Free The White Mare: The Dalraida Trilogy, Book One by Jules Watson Page B

Tacitus. ‘Come back in! I’ve only got as far as your advance on the Ordovices. They would not come down from their western mountains, so you went to them … and then what?’
    Agricola remained at the door, leaning on the tent pole. The soft evening beckoned, its warm breeze nudging away the sudden memory that blew in with Tacitus’s words: of freezing winds and whirling snow during that long winter campaign, two years before. ‘We killed them all. You know this already.’
    ‘Yes, but it may end up as the only record we have, so I need detail. Did the chiefs really have enemy heads on their spears? How close was the fight? How did you win?’
    At last Agricola turned, regarding the youth with impatience. Tacitus was seated on Agricola’s camp stool, feet on the folding map table, scribbling on a pile of vellum sheets. One finger was black with ink.
    ‘We killed them all.’ Agricola ran a hand through his clipped hair. ‘That is as accurate as I can be.’
    ‘Oh … very little fighting then.’ Tacitus sounded disappointed.
    ‘All the better, since it freed me to turn my attentions to the north.’ Agricola came to the table and began flicking through an untidy pile of letters. ‘And here we are. So, now you’re back in the present you can get down to real business. You offered to be my secretary, I recall.’
    Tacitus sighed, and uncurled his body to dig through the letters, before proffering one to his father-in-law. ‘Here is a dispatch from that fat old man at Lindum. He says that construction of the forum has been delayed by rain.’
    Agricola raised an eyebrow, fingering the broken wax seal, and Tacitus held up his hands. ‘I know, I know! I should not speak of our learned procurator so. But honestly, Father, it rains all the time in this country – since when did that hold anything up? If it did, nothing would get done. He’s just wasting too much time with that German whore of his.’
    ‘As you pointed out, don’t speak so of the man.’ Agricola read the letter.
    Tacitus threw the other dispatches down with a sigh, then gave Agricola a winning smile. ‘Can we eat now? I’m starving. I’ll go through the rest of these later.’
    ‘So long as you do it tomorrow. I’ll not have you getting behind.’ Agricola beckoned to the slave lighting an oil lamp by the camp bed, for within the tent, it was growing dark. ‘Send a message to the legates that I will dine with them tomorrow, and order us some food. And find the lady – I wish her to join us.’
    The slave bowed and left, and Agricola turned to catch a frown on Tacitus’s face. ‘Don’t look at me like that, boy! You know why I entertain her. She’s the reason we’ve conquered these lands so easily.’
    The youth’s frown deepened. ‘She’s a witch, not a lady,’ he muttered. ‘I don’t trust her. And I don’t—’ He caught himself, compressing his lips to stop the words.
    ‘You don’t like me laying with her?’
    Tacitus shifted uncomfortably; Agricola let him. He never felt the need to explain himself to anyone, and he was not about to start. The youth would have accepted his argument that the dalliance with the woman was wholly political, and gave them valuable information about Alba, for he shared Agricola’s passion for conquering the north – or at least for writing a glorious tale about it. Tacitus would not understand the other reason, though: that these northern witches provided a reliefAgricola’s wife could never give him, Juno bless her. And this one was better than any he had come across.
    ‘You don’t have to stay,’ he offered, idly scanning another letter. Tacitus was silent, looking mutinous.
    Then a honeyed voice flowed into the space between them. ‘You asked for me, my lord?’
    The voice was dusky, speaking lilting Latin, and the woman’s colouring matched her tones: hair as black and glossy as raven feathers, eyes of ebony. She wore the simple dress of her people, but her lush, rounded curves