Page 59 of Taming the Eagle
Toutorix was still at large.
“One hundred isn’t a large band,” Marcus said then, intruding on his general’s thoughts.
“No, it isn’t,” Justin agreed. His gaze swept north, focusing on the mountains, a lilac and purple silhouette against the sky. “But there might be more. They were traveling in stealth for a reason.”
Turning, Justin surveyed the fort behind him. The rumble of men’s voices and the clang of iron rose up. A burst of laughter intruded then—two men standing in the parade ground were sharing a joke. Sunlight glinted off armor and shields from a line of soldiers making for the Porta Praetoria, heading out on patrol.
It was just another day at Ardoch. They’d had an easy winter, but the thawing of the earth had already seen stirrings of trouble.
“Increase our sentries around the fort … and the men at the watchtowers too,” he instructed then. “We must—”
A cry above cut Justin off. Both men craned their necks up to spy an eagle gliding overhead.
The skin on Justin’s forearms prickled, while the primus pilus muttered an oath under his breath. The mightyaquilawas a symbol of Jupiter, a symbol of their legion—but it was also a ‘storm bird’, a herald of war.
“I haven’t seen an eagle here since the day the Ninth marched from Ardoch,” Marcus said, an edge to his voice now. “That’s an ill omen if ever I saw one.”
“The wind is changing, Marcus,” Justin replied.
“Gods, this is heavy,” Fenella wheezed, casting her companion a sideways glance. “How do you make it look so easy?”
Aedan snorted. The pair of them pushed barrows, stacked with urns of olive oil, cream, and milk, along the rutted street toward the praetorium. The Brigante had barely broken a sweat, while she was beginning to pant. It wasn’t that surprising though; she was strong, for she labored hard from dawn till dusk, yet Aedan spent his days hauling wood and bricks of peat for the furnace and kitchen hearth.
Hitting a particularly deep rut, Fenella stumbled and nearly faceplanted onto an urn of olive oil teetering on the barrow. The pungent green oil—transported up to the frontier from lands far to the south—leaked through the wooden stopper of the urn, and she cursed.
A passing soldier barked a laugh before muttering something coarse.
Fenella snarled an insult back in her own tongue. “Pig,” she muttered as she and Aedan continued on their way.
“Aye, they’re a coarse lot,” the Brigante agreed. “Most of them haven’t had a woman in years.” He paused then, as if reflecting on his own situation, which wouldn’t be any different. “Your arrival here caused much excitement.”
Fenella made a face. Nonetheless, she hadn’t been blind to the looks she attracted whenever she ventured out of the praetorium. She was rarely unescorted, yet that didn’t stop soldiers from stripping her naked with their gazes.
She was about to answer Aedan, when she spotted a column of legionaries marching up the street toward them. The two slaves wheeled their barrows to one side, to let them pass.
“It’s busy in here this afternoon,” she observed as the men tramped by, weapons, armor, and shields rattling. Indeed, she’d noted the increase in traffic through the fort the moment she’d stepped outdoors. Marking the grim looks on some of the soldiers’ faces, her belly tightened, and unease skated down her spine.
Something was wrong.
“Aye, Aquila’s got wind of movement to the north,” the Brigante replied. “He’s mobilizing more men.”
Fenella’s breathing caught.
The full moon was still five days away, yet the first signs of what Eogan had warned had appeared.
Ready yourself, Fen.
She was about to heave the barrow forward then, and cover the final stretch to the praetorium, when Aedan breathed an oath.
He was looking up, and Fenella followed his gaze.
There, perched upon the edge of the roof of the general’s residence, was a coal-black raven. It stared down at them, beady eyes unblinking.
Fenella’s heart started to pound. Among her people, ravens signified many things, few of them good. It was an omen of coming battle, although the bird was also a harbinger of change, upheaval, and rebirth—the old giving way to welcome the new.
Tearing her gaze from the raven, Fenella glanced Aedan’s way. The Brigantes shared the same gods as her own people—he would know, as well as her, what the raven’s appearance meant.
“Winter often lulls you into thinking peace has settled,” Aedan said after a pause, tearing his gaze from the raven to look at her. His mouth quirked then, his blue eyes old beyond their years. “But it never does for long.”