be watching over his shoulder for his charge’s safety. He did his best not to dwell on the little thrill that had lit his blood as he had watched Lugh’s smooth, athletic movements and realised that fighting alongside him felt as natural as breathing.

“Well,” he said, sheathing his blade once more. “I bid you both welcome to Cavillonum.”

While the welcome had been less than cordial, they found much to enjoy in Cavillonum. While not nearly as grand as Rome, the city was well equipped for travellers and they had little difficulty finding comfortable lodging. To Po’s delight, the baths were quite close, and he took his first opportunity to make his way there. Phin accompanied him, but Lugh protested that he was quite fine with mountain streams and had no wish to bathe in the company of a horde of Romans.

“You will wish later that you had joined us, lord!” Phin called over his shoulder as they left the druid behind and stepped out into the street. Po agreed, but had soon put the druid out of his mind as he stepped into the warmth of the tepidarium.

As the heat settled into his bones, he felt his muscles unknit themselves and the strain of travel leave his heart. The baths here were small, but they still had everything he had hoped for-a long sit in the heat of the caldarium, letting the steam soften his skin, and the clarity of the frigidarium. Once he was laying on the table being massaged and scraped, he felt like a new man.

He and Phin walked through the streets of Cavillonum, basking in the feel of fresh air on their skin as the sun began to dip below the horizon. The streets were still alive with all the delights a Roman city had to offer, and Po grinned as Phin allowed himself to be drawn into a lupara by a lithe, olive-skinned woman with a smile like sunshine.

A lean, well-built man beckoned to him from the same door, but Po shook his head, more in the mood for thought than the carnal pursuits. He followed the road down to the small lake on the edge of the city. The cool evening air dried the last of the water from his skin as he sat on the shore near a boulder still warm from the heat of the sun.

He had looked forward to a return to Rome for so long it had become a ritual for him. Wrapped in his cloak in the Pictish rain he had dreamed of warmth and, though he felt at ease, there was a nagging feeling beneath his calm that he could not identify. Having got his first taste of civilization after years away, he found that it did not taste as sweet as his memories had promised.

A rustling in the grass behind him snapped him from his contemplation and he froze, every muscle on the alert as he listened to the footsteps that approached from further along the shore. He sat still, knowing that his best defense would be to remain unseen, but felt the tension leave him in a rush as Lugh’s voice drifted toward him.

“I am surprised to find you here, centurion. I thought you would be enjoying all the delights of the city.”

As he drew nearer, Po could see the druid’s outline in the low light of dusk. He had shed his cloak and whatever druidic secrets it carried. Somehow, it made him feel less like a ghost and more of a man, solid and comfortable.

“May I join you?”

“You may.” He shifted a little, letting Lugh rest beside him against the boulder.

“Was the bath all that you had hoped for?” Lugh asked as they gazed out at the lake.

“Well, I’m clean, so it did the job.”

Lugh’s laughter echoed across the water. “A stream would have done the job just as well, centurion. From all that you and the decanus told me, I expected you to return a changed man. Though, I must admit,” he added with a smile, “You smell like a spice vendor.”

It was Po’s turn to laugh. “Is that a good thing?”

The druid considered the question with his customary gravity. “Yes, I think it is.”

“Better than the stream?”

“No, only different.”

“I think the strain in my calf has gone as well,” Po added, “so there’s one point for the baths over the stream. Or perhaps the hands of the masseur.”

Lugh looked at him for a long moment before reaching out to lay a hand on his arm. The touch, so unexpected, sent a jolt of lightning up Po’s arm, but he did not flinch as the druid closed his eyes.

“Mmm,” he murmured, withdrawing his hand after what felt like hours, “You do seem to be more content, yes.” He smiled, opening his eyes once more. “That is good.”

Po blinked. “I...yes, I suppose it is.” After considering this information for a moment longer, he asked. “Did I feel... discontented before?”

Lugh nodded, “Yes, though it was not constant.” He smiled, “You are very good at keeping your energy close, Po Diomhair.”

“I...oh.”

In response to his discomfort, Lugh’s brows drew together in concern. “I have made you uncomfortable, I apologize. I should have asked your permission first.”

Po shook his head. “No, no, it’s not that, I…” he shook his head a little searching for the right words. “You have not upset me, only reminded me once again of a world of which I know little. It is unsettling, if anything.”

“It was not my intention to unsettle you, either,” the druid said softly.

“I’m getting used to it.” Po smiled, doing his best to ignore the tingling waves that continued to crawl up his arm. “You are a man of many mysteries, as well as many names.”

Lugh sighed, looking wistful. “Yes. And the further I travel from my people, the more lonely it becomes.”

A flicker of shame slid down Po’s back at the druid’s words. “I am sorry,” he murmured, “for whatever a Roman apology is worth.” When Lugh said nothing in reply, he watched the lake in silence, wondering how to assuage the sudden onslaught of guilt.

“Spring is coming,” Lugh whispered at last, “they will be lighting the fires of Beltane at home in a fortnight.”

“Is there another druid to…to take your place among your people until you return?” Po asked.

“Oh, yes. Rei has been my apprentice for several years. She is more than ready to lead the ceremonies.” Lugh smiled over at him. “You show a surprising amount of concern for your enemies.”

Po shrugged, a little uncomfortable under the druid’s scrutiny. “It is not good for people to be disconnected from their gods,” he said.

“Our gods are far from us,” Lugh said, shaking his head. “If they had been close, you would never have come to our shores. That is the purpose of the Beltane fires,” he added, “to light a beacon in the darkness that will draw the favour of the gods back toward the people, to bless our planting and our herds.”

Po frowned a little. “An important ceremony.”

“Very much so.”

“I…” Po hesitated, unsure of his ground. “We have made good time to Cavillonum,” he said, “If you need time for…for ritual o-or prayer, we have some to spare.”

“I thought you said we had fallen behind,” Lugh said softly, fixing him with an intense stare that made him shiver. He shrugged.

“I wasn’t told when we had to be in Rome.” He looked away, unable to hold the druid’s gaze.

Lugh was silent for a long time, though he did not look away. Po could feel the heat of his gaze and was troubled to notice that he did not find it unpleasant. On the contrary, it warmed his blood, combining with the work of the masseur to create a dangerous flush up the back of his neck.

“Well,” Lugh said after an eternity, “Thank you for the offer.”