Barbarian Slave Page 3

  Tarl reached the wall to find a number of ladders already going up against it. In different circumstances, he would have been awed by the sight of this great stone fort—which made his home fort of Dun Ringill appear like a grain store in comparison—and the vast grey wall that stretched out for what seemed like an eternity either side.

  It was immense—many feet high and thick—and looked as if had been built by giants.

  Atop the wall, the Roman garrison of Vindolanda awaited them: a sea of tall broad-shouldered figures wearing gleaming armor and helmets, and blood-red cloaks. They were a formidable sight, and for an instant Tarl wondered if his people would be able to breach the wall.

  The centurions stabbed with their spears and swords at the first attackers to clamber up the ladders. Some of the attackers fell, but more took their place. There were too many of them for the garrison to withstand—and as Tarl climbed one of the ladders, he saw men go over the top.

  Tarl scrambled up, shield raised above his head with his left arm, his sword at the ready. “To me,” he shouted over his shoulder at The Eagle warriors who scrambled up the ladder behind him. “We’re through!”

  Crimson already stained his blade, from the fighting north of the wall, but he was hungry to let it bite into Roman flesh again. He got his chance as he crested the wall.

  A tall dark-haired sentry—this one helmetless—came for him, roaring.

  The Roman’s blade bit into the leather and oak of Tarl’s shield. His arm shuddered under the impact, but he was ready. He propelled himself forward off the edge of the ladder and smashed into the centurion, before driving his sword under the man’s guard, into his belly.

  The shriek carried far across the wall, and the man crumpled. However, Tarl paid him no mind. He was already leaping forward ready to engage the next man who opposed him. They were keen fighters, these Caesars, although most of them fought with a savagery borne of desperation. They knew they were outnumbered, knew they had been betrayed from within.

  Warning of the attack had come too late for, as Wurgest had claimed, some of the sentries guarding the outer forts had aided their attackers.

  Blood splattered across Tarl’s face, and the clamor of battle merged into a continuous roar around him—like the wild sea crashing against the sheer coastlines of his homeland.

  Tarl now fought alone. His men, including Donnel, had disappeared into the heaving mass upon the wall. It was every man for himself now—fighting for the north.

  Tarl slashed his way through the Roman sentries. To his left, a tall rawboned woman with frizzy black hair screamed curses as she drove her axe into a centurion’s face—while to his right, two of his people threw themselves onto a sentry and brought him down with their teeth and fists.

  A flood of Cruthini, Attacotti, and Scotti swept across the wall in a violent tide—and Tarl found himself carried along by it, down the steep steps on the southern side.

  I’m inside.

  To the east he could hear a commotion coming from the fort itself. His people were already through there, wreaking havoc, whereas Tarl had scaled the wall near a scattering of outlying houses and gardens.

  Many of his companions had already reached the first of the dwellings—handsome stone structures surrounded by walls and hedges—and Tarl heard screams as the inhabitants within realized they were under attack.

  Tarl broke into a run along the paved road that led away from the wall itself. He had never seen such prosperity. The folk of The Winged Isle, even those who ruled, did not live in homes such as these.

  He imagined the wealth he would find within—the jewels and gold he would be able to bring back to Dun Ringill and lay at his brother’s feet.

  Tarl made his way up the road, past the dwellings that had already been entered, to where a lone house stood on the southern outskirts, apart from all the others. A low dry-stone wall surrounded a home that had been painted white, its roof covered with red stone tiles.

  Vaulting over the gate, Tarl ran up the path toward a grand entrance lined by two great stone pillars. However, as he approached, he realized that he was not the first to arrive here—for the heavy oaken door had been smashed open—and the sounds of a woman’s screams echoed out from within.

  Slowing to a walk, Tarl stepped inside, his foot wrappings whispering on a beautiful mosaic floor. Awed, he paused inside the entrance a moment, marveling at the high ceiling, the statues, and the beautiful craftsmanship.

  Surely one of their generals lives here.

  Another scream shattered his reverie. It was followed by a string of curses he did not understand.

  “Filius canis!”

  Coarse male laughter followed. “That’s right—make some noise, lass. I like my women loud.”

  Chapter Three

  Savior, Captor

  Wurgest. tarl would have recognized that growl anywhere.

  How has he managed to get here ahead of me?

  The Boar must have leaped from the wall the moment after he scaled it, such was his greed for the spoils of war.

  Tarl crossed the wide entrance hall in the direction of the voices. The aroma of freshly baked bread greeted him, followed by a wave of heat from a glowing hearth. He stepped into a wide cooking area, dominated by a scrubbed wooden table.

  On that table was a dark-haired woman—biting and clawing like a she-cat. Her skirts were hiked up around her hips, revealing shapely pale thighs. Wurgest struggled to keep her legs apart while he undid his loin cloth.

  Tarl halted just inside the doorway and stared, taken aback by the scene before him. Wurgest had been rough with the woman already; he could see that. There was a raised livid mark on her cheek, but her dark eyes blazed with defiance.

  Watching her, something shifted in Tarl.

  The Maiden take me … she’s lovely.

  He knew the realities of war, and had fought in a number of skirmishes, yet he had never taken a woman against her will. He knew rape was common, both during and after battle—especially when a man’s excitement ran high. However, he had never seen it at close quarters before. The terror on this woman’s face made him pause, his search for riches forgotten.

  “Wurgest,” he called out, his voice echoing across the stone-lined room. “We don’t have time for this.”

  The Boar warrior went still, twisting his head round to see who had interrupted him. When he saw it was Tarl he grinned. “You like watching do you? Well, just give me a moment, and we’ll give you a show.”

  Tarl held his gaze, unsmiling. “Keep your slug in your breeches, I’ve no wish to see it—and neither does she.”

  Wurgest threw back his head and roared with laughter. His mirth abruptly choked off when the woman twisted under him, her foot slamming into his groin.

  “Slut,” he grunted, slapping her hard across the face. “For that I’m going to give you to my friend here after I’m done.”

  Tarl took a threatening step forward. “Let her go. The attack’s not over yet. Find yourself a woman once the fighting’s done.”

  The warrior’s heavy-featured face creased into a scowl, and he spat on the flagstone floor between them. “I’m no fool—you want this one for yourself. You think she’ll prefer you, with your pretty face, but I’ll show her how a real man humps. You can wait your turn.”

  With that Wurgest turned back to the woman and continued unwrapping his loin-cloth—not an easy task when his captive bucked, writhed, and squirmed under him. Even terrified, she still fought hard.

  A heartbeat later Tarl made a decision. He did not dwell on it, did not hesitate. He knew Wurgest would resent him for this, but the warrior had left him with little choice. If he did not intervene, the situation would spiral out of control.

  Wurgest would rape this woman.

  Tarl sheathed his sword and sprang forward, punching Wurgest hard in the side of the head.

  It was a deliberate hit, and one that might have killed some men. Yet Wurgest would survive it. The warrior let out a grunt and crash
ed to the floor, felled like a mighty oak.

  Upon the table the woman let out a shriek and scrabbled backward, pulling her skirts down as she went. Long dark hair had escaped her braids, and she stared up at him through wild strands. Her comely face was taut, her walnut-colored eyes filled with venom.

  “Quid vis?” she demanded, her voice husky with fear.

  Once again Tarl did not understand her. All the same, her bravery impressed him; despite the fright she had suffered there was no sign of tears. She had fought Wurgest, and he was sure she would fight him too.

  Tarl held her gaze, momentarily ensnared. The womenfolk of The Winged Isle had beauties among them too, and many of them were fierce—as terrifying as men in battle. But none of them looked like this woman.

  Her skin was darker than his; a pale shade of bronze rather than the milk-white skin of northern folk. Her hair was so dark it was almost blue, and the chiseled lines of her cheeks and aquiline nose were stunning.

  Tarl continued to stare at her, transfixed. He had entered this house looking for riches, but he could not leave this beautiful woman at the mercy of Wurgest. She had to be protected.

  “I won’t hurt you,” he told her, “but this will be easier for both of us, if you don’t fight me.”

  Her gaze narrowed, and he watched her look around desperate for a weapon to attack him with.

  “Leave me,” she growled. “Get out!”

  Tarl smiled, pleased that she spoke his tongue. The words were halting, heavily accented, and in a dialect different to his, but he could make them out nonetheless.

  Meeting her gaze once more, he shook his head. “Your best chance of remaining unhurt is to stay with me.” Tarl nodded at where Wurgest lay, out cold at his feet. “When he wakes up, neither of us wants to be here.”

  He watched her frown, not understanding what he had just said. Although she spoke a little of his tongue, she was clearly not fluent.

  “Come.” Tarl reached out and caught her by the arm, drawing her off the table. “Show me where you keep your gold, and we’ll be on our way.”

  The moment the man grabbed her arm, fear exploded within Lucrezia.

  The barbarian had stopped his companion from raping her, only to have her for himself.

  With her free hand she punched him square in the eye.

  The man reeled back, although he did not let go of her arm. Instead he yanked her hard against him. She heard him curse, and recognized the word. It was the same one Gwyna sometimes used when she stubbed her toe or burnt her fingers while tending to the fire.

  The feel of his lean muscular body—lightly clad in plaid breeches and a sleeveless leather vest—sent a bolt of terror through her.

  Unlike his companion, who reeked like a ram during rutting season, this warrior smelled of blood, smoke, and fresh sweat. He did not look as terrifying as the dark-haired giant either. This man was good-looking in a wild fashion, with shaggy light-brown hair and penetrating eyes the color of slate. Yet he was a barbarian, and they were alone together in her house.

  He’ll defile me!

  Lucrezia lunged for a knife on the work bench behind them, but he yanked her back against him.

  She heard him mutter a string of words, of which she understood very little. Fear made it difficult to concentrate. Her only thought was getting free of him, and running. His grip was now an iron band around her bicep as he towed her out of the kitchen into the atrium.

  “Gold,” he repeated, turning to her. “Where is it?”

  Lucrezia shook her head. “We don’t have gold.”

  The barbarian warrior held her gaze, his handsome face turning grim. He did not believe her. Indeed it was a lie. She and Marcus had a store of gold coins, but she would never show this man where it lay.

  Marcus. Dread seeped over Lucrezia. He was on the wall this morning—where’s he now?

  The warrior’s mouth thinned, and he strode across the atrium to the wide corridor beyond. He muttered something else that Lucrezia did not understand and pulled her into the tablinum, the study where Marcus kept all his records.

  She heard the man breathe an oath, his gaze sweeping around the room. To Lucrezia, the space was a humble one—a square room dominated by a large hearth at one end, and a padded recliner and large desk opposite—but the barbarian stared at it as if he had never seen anything so grand.

  He strode across to the desk, pulling her with him, and swept a hand over the piles of scrolls and neatly stacked leaves of vellum that Marcus kept here. He picked up one of the vellum sheets, his brow furrowing. It was a half-finished letter that Marcus had been working on, to his father.

  “What’s this?” the barbarian demanded.

  “Letters,” she spat out. The savage stared back at her, his grey eyes narrowing.

  “Letters?” he repeated, confused.

  “It's a way to send word. To communicate with those who live far from here.”

  His gaze narrowed further, before his mouth thinned, and he nodded. “No worth.”

  No, her captor clearly would not know what to do with a letter. Lucrezia remembered Gwyna and Ciara’s responses when they had seen vellum for the first time—likewise they had been similarly mystified.

  The barbarian moved around the tablinum, upending chairs and sweeping objects off shelves as he went. Lucrezia followed his journey around the room, her jaw clenched.

  This savage won’t find any gold in here.

  When he had finished searching the study, her captor dragged Lucrezia back out into the passageway and through into the triclinum—the dining area. This room was sparsely furnished, with a long table and a hearth at one end; it was clear there were no riches to be found here.

  Instead the man towed her out into the open courtyard beyond, and along the covered hallway to the sleeping quarters. They moved from room to room, but the barbarian found no gold. Out of patience now, and maybe worrying that his companion would soon regain consciousness, the northerner let out a string of curses under his breath.

  Outside Lucrezia could hear screams and shouts, followed by the clang of iron and the thud of wood and leather. Fear shivered through her. This man might have prevented her from being raped, but when more of his friends arrived he would not be able to stop them from attacking her.

  Lucrezia’s breathing hitched. I’m doomed.

  Perhaps realizing this himself, the barbarian led Lucrezia outside, still keeping a firm grip on her upper arm. Smoke stained the pale dawn sky—some of the houses around them were on fire.

  More screams and cries shattered the morning; Lucrezia stared around her, aghast. She knew all the women who lived in the villas behind the wall. The sound wailing from a home they passed made her stumble, her chest constricting. She twisted round to face her captor. Not finding the words in the local tongue, she lapsed into Latin.

  “Stop them—you can’t let your men do this! You can’t let them defile these women!”

  The barbarian stared back at her. He did not grasp her words, although she knew he understood her plea. Their gazes locked and held, and she saw something shadow in the depths of those grey eyes. Yet after a moment he merely shook his head and towed Lucrezia forward, dragging her west toward the fort itself.

  The savages were everywhere. Warriors ran howling like furies, shaking bloodied axes and swords as they hacked down the last few colonists who tried to escape them. Lucrezia spied two other Roman women who had been captured. One named Fabia—who had only recently arrived at the wall with her husband—raked at the face of the savage who dragged her toward the fort. Her captor spat at her before knocking the girl to the ground. Behind her, the other woman, Claudia, struggled against the hirsute warrior who carried her slung over his shoulder. Her screams were blood-curdling.

  Unable to watch the women’s plight, Lucrezia turned away. Only it did not matter what direction she faced—violence and terror now surrounded her. It was then that she spied women among the attackers. She watched a female warrior, wielding nothin
g more than a crude knife, disembowel a man twice her size. Then the woman let out a howl and cut off the centurion’s ear as a trophy.

  Lucrezia’s bowels cramped in terror, cold sweat beading on her skin.

  They’re beasts.

  As they approached the fort, her captor halted a moment and removed his belt from around his waist, using it to bind her wrists behind her. He then said something quickly to her, his accent so thick that she did not catch a word.

  “Speak slower,” she snarled at him, using the tongue her servants had taught her. “I can't understand.”

  The man ignored her, instead pushing her ahead of him as they resumed their march to the fort. However, Lucrezia deliberately slowed her pace. She had no wish to reach their destination. She did not want to see the men she had lived among for seven years now dead inside.

  She did not want to see Marcus’s body among them.

  Sensing Lucrezia’s reluctance, the man behind her propelled her forward. They walked across the last stretch and under the great arch leading into the stone fort. The wood and iron doors had been battered down and blood stained the ground dark at the entrance.

  The moment Lucrezia stepped within, the stench of a slaughter-house hit her. She choked back a gag and gazed around at the sea of bloodied and twisted bodies that covered the wide area inside.

  Most of the dead were her own people; men wearing silver armor and red cloaks, but there were also a few slain savages among them. The guards here had fought bravely to the end, but it had not been enough.

  How could this happen?

  Dully, she realized that she knew the answer. Men like Cassius Severus had broken the morale of the soldiers posted on the fringes of the Empire, ruling with iron and terror. It had been only a matter of time before the people rose up. There was no way the northern barbarians could have scaled the wall and slaughtered everyone within it, if they had not had help from within.

  Lucrezia’s throat constricted, and she glanced up to where men still fought on the eastern watch tower above her. She could see the last defenders of the fort struggling against a tide of screaming savages.