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  ‘I am Morcant,’ I say, ‘and my comrade is Lucius.’

  ‘He is not your master?’

  ‘No. We are both soldiers of Legio IX.’

  She doesn’t look as though she believes me, though she nods politely. My mother always said that it is not wise to give away your name, but I’m Roman now and have no truck with such views. The woman shares my mother’s opinion: she does not give her name.

  I unpack the rest of my kit, finding my cook pot and food. It’s just travelling rations – bread, cheese and beans to cook up, but she can’t hide the hunger in her eyes as she watches me.

  I give her some bread and she nibbles it, as if to make it last.

  ‘When did you last eat?’

  She shrugs. ‘I’ve been walking since before dawn – I ate some broth yesterday.’ Lucius turns and sees me give the woman a piece of cheese. She needs it more than I do.

  ‘Mithras’ balls – what are you doing wasting rations on Brit shit?’ He tries to grab the bread from the woman’s hand and then when his hand touches hers he snatches his back as if stung.

  ‘What the . . .’

  ‘Tell him not to be afraid. I’m a seeress, that is all, and our touch can bring on a sharing.’ I don’t know what she means. The druid of my mother’s people never mentioned such a thing, but then he was old and ignorant as muck. Lucius is looking murderous. Before I can translate her words she speaks again.

  ‘Tell him I can see his wife with a dark-haired baby at her breast. She is sick, dying I think, but the baby is strong as is the little boy who stands by her bed. The boy will live.’

  I don’t want to translate this but I do. I don’t sheathe my gladius though, just in case Lucius tries to kill her. I am a soldier of Rome now and of course I will do my duty, but I won’t let Lucius kill an unarmed woman at any hearth of mine.

  Lucius turns silent when I translate her words. He stares at the fire as if lost. I think it might be all right and then he roars, ‘No! You lying piece of Keltic scum.’ His sword is out and he is about to gut her with it. His response is not unexpected, but mine is. I drop my shoulder and tackle him, which is stupid. Luckily, he is so surprised he doesn’t slice me as he ought to do. He lands hard on the snow with me on top of him. He is a veteran though, and he doesn’t let go of his gladius. I get to my feet in a flurry of snow. He is winded, which gives me time to plant myself in front of the woman as if to protect her. She’s nothing to me, but I don’t trust Lucius to stop at killing her. I’ll be next.

  ‘What by Mithras’ cock are you doing?’ He is gasping for air.

  ‘We haven’t questioned him yet. You know we had orders to question any captured natives about Caratacus.’ I let Lucius get to his feet, which is a mistake because he’s coming for me now. The woman is standing too, a looming presence behind me. She takes advantage of my confusion to wrest the longsword from my belt. She is quick as a snake or a warrior. Now I’m caught between the two of them. It happens quickly. Lucius charges me and I am too slow to use my gladius. Instead, on instinct, I put out my foot. It is a cheap trick that should not have worked on an old and canny veteran, but it does. Lucius trips and falls headlong into the fire. It was such a small blaze his bulk should have extinguished it with little damage; instead, from nowhere huge flames leap, wild and out of control. He screams and the fire consumes him. It is too hot for me to try to save him. The heat burns my face and singes my eyebrows. The woman cries out and both of us step back from the inferno – we have no choice. The smell is terrible. Lucius’ cry is like nothing I’ve ever heard. It is swiftly over and then the fire shrinks back almost to nothing and Lucius is a charred and blackened corpse.

  I am trembling and I stammer when I finally manage to speak.

  ‘W-what in Lugh’s name h-h-happened?’

  ‘You killed him.’ The woman’s tone is accusing but her voice quavers too. She seems as shaken as I am.

  ‘Not me. You killed him with your fire.’

  She shakes her head. We are both bearing unsheathed weapons. She holds the longsword like a warrior; I hold my gladius like a fool. I’m not about to kill her; I don’t know if she plans on killing me.

  ‘How did you do it?’

  She shakes her head. ‘I didn’t. You tripped him!’ She sounds scornful and then adds more softly, ‘Perhaps the gods of this place do not like foreigners.’ We both look around. The wood beyond the glow of the killing fire is dark and sinister.

  I unbuckle her sword belt clumsily and hand it back to her. Keltic women are not like Romans. I know that, in spite of the slave brand, she is of the warrior caste. I was wrong before – I could be bested by such a woman. She only hesitates for a moment before taking the belt. She watches me and sheathes her sword as I put away my gladius. The tension between us eases a little.

  ‘Do you often kill your own in your Legio IX?’ She pronounces the foreign words awkwardly, but that does nothing to dull the sharpness of her words. What small control I had of this situation is slipping away. I didn’t kill Lucius. It was an accident, that is all. I imagine explaining that to our Decanus, Marcellus, and then up the chain of command to our Praefectus Castrorum – a grizzled veteran of uncertain temper who served with Lucius in Gaul. I can see my father’s dream of my glorious army career turn to ash along with Lucius’ corpse. It is never going to happen now. I don’t think I dare return to our fort, even assuming I could find my way. Julius thinks I let him down in our earlier encounter with the Kelts and how can I account for Lucius’ death? I speak the tribal tongues – maybe I could disguise myself as a local Kelt and make my way to my mother’s people in Armorica? All this passes through my head in the space between the woman’s pointed question and my response.

  ‘I didn’t kill him and it’s not my Legio IX,’ I say and I know that I’m not going back.

  Smoke is still rising from Lucius’ body.

  ‘I have to bury him,’ I say.

  ‘The ground is frozen solid, you’d be better building a cairn.’ She’s right of course, but I get out my spade anyway and then I hear the wolves howl.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Trista’s Story

  Morcant freezes when the wolves howl. I don’t blame him. They seem so much closer here. Should I keep walking? I don’t want to run into wolves; I don’t know where I’m going, my legs are trembling from weakness, and it is good to have company. This man is kind. He gave me food. It is a long time since anyone has given me anything besides a beating and I know I could take him in a fight with one arm tied behind my back and both eyes closed. Strange, he is tall and well-built and ought to have what it takes to make a warrior.

  Instead of moving on I find myself helping him bury the corpse of his comrade. We have to cool him down with snow before we can move him.

  ‘Help me take off his shirt,’ I say.

  ‘What?’

  Even in the firelight I can see that Lucius’ mail shirt is a masterful piece of work, linked chains of metal that would protect me like a blessing from the mother. I recognise it. The enemies of my vision wore such shirts, and other shinier things. Wearing one of them would be like wearing a shield, leaving both arms free for fighting.

  ‘I want his shirt, and his helmet too. If I come across any more of you Romans, I want what you have.’

  He helps me reluctantly. He’s very fastidious for a soldier. I doubt he’s seen action yet; I’m not sure he’d survive. It is a grisly job and even I avert my eyes from Lucius’ ruined, melted face.

  The ground is like iron and so we do a poor job, merely heaping snow and stones over his body. I say prayers to Lugh and the triple-faced one and Morcant mumbles something about Mithras. I’m glad to get back to the fire. The night is full of unseen things, creatures of the forest watching us, waiting for us beyond the small circle of light we have made with our fire and unlikely companionship.

  ‘Here, you might as well have this – he doesn’t need it now.’

  He gives me Lucius’ pack full of spare clothe
s, a goatskin canteen of water, and food. I don’t eat right away but drink deeply of the water then dress myself in Lucius’ tunic and Keltic trews. They are too short of course but much more use to me than my long women’s skirts. I clean off Lucius’ mail shirt too and Morcant watches me struggling into it, while he heats beans over the fire. I feel better for the extra clothes. If I meet the shining men of my vision, it will now be on more equal terms.

  The food is better still. So hot it burns my mouth but I don’t care.

  ‘How long have you been a soldier?’ He has offered me hospitality of sorts and I am bound by old rules to make myself pleasant in the acceptance of it.

  He fingers a new-looking tattoo on his hand – a wolf. I am a little startled by that. I think of the wolf as my own symbol, for my many visions of wolves.

  ‘I’ve been training since the summer.’

  ‘But you’re of the tribes?’ He has that look about him. He reminds me a little of Gwyn, though his features are finer, his eyes greyer and his expression sweeter. In fact he looks nothing like him – it is just that he is handsome. It is not a thought I should be having in the middle of this wilderness when I am on the run from his own compatriots.

  ‘My mother was a slave from Armorica, my father a Roman, an army veteran from Rome itself. He has no other children so he acknowledged me as his heir. I’m a citizen.’

  ‘Will you go back to your . . .’ I search for the right word. ‘Your fighting tribe?’

  ‘My legion? No. I don’t think so. They will blame me for Lucius’ death.’ He scrapes the pot of beans and gives me the last of it. I’m too hungry not to accept.

  ‘I don’t think the life is for me anyway – it feels all wrong.’

  I don’t answer. There is something wrong about him. I don’t know what it is, but something niggles in my marrow, in my seer’s guts.

  ‘What about you?’ He asks the question gently. A seeress is bound to truth but I don’t think an escaped slave is bound by anything.

  ‘I was a warrior once, of one of the Brigante clans. I was captured in battle by the Parisi. I escaped.’

  ‘You said you were a seeress?’ Is he mocking me?

  ‘It’s a gift. I’m not initiated.’ He waits for me to go on and for some inexplicable reason I do. ‘My father was sent to Mona to study with the druids as a boy. He swore that no child of his would ever be druid trained.’ He raises his eyebrows at that, as well he might. My father gave up the honour and power of a druid for a life training horses and dogs. He counted it a good bargain too. It was fortunate for us children that he was born of warrior stock, with generous sisters, or we would have had nothing.

  ‘Ah well, we all live at the whim of our fathers.’ His smile takes the sting from his words but he sounds sad. No doubt he is a disappointment to his own father and I can see why. ‘Where are you headed?’

  The change of subject is abrupt but welcome. I don’t want to talk about the past.

  I shrug. ‘Away from your army, back to Brigante lands. I don’t know. You?’

  ‘Armorica. Away from the army too.’

  It is on the tip of my tongue to ask him if we should travel together when another wolf’s cry echoes around us. By Lugh, they are very close now. My hand finds the hilt of my sword.

  ‘We should sleep in turns,’ he says quickly, ‘to watch the fire and keep the wolves at bay.’

  I nod. I have always feared that my visions of wolves are a sign that they will be the harbinger of my death, but I don’t say that.

  I get up to put more wood on the fire. Morcant takes it from me and then our hands touch. He pulls his hand sharply away but I cry out.

  ‘No!’

  I am backing away from him now, grabbing Lucius’ shield and long spear as I go.

  ‘What is it?’ He looks around wildly as if to see what has frightened me. Surely he must know?

  ‘You!’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘You are a shape-changer, a wolfman, a werewolf!’

  My back is to the tree now. He walks towards me, laughing nervously.

  ‘What are you talking about? That’s just Keltic superstition. There’s no such thing.’

  He seems utterly in earnest. He truly does not know what he is. His eyes flash yellow in the fire’s glow and I reach for my sword.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Trista’s Story

  Morcant puts his hands up as if in surrender. His hands are large and look strong.

  ‘You don’t need to use your sword, warrior-seeress lady. I don’t wish to insult your gifts, but you’re mistaken. Come back to the fire.’

  I’m not mistaken. Now that I’ve seen his nature I cannot unsee it. If I half close my eyes, I can see the faint shadow of a sleeping wolf that surrounds him. Still, I hesitate. The safety of the fire draws me. There are eldritch things beyond it, unseen creatures of unknown intent. It is hard to believe that this ungainly man could be much of a threat to me. I am armed, after all. Morcant’s smile is wide, innocent, but his eyes glint with an animal light, cold as the Chief’s metal mirror. I stay where I am. He shrugs. His shoulders are broad, his chest deep. I must not let his gentle manner beguile me. He could be a powerful man.

  ‘You shouldn’t travel alone,’ he says, but his words are slurred. He stretches, yawns, then does what I least expect. He drops to all fours by the fire, like a child playing at being a hound. I tighten my grip on Lucius’ spear. What is he doing? He seems to have forgotten that he is observed. He stretches his long back, and then extends his neck as if for an executioner’s blade. His expression is curiously dreamy. He sighs gently with – what? Relief? Contentment? I have no idea. He shudders and closes his eyes. For the first time I see the shadow wolf open his. The beast’s eyes are startling, alert, hard, everything that Morcant’s aren’t. Those eyes are a shock. The shadow wolf is a living creature, real as I am.

  It is hard to make sense of what happens next. The man’s outline blurs as if I am seeing it through tear-filled eyes. I want to rub my eyes but dare not let go of my weapon. Morcant’s very body fades, the shape and colour of him leaching away to become a ghostly silver. At the same instant the half-seen shadow wolf becomes clearer as if finally coming into focus. No. It is more than that. He is not just coming into focus, he is becoming flesh and blood. Hands become paws, pale human skin becomes dark, bestial fur, Morcant’s fine nose and chin coarsen and thicken to become an animal muzzle. The man has become a wolf in front of my eyes. There’s no cracking of bones nor straining of tendons, just this noiseless swapping of forms. How can this be possible? My guts twist at the strangeness of it. Should I run? I fear the wolf would outpace me for this isn’t any ordinary wolf; just as Morcant is big for a man, this creature is huge for a wolf. He is still draped in Morcant’s clothes.

  He turns his attention and razor teeth to escaping from the restriction of mail shirt and sword belt. He growls his displeasure – a low, terrifying sound at the back of his throat. Now might be the time to run, but I can’t make my legs move. I’ve never seen anything like this and it fascinates me as much as it terrifies me. I can see the spectral form of Morcant the man around this wild creature: he is sleeping as peacefully as a child. I know little of shapeshifters but I am certain that the man should always be master of the beast. The druids, who practise such magics, gain the attributes of animals but lose none of their own power. Here there is no doubt as to which creature is in charge and this creature fixes me with its predator’s eyes. There is no trace of Morcant in them, no softness, no human intelligence, nothing, in fact, but hunger.

  I adjust my grip on Lucius’ spear. The weight of it is different from the Keltic type. It has a long metal shaft attached to a wooden pole and lacks the charms and druid blessings which give ours a greater potency. I’ll have one chance to hit the beast if he pounces and I cannot miss. If Morcant dies along with the wolf, that is not my fault. I will not hesitate for sentiment’s sake: I will live.

  The wolf’s eye
s meet mine and I don’t look away. He looks at the spear and does not back down. He growls.

  I can’t afford to be afraid. If I allow my hand to tremble when I throw, I will not throw true. I survived the battle of Ragan’s Field because I fought my fear. My heart beats quickly six or seven times and then I hear a wolf howl. It is close by, closer even than before. The effect on the wolf is instant: he raises his head to the bright moon and bays a response. The sound sends shivers down my spine. Somehow the wolf’s cry sounds anguished, desolate, the loneliest cry I’ve ever heard. Perhaps there is an answering yowl that I cannot hear because it seems that he has forgotten all about me and bounds off after the wolf pack. The man, Morcant, is gone with him.

  I can’t move for several more heartbeats, but stand clutching my spear. My knuckles turn white with the needless pressure. I’ve lost my knack of overcoming fear.

  I stagger back to the fire and sit there in shock. I thought I wouldn’t mind dying now I’ve lost so much. I was wrong.

  It takes a while to get my racing thoughts in order. I keep returning to what I’ve just seen, trying to picture exactly what happened. I shake my head hard as if that will shake away the memory. I have to forget about the mystery I’ve seen enacted and find a way to survive the rest of the night. The wolf will return. It is likely he will return with other wolves. There’s little to eat even for hunters at this time of year and I am sitting not ten paces from a corpse. The stink of it, too faint yet for human noses, will draw the wolves here like men to mead.

  I run through several wild ideas before settling on my plan. First I clear away some of the snow and heavy stones from Lucius’ pyre. I don’t like doing it, because I was brought up to honour the dead. I pray to the gods that Lucius’ shade might forgive me, but all things are permitted to the desperate. Then I return to the fire and, using the flat of Lucius’ short sword, extract some hot coals from the glowing heart of it and place them in Lucius’ copper, loop-handled cook pot. The heat turns the blade as black as my chain mail. I don’t intend to die of the cold so I wrap my newly made firepot in Morcant’s tunic and secure the bundle to my belt by the tunic’s arms. I enfold myself in Morcant’s cloak as well as my own, stuff all the food still remaining in Lucius’ pack, take his canteen and head for the trees. I don’t want to stray far from the camp, the extra weapons and the fire, but if I stay on the ground I’m easy meat. I can’t fight a pack of wolves on my own, not in my weakened, exhausted state. I have to sleep, rest, survive and then decide what to do next.