Wolf Blood by N. M. Browne Page B

you’ll see,’ she says. ‘If they have their way, there will be no Brigante, no Parisi, only Romans and then the rest. We’ll all have to obey their laws, worship their gods, pay taxes to their coffers and never be free again.’
    I don’t say anything.
    ‘Say you’ll take the message.’
    ‘I’m sorry, Cassie, I . . .’
    ‘Then I demand that you repay your blood debt. It is my right. My price is that you take my message to Caratacus.’
    What is she talking about? Before I can ask she carries on.
    ‘I know you killed Gwyn. The Parisi pedlar – he saw you. You killed my brother and I’ve saved you so you are doubly in my debt!’
    What would she have had me do, leave Gwyn in agony? I see again the pleading look in his eyes and listen to the scream he never wanted me to hear. Even my time as a slave has not erased that memory. I’m about to argue but stop myself in time. Cassie doesn’t need to know how he suffered. It does not change her rights of reparation.
    ‘Are you sure about this, Cassie – a blood debt?’
    She nods. Her face is hard under her makeup. She is nothing like the woman I remember.
    ‘All right. You’ve made sure I’ve no choice. I’ll pay the debt. Tell me what I need to remember.’
    ‘Nothing,’ she says with pride. ‘I’ve learned to scribe – as the Romans do.’ She pulls something from her breast – a fragment of bark, marked with scratches. It means nothing to me. I’ve been trained to remember, even though I’m no bard. I don’t trust what I can’t hear spoken.
    ‘What are you talking about?’
    ‘The Romans don’t rely on the memory of messengers. They use these marks here to stand for words so that the person who gets these marks will know the words I want to say.’
    ‘And this Caratacus can make sense of them?’
    She nods.
    ‘Can’t anyone who has the knack of it read those marks?’
    ‘Yes. That’s the point.’
    ‘Then the message could be stolen from me and given to someone else.’
    ‘You will not let them,’ she says firmly. I think she is disappointed that I’m not more impressed by her acquisition of this new, pointless skill. I take the small sliver of pale bark but, lacking her assets, I’ve nowhere to hide it.
    ‘You’ve done well to have learned this Roman trick,’ I add as warmly as I can because I would be dead without her help and I’ve probably not been grateful enough. Her look is cold.
    ‘Perhaps it would be better if you left at once. The Parisi pedlar has a cart . . .’
    I interrupt her. ‘If he was at Ragan’s Field, he’s my sworn enemy!’
    Her retort is fierce and exasperated. ‘Have you never heard that your enemy’s enemy is your friend? He’s against the Romans – that’s all that matters. Tribal disputes aren’t important any more.’
    I bite down my furious response. She was not at Ragan’s Field. She did not see her family slaughtered.
    ‘Here are some coins for your journey.’ She hands me a small pouch of clinking coins then indicates my weapons and soldier’s clothes lying in the middle of the floor. ‘I can’t keep these here.’
    As if I’d let her! My cloak is not military issue but a worn plaid that ought not to mark me out as the rogue legionary. I turn it inside out to show its brighter side. I strap the sword belt tightly around my hips and I stow both the sack of coins and the strange inscribed bark within my belt pouch. She tuts; it must look ridiculous. The shield, spear, mail and other stuff is too bulky to be smuggled away easily. She frowns. ‘Here, take this.’ She empties the wicker basket in which she carried the food and gives me one of the skins from under the couch with which to cover my load. Even so, I realise with regret that I will have to leave my spear and shield behind.
    ‘You will find Caratacus by the River Sabrina at Caer Caradoc out west. I know that the gods will bless you, for what you do will help save all of us.’ I have no such certainty, but I kiss her