Page 34 of Taming the Eagle

The past month had been a blur.

As soon as reinforcements from Eboracum arrived, Justin had mobilized his army. It had taken them a fortnight to take back Bochastle, and scour the hills around the outpost, before turning their focus upon Dalginross.

But now it was done. The entrances to the wide glens that led into the mountains were secure once more.

A grim smile curved Justin’s mouth.

He could return to Ardoch now—to Fenella.

His brow furrowed then. Not that his slave would welcome him home. He’d hoped their walk on the walls together would have gained her trust a little, but in the days before his departure, Fenella had retreated into surliness once more.

It hadn’t stopped him from thinking about her ever since though—in the quiet moments, when he wasn’t marching, laying siege, or fighting, she plagued him.

Their conversation on the walls had surprised him. He hadn’t meant to be so open with her, although she’d revealed more about herself than she’d likely meant to. It didn’t surprise him she’d been forced into marriage with Toutorix, although he noted the bitterness she still carried with her as a result.

He wanted to converse with her again, to listen to the low, musical lilt of her voice and gaze into her dark-blue eyes as she told him more about herself.

Mithras, you’ve got it bad.

Justin sucked in a deep breath and swiveled, his bloodied and rent purple cloak billowing behind him.

Enough of this. He was pining like a callow youth. Justin had a fort to make safe.

“Lupa!”

Halting on the steps before the general’s residence, a tray of food and drink balanced on her hip, Fenella scowled.

She knew enough Latin now to understand that the soldier who’d called out from where he was going through drills on the parade ground had just called her a slut.

The man earned a barked reprimand from his centurion, but the other legionaries leered.

Fenella glared back at them. It was unfortunate that ‘she-wolf’ in Latin was used to insult a woman, for among her own people, it had a positive connotation—just further proof of how different the Caesars were to the Cruthini.

“May the Reaper freeze off your bollocks,” she muttered, descending the steps.

Indeed, it was certainly cold enough this afternoon. The air was raw. They were in the depths of winter now; the ‘Long Night’ was approaching, and icicles hung from the edge of the portico that ran around the house’s open courtyard.

Fortunately, she was warmly dressed. For the bitter season, she and the other slaves had donned long-sleeved tunics, woolen leggings, and short ankle boots. Around her shoulders, Fenella wore a goat-skin wrap, which helped keep the chill at bay.

But despite the cold, she welcomed any chance to leave the praetorium.

Sometimes the walls felt as if they were closing in on her; Fenella’s world had grown small indeed since she’d come to live at Ardoch. Apart from that one walk on the walls, she saw little beyond the interior of the general’s residence.

Aquila had been away for weeks now, and she’d enjoyed the reprieve. She could go about her tasks without fear of bumping into him, and she no longer had to endure awkward conversations or lingering looks.

Instead, she could focus on plotting her escape.

Two days earlier, Ava had sent her out to collect a sack of oats from the granary. Pulling a cart behind her, and ignoring the hot gazes of gawking men, Fenella had noted that both gates—the Porta Principalis Sinistra and Porta Principalis Dextra—remained open from dawn to dusk. The Porta Principalis Dextra—the ‘right gate’—was the busier of the two, as it opened out into the vicus, the settlement beyond the walls. However, she’d also counted half a dozen soldiers warding both gates, with the same number atop the guard towers. Fenella’s mood had soured as she’d hauled the cart back to the praetorium. How was she supposed to slip out when they were so well guarded?

Reaching the bottom of the steps now, Fenella paused once more. Whenever she ventured outdoors, in fact, she always took careful note of her surroundings. Unfortunately, she saw nothing helpful this afternoon. There were soldiers everywhere, and towering wooden ramparts surrounded her on all sides.

“Move on, woman,” one of the guards flanking the doors behind her spoke up. “Stop dawdling.”

Casting the man a sour look, Fenella reluctantly continued walking. She skirted the edge of the building, to where Aedan labored at the furnace. Unlike the other members of the household, the Brigante wasn’t swathed in furs and wool this time of year. Instead, his face gleamed with sweat, his short dark-red hair plastered against his scalp. He spent his days now hauling fuel and stoking the furnace that kept the residence warm.

Seeing her approach, Aedan straightened up, wiping his sweating brow with the back of his arm.

“At least this task keeps you warm,” Fenella greeted him.