It was late afternoon before Tacitus returned to the garrison. Despite having left a message for his commander, he knew his exemplary military record would now be blighted for having taken the day off without leave. The knowledge made no impact on him at all.
He strode toward the commander’s quarters, refusing to think of anything but the absolute present. Because if he let his guard down, the last image he had of Nimue, her beautiful green eyes glittering with unshed tears, haunted every shadowy corner of his mind.
“Enter.” The commander’s curt tone matched his expression when Tacitus pushed open the door.
Tacitus saluted but the older man continued to glare at him. There was no point in delaying tactics. The commander would discover what he’d done sooner or later.
“I request the manumission of Nimue.”
Only as the words left his mouth did he realize that on the last occasion his commander had spoken to him of Nimue, manumission was the word that had been used. He had no idea why his commander desired Nimue’s manumission and it didn’t matter. She was beyond his reach now.
Shock flashed across the older man’s face, but within a heartbeat he had regained his previous dark glare. “Granted. Bring her to me.”
“I require her formal manumission first.” He had no intention of angering his commander by telling him Nimue was no longer in the garrison. Not before she’d been formally freed.
For a moment he thought he had gone too far. The commander’s eyes narrowed as though he considered Tacitus’ words a direct threat to his authority. But then, just as swiftly, his expression lost its hostility.
“That can be arranged. No one need know that she wasn’t present at the official signing of the documents.” He pulled sheets of papyrus across his desk. “What’s your price for this, Tacitus?”
His gut knotted. It was degrading enough that he had bought Nimue. He wouldn’t further soil his soul by selling her. “She is beyond price.”
The commander shot him a look that he couldn’t decipher. As if he had read too much into that statement. Fuck, why had he said anything at all? He just wanted this over so that he could get on with his life.
A life without Nimue.
“You care for her.” The commander’s voice was oddly gruff. “I will remember that, Tribune.”
Tacitus glared at the older man as he returned to his documents. He had no wish for the commander to assume he knew anything about Tacitus’ feelings for Nimue. And what in Hades did he mean by he would remember it?
The only thing the commander was likely to remember about this encounter was that Tacitus had illegally freed a slave. But once the documents were signed, there was little that could be done about it.
Finally, the commander handed him the documents and Tacitus scrutinized them before making them official. He straightened, and looked his commander in the eye. He had no intention of lying, but neither did he particularly want to raise his commander’s ire unnecessarily.
“I’ll arrange for Nimue to be returned to her people.”
The commander stood. “I’ll accompany you. I look forward to seeing her reaction to such news.”
Two thoughts hammered through Tacitus’ head. First, he would have to tell the commander that Nimue was already with her people. And second—there was something very odd about the commander’s entire attitude when it came to Nimue.
He straightened his already rigid spine. “She is no longer under Roman control.”
Tension crackled in the air as the commander stared at him. Finally he exhaled a measured breath, clearly battling for some degree of control.
“Where is she, Tribune?”
“Back where she belongs.”
The commander’s jaw clenched. “You let her go?”
“Yes, sir.” If the commander chose to make an example of Tacitus, he would require the influence of his powerful family to prevent dire consequences. How ironic that his father should be the one to assist in Tacitus’ only time of need, considering the actions that had led him here.
To Hades with it. He’d rather be disgraced than call on his father for nepotistic intervention.
“You let her go.” The commander slammed his hands onto his desk and leaned forward. He looked furious yet there was a strange undertone of awe in his voice. “Despite how you feel about her?”
Curse all the gods in existence. Why was his commander fixated on the thought that Nimue meant something to Tacitus? Was it truly so obvious?
“Rome would destroy her.”
His commander looked at him as though he’d never seen him before. As if he had just experienced a terrible revelation from the gods themselves. Slowly he sat down and once again, it appeared that he aged before Tacitus’ very eyes.
“Yes.” His voice was hollow and there was a glazed look in his eyes. “Rome destroyed her. As she always claimed it would.”
Who was the commander speaking of? Unease mounted and when finally the older man jerked his head in dismissal, relief washed through Tacitus and he made good his escape.
Nimue stood in the center of the small glade in the forest. A circle of massive bluestones surrounded the edge of the glade and an earth-covered dolmen had been constructed countless generations ago. It had been used for sacred rituals during the time Caratacus and his rebels had hidden from the Romans, and an elusive sense of otherworldly power swirled in the air.
She stared up into the night sky, but only blackness loomed. Not even a glimmer of silver pierced the canopy of cloud. Yet there hadn’t been a single cloud during the day and there was no scent of rain.
The women and children who had been captured by the Romans had arrived safely in the enclave. Several others, from various tribes, had also found their way back from the battleground and they’d all greeted her as their savior.
Tomorrow was the full moon. It was the night she was to perform the sacred rituals to restore the magical protection to the enclave. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t the first idea what she was supposed to do. She knew that, when the time came, the knowledge would be hers.
Would the skies finally clear? Would Arianrhod, in all her shining magnificence, once again grace the night?
Her Goddess hadn’t come to her since Nimue had returned to the enclave, despite how fervently she’d prayed. Was it because Arianrhod knew that Nimue’s heart was no longer committed to ridding Cymru of the enemy? Because she knew her acolyte had already given her heart to the enemy?
The following morn, as Nimue purified her body in preparation for the coming night, the dark sense of malignancy that had haunted her for the last two days magnified. Her stomach churned, her palms were sweaty and it wasn’t her imagination—the forest was unnaturally silent. It didn’t feel as if freedom beckoned on the horizon. It felt like a terrifying abyss threatened to destroy everything she had ever known.
Or was that simply her crippling guilt attempting to rationalize how close she was to betraying her Goddess, her heritage and her people?
With shaky fingers, she undid one of her small leather pouches and took out the brooch Tacitus had given her. Even looking at it caused her heart to ache and she curled her fingers around it, unheeding of how the jewelry dug into her flesh.
Tacitus, my love. She pressed her clenched fist against her naked breasts and saw, in her mind’s eye, her Roman’s face in the moment before he’d turned from her forever.
How could she have let him go? Would agreeing to be his concubine have been so very dreadful? Yet how could she desert her people, the land of her birth, when they needed her most?
Even if the terrible conviction that gripped her—that the promised devastation was wrong—didn’t feel as if it sprung solely from her own conflicted loyalties?
But if that conviction was not entirely hers, then whose was it?