He helped her up into the cart and wrapped her in a dry blanket. Some of his men lifted the bodies of the young priests into the wagon. Caillean, huddled in her cloak and the farmer’s rough blanket, reflected miserably that from now on she would be getting the best of whatever these folk could offer her, but no power on earth could bring her to the Forest House before Samaine.
Gaius was surprised to find the road south from Deva crowded with other travelers. It took him a moment to remember that they must be going down to the festival. But the glances he got as he rode by were not friendly, and after a time he felt it wiser to turn off the road and take a path through the hills so that he could come at the Forest House from the direction of Father Petros’s hermitage.
A cold wind was rattling the bare branches like bones, though for the moment it had ceased to rain. Samaine was the feast of the dead; the Romans considered it a day of ill omen. Well, he thought, it was certainly that for him. But he did not consider turning back. He had fallen into a fatalistic mood he remembered from his days with the Legions: the grim acceptance men find sometimes before battle, when survival is less important than honor. He was not sure he had any left, after the last few days, but he would redeem what he could, no matter what it cost.
As he rode, the beauty in the autumn woods moved him despite, or perhaps because of, his grim mood. Gaius realized then that in the past year or so he had learned to love this land. Whoever triumphed in the current conflict, he would not go back to Rome. Hard as he tried to fulfill Macellius’s ambitions, he had never completely belonged in his father’s world, yet he was far too Roman to feel anything but an impostor among the tribes. But the trees did not despise him as a barbarian or the stones hate him as a conqueror. In the peace of the forest, Gaius was at home.
He saw smoke rising from Father Petros’s hut, and thought for a moment of going in. But the place made him remember Senara. Gaius did not think he could bear that memory, and he was certain he would not be able to keep his temper if the priest came out with any of his holy platitudes.
He supposed that his errant legionaries would be hiding somewhere until nightfall. He tethered his mount loosely enough so that it could pull free if he did not return soon and began to make his way carefully around the building, keeping to the woods that edged the cleared land.
Dusk was falling before he saw movement in the bushes ahead of him. Cautious as a cat, he moved forward. Two soldiers were crouched in the lee of some hazels. They had been dicing to pass the time, and now they were arguing about whether or not to light a fire.
“Flavius Macro!” Gaius snapped in his best tone of command. Automatically, the man came to attention, then looked wildly around him.
“Who is it—” the second soldier had his hand on his sword. Gaius trod loudly on a branch to warn him and moved into the last of the light.
“It’s, why it’s Gaius Macellius,” said Macro. “Sir, what are you doing here?”
“I should think it is rather my place to ask that of you,” said Gaius, releasing his breath. “They know in Deva that you are gone. What do you think will happen if they find out you came here?”
The man’s face turned gray-white. “You wouldn’t tell them, would you, sir?”
Gaius pretended to hesitate long enough for the men to shudder, then shrugged. “Well, I’m not your officer. If you head back now you shouldn’t get into too much trouble, not with all that’s going on in the town.”
“Sir, we can’t do that,” said the other man. “Longus is still in there.”
Gaius felt his heart sink. “You can’t help him by staying here,” he said evenly. “Go on, that’s an order. I’ll do what I can for your friend.”
His tension eased a little as he heard them crashing off through the trees, but even one legionary was too many if found where he had no business to be.
Moving as if he were leading a patrol back on the border, Gaius slipped across the open space to the wall. There should be a back gate somewhere—the wall was intended more as a symbol of separation than an actual defense. His hand touched the latch, and then he was easing into the open space where he had seen his son playing ball. Senara had chattered a great deal about her life here. The big building in front of him must be the House of Maidens. There was a dark patch behind the kitchen that looked like a good place to watch from. He crept towards it.