Jack Whyte - The Saxon Shore

Folding my wings and curling my great pinions, I swooped down to where she stood, and as she heard the sounds of my swift passage she raised her smiling face to greet me. I threw wide my wings then, feeling the air arrest me so that I hung there, spilling the wind around me, almost stationary, and as I did she raised one hand to me, holding out my Aunt Luceiia's silver mirror. I saw myself reflected there, but as a man, not a bird, and yet as I reached to touch it, she laughed at the clatter of my talons against its surface. Startled, and panicking, I felt myself begin to fall, and the swift-beating feathers of my wing tips touched the ground before the air lifted me up again, allowing me to beat my way aloft to where I could become myself once more. And finally, feeling the thrill of freedom in my breast, I tilted myself and planed above the army, hearing their cheers as I passed overhead.

It was at that point I awoke, a smile upon my face, and for a while I lay there, breaking my lifelong custom of leaping from my bed the moment my eyes opened. I had spent much of my life avoiding my dreams, most of which were dark and frightening and, I had come to believe, prophetic. This one, I felt sure, had been very different, benevolent, and I believed I could interpret it.

I had been making myself miserable ever since my return from the southwest, I now realised, attempting to avoid my own attraction to Ludmilla, and, having made that admission freely to myself, I now examined it more closely. I was almost thirty-two years old and had lain with no woman since my wife, and my wife had been dead for more than four years! And now, unexpectedly, my mind, my thoughts, my days were filled with visions of Ludmilla. She was more than merely lovely; she was enchanting, beautiful, graceful and lithe. And she was clever; clever enough for Luke to value training her in his own arcane profession. She was accomplished in every other way, too, a valued and highly regarded member of Aunt Luceiia's household. And then I had another thought, quite startling in its novelty, yet strangely lacking any power to surprise me: she suggested, and exactly resembled, the portrait Publius Varrus had set down in words of the woman who had bewitched him when he was my age, Luceiia Britannicus herself.

"So be it," I thought then. "Today I will seek her out and talk to her and spend some time in courting her and then, when I return from Eire, we shall see what comes of it."

That decision made, I leapt out of bed, pulled on a tunic and my heavy, sandalled boots, and went for a long run, down the hill to the plain and across its dusty surface to the edge of the forest more than a mile away, where I turned right and ran around the perimeter of the training ground until I could run no more. Then, as I caught my breath before tackling the hill again, I heard a warning trumpet from the guard post at the gate above and turned to see Ambrose's patrol column approaching from the forest.

I waited for him and ran up the hill with him at the head of his troopers, my hand on his stirrup leather. The patrol had been an uneventful one, he told me, with nothing to report. We parted at the gate and I made my way directly to the bath house.

Something over an hour later, bathed, refreshed and fed, I made my way to the Infirmary, hoping Ludmilla might be there already. She was not, but Lucanus was, checking some final details with his staff before leaving them to their own devices while he was away. He dismissed them just as I arrived and turned to me with a head-to-toe look of wry appraisal.

"Well, good morning. You're looking full of vim and vigour. What's on your mind?"

"Nothing at all," I lied. "Other than our journey, of course. Are you all prepared?"

"As much as I'll ever be. When do you want to leave?"

"Before noon, although we're in no hurry other than to get away. I feel like a boy turned loose from his tutors for the summer. Is Ludmilla here?"

He was looking down at his desk, his thoughts elsewhere. "Hmm? She was a moment ago, didn't you see her?" He corrected himself immediately, his attention fixed on something on his desk. "Oh no, she's in the wards; she left before you came . . . Damnation, I told Cato to take this with him." He picked up the item, a small wooden box, then paused, his eyes widening with surprise as he looked beyond my shoulder. "Ambrose," he said. "Welcome. What brings you here for the first time? You're obviously not sick."

I had turned as soon as he began to speak, to see Ambrose looming in the doorway at my back. He looked enormous, and again I found myself thinking he must be much bigger than I, although I knew that was not so.

"Forgive me, Luke," he said, smiling. "But they told me Cay was here and I need to talk to him before he leaves." His eyes swivelled to me. "It's important, Cay, or I wouldn't trouble you, but I forgot to mention it when I first thought of it, before I went out on patrol, and I've only just remembered it again, so I thought I had better do something about it before it slips away again. May I have a moment?"

"Of course," I said. "What's—"

I was interrupted by the sound of running feet and Ludmilla dashed into the room through the rear door that led to the interior sick rooms.

"Lucanus, come quickly! It's Popilius Cirro. He can't breathe!"

"Stay here, all of you!" Lucanus was gone in a swirl of robes, leaving the three of us alone.

I spoke to Ludmilla, noting even as I digested her words the way in which she seemed to sag against the door frame, her full breasts emphasised by the way her robe was caught between her and the wall.

"What d'you mean, he can't breathe?"

"I don't know what's wrong, Commander. He simply cannot catch his breath." She had not looked at me at all in speaking. Her eyes were fixed on a spot somewhere behind me and her face was flushed a deep red; from fright, I supposed, and the effort of running.

"Who is Popilius Cirro?" I heard Ambrose ask, and I realized then how truly new he was to Camulod.

"Our Senior Centurion," I answered, my eyes still on Ludmilla. "A good friend, and primus pilus to our father for many years in the legions, under Stilicho. He is an old man now, but he was active until he took a wound in the last campaign against Lot, and then he became ill. But he's recovering, and almost fit enough for duty again; at least I thought he was." Even as I was speaking the words I had the strangest sensation that something was wrong here; something that did not concern Popilius. My stomach grew tense and I glanced over my left shoulder to see if anyone else had entered the room behind me. No one had, and I looked back at Ludmilla.

"Don't you think you should go to Lucanus, Ludmilla? He might need some assistance. I think it was us he told to remain here, not you."

She looked at me for the first time since entering the room, a hesitant smile flickering on her face. "Yes. Yes, of course, I probably should." She straightened up, preparing to leave, and then her eyes moved away from me again, back towards the point at which she had been staring all along, and finally the realisation came to me that she was staring at the point behind my right shoulder from which Ambrose's voice had come. I turned my head quickly and saw her gaze mirrored in his eyes as he stared back at her, his face entranced. Still not comprehending fully what was going on, I looked again from one to the other. They were completely unaware of my presence, let alone my scrutiny; each was aware only of the other.

"Ludmilla?" The sound of my voice broke the spell, actually startling her.

"Oh, Popilius Cirro! Excuse me." She turned and was gone, the door swinging shut behind her. I turned back to my brother to find him gazing at me, his entire face radiating awe.

"Cay," he said, his voice quiet and filled with wonder. "Who is she?"