Chapter Seventeen
The men are no more that a couple of long strides away. I can see their clean-shaven cheeks, scent the residual oil from the baths on their skin, the old-wine stink of their breath and the rotten smell of their long-ago breakfasts. They are a scouting party, probably sent to track and pursue us, but I can tell by the way they are moving that they think their task pointless – another stupid army drill. We did a lot of them in the Ninth. Their talk is of women and home. They are not paying too much attention to their surroundings.
I think we’ll get away with it. I think they’ll pass us by. Then Trista’s stupid mule wanders into view – still wearing his halter. Mules do not stray into forests on their own and the men are instantly alert. It is not one of the many army animals; it does not bear the brand of the wolf. I watch the Decanus check carefully. It’s the Parisi pedlar’s beast and not only are the bridle and halter of native design, but they are bright with ribbons and jangle with all the Keltic charms attached to the harness for good luck. Mithras’ balls! Why didn’t we tie up the mule? The Decanus issues a terse command, but it’s barely necessary. The men shut up, straighten up and become soldiers. I can see them scanning the land with practised eyes, instantly ready for action. They remove their shields and arrange themselves into a better defensive formation. Stupid, pissing mule.
The men unsheathe their swords and start to fan out warily to look for the mule’s owners. Our hiding place will not bear careful scrutiny. They’ll find us and Trista will fight and then she’ll die because, in spite of her time as a slave, she doesn’t know how to submit. The stink of Rome is so strong I almost sneeze. I start to crawl backwards away from the men. I hear Trista gasp and whisper something, yanking at my cloak, but I’m not listening and the cloak comes away in her hand. She stifles a cry as I lose all that encumbers me. I try to do it silently. The sweaty wool of my tunic flops to the ground with barely a sound. I step out of it, keeping my body low. I slink forwards so that my belly almost scrapes the ground. I have to leave Trista behind.
I can smell deer nearby and I know that the thought of fresh venison will distract these men as nothing else could. Unfortunately it distracts me too. I picture myself biting into the succulent flesh of a doe and I find myself salivating. I have to think of something else, of my need to redirect these men so that Trista might get away. I haven’t much time. The men are shouting to each other, frightening away all the wild animals and the other, dark things of the forest that I try not to see. The Romans know exactly what they are doing. One of the men is walking in Trista’s direction. His eyes are fixed on the ground, his sword is out. I break cover and run.
Someone cries out, but my ears are back and I’m running so fast I know they won’t catch me.
All the men’s shouting has woken my mate. Her musk calls to me and I let her know that I’m here and needing her. She is still angry with me – I can see it in her stance – but she does what I ask and we two herd the deer back towards the Romans. The deer are skittish and reluctant to head where we want them to go, but they fear us more than they fear the men. One of them is lame and we might be able to take it down. I know the she-wolf is thinking the same thing. I have to concentrate on Trista, her special scent, her fighting spirit, her need for me, so that the painful emptiness in my belly does not distract me.
The she-wolf is fleet-footed. I have to work hard to match her. She has already isolated the weak doe, but the deer is too big for her to take down on her own. She needs me too and even the prospect of meat will not tempt her to go within sight and spear range of the men: she was hit once by a glancing spear-blow and will not risk it again.
I hesitate. I think we could take the doe, but these beasts can run and the chase might take us miles from this place. I have to go back to the place I left the female, I mean Trista, to be sure she is safe. I make a sound that is between a howl and a bark to tell the she-wolf that I’ll be back. I run beside the herd, still driving them with my powerful scent, but keeping my distance so that the Romans will see them before they spot me. I find what shadows I can and stay in them, trusting to the subtle shadings of my own pelt to keep me hidden in this place of winter greys and browns.
The herd is not large, but their hoofs are loud in the forest and I know that there is not a man in the army who doesn’t love a haunch of venison.
I see Trista at once, still cowering in the undergrowth. The shawl that should cover her head has fallen down so that her bright hair shines like a fiery beacon if you know where to look. One of the soldiers is so close that I think he must have spotted her. I drop to the ground watching. If he gets within a spear’s length, I will pounce.
The deer are confused with a wolf behind them, a wolf alongside them and men in front of them, and they run the only way they can. The Decanus yells and all the men focus on trying to spear a dear. They stand little chance but that does not stop them. The young male nearest to Trista sheathes his sword and runs for the herd, putting down his shield and picking up his spear as he goes. I hope Trista has the wit to stay still. The men are still alert and she, unlike the running deer, is easy to spear. She hazards a small movement – lifting her head just high enough to see what is happening – and then drops back down.
The Decanus has the mule and the group move on. I wait until I judge they can no longer hear us and then double back to see how the she-wolf fares with the injured doe. Trista can take care of herself.
We run, the she-wolf and I, we exhaust the deer and then together we bring her down, sharing the kill. She gives me the choicest parts of the innards, the soft and juiciest morsels and then we eat all that we can until we can barely move. When we are both satiated, I take a large hunk of meat to carry in my mouth to give to Trista. The she-wolf slips away, her fury evident in every line of her body.
She seems small when I finally catch up with her. If I were to stand on my hind legs, I would tower over her, which is strange because when I am a man we are the same size.
She approaches cautiously. She looks exhausted, out of breath, but otherwise unharmed. She bends over to catch her breath, resting her hands on her knees and I realise she has been running at full pelt. Four legs are faster than two, they can outrun a deer and tear out its heart.
I place the raw meat at her feet and then hurry back to my mate.