Chapter 3

The first thing Henricus was aware of was the shooting pain in his head. The second thing Henricus was aware of was the parched, sickly rasp of dried salt and bile in his mouth, causing him to gag, spit, roll over, and splash facefirst into the brackish tidepool he had been lying in, sprawled on his back, dead to the world for who knew how long. The light was pale grey, indicating an uncertain midmorning hour, and matched well with the ashy, filthy air.

Grimacing, Henricus pushed himself to his feet, tottered, had to grab a nearby pillar for support, and made himself not do what he would very much have liked to, which was be sick everywhere. Once he'd swallowed it back, he started to wonder if the pirates had been defeated, if the port had been secured, if the people were safe. It was his duty, as a Roman citizen more or less of age, to ensure it, and he scouted around until he found a dropped sword lying abandoned, with no sign of its owner. Slinging it through his belt, and trying not to breathe too deeply because the smoke was still rasping his throat, he set off.

Most of the windows were shut, doors barred. Here and there he saw faint signs of life, but everyone always beat a smart retreat as soon as they saw him. For which reason Henricus had no idea; he was still wearing his toga, however soot-stained. He was clearly not a pirate, they didn't need to be frightened of him, and he at least had to find if the ferry was still running to Portus Dubris. If not – it was a long swim indeed across the channel, or several months to wait until it was rebuilt. Having very little money his own, that meant several months Henricus would be living on the streets, a prospect which was utterly appalling to him. Damnation, couldn't the lot of them have waited one more day to launch their attack? Hungry, dirty, resentful, and, despite all his bravado, completely at a loss as to what he was going to do next, Henricus turned the corner, slid down a slick of mud, and stared out at the harbor.

The fog was still so thick that he could barely see a hundred yards, much less the thirty miles to Britannia, or whether the ferry was still at its anchor, had sailed, or sunk. But he could hear men's voices, talking in some unknown language, see the wavering glow of a fire kindled from driftwood. It took him half an instant more to realize that, rather than stealing off again in the night like the brigands and barbarians they were, it was the pirates, loitering around to enjoy the fruit of their spoils. Sitting on the beach laughing and drinking, roasting something over the fire – all while good Roman civilians cowered in their houses, cold and frightened. And at that moment, a queer lightheadedness close to madness overtook Henricus. Even if no one else, he at least would not stand for this.

"Avast!" He whipped out the sword, pointing it dramatically, and leapt down onto the sand. "Stand and face me, you villains!"

Heads turned in unison: unshaven, fierce, wild-looking men with long matted hair, Hibernian raiders clad in fur and leather and amber, each of them with knives stashed gods knew where and swords resting casually against rocks. They stared at him for an endless moment, clearly stunned. Then as one, they started to laugh uproariously.

Henricus flushed, but refused to look like a coward by withdrawing. He advanced further, the wet and briny sand squelching under his feet, aggressively flourishing the blade to either side to discourage any of them from coming near him. "You are miscreants and wrongdoers!" he warned them. "This is Roman territory, and you are unlawfully – "

More blank looks and shrugs. They kept on chortling, clearly vastly amused by his efforts more than anything, and he supposed grimly that it was far too much to hope for barbarians to understand or speak the language of civilized men – that was why they were called barbarians, after all, for their wild tongue that sounded only of "bar, bar, bar," to Roman ears. He was just trying of how else to possibly communicate his message (he had thought the drawn sword was rather unambiguous) when a voice from the end said, in accented but perfectly understandable Latin, "Put the blade down, boy."

Henricus spun on the spot to look. By the way the laughter suddenly ceased as the speaker rose to his feet, he realized at once that this must be the captain. Not the tallest or the burliest of the raiders, but knit of salt-stained, sun-browned muscle, with black hair braided back from his face, piercing blue eyes, a grim mouth, and wearing (oddly) an old gladiator's manica over his right arm. However striking his looks were, however, they were nothing compared to Henricus's realization that on his left arm, the man wore, in place of his missing hand, a curved and lethally sharpened iron hook. This was him, then. The infamous bastard in the flesh.

"You." Henri had meant to sound authoritative, commanding, but his voice squeaked. Standing there, he felt three years old, not almost thirteen. "You're a – "

"Pirate? Well spotted, boy." The captain quirked one dark eyebrow. "Nothing gets past you, clearly. You don't need to tell me you're holding a sword, though. I can see that bloody well for myself. Why don't you put it down, before I give an order you'd regret."

Henri hesitated. The captain raised his good hand, and a low rumble ran through the crew. Hands the size of ham-hocks reached for swords, knives, clubs, and all sorts of violent implements.

Henri put the sword down.

"Now there's a good lad," the captain said approvingly. "Though I admire your pluck, running out here alone to challenge the lot of us. Brave little Roman. What's your name?"

"What's yours?"

The captain considered for a moment, then made an elegant, sardonic bow, his cultured manners and fluent Latin at utter odds with his wild appearance. "Killian mac Dáithí. However, I'm known these days by my more colorful moniker. Hook."

"Oh." Henricus should have had something more witty to respond to that, but couldn't think of it offhand. "Marius Henricus Maximinus," he said stiffly, trying to get around the oddity of pleasant introductions to a pirate. Habit nearly made him add, "At your service," but he caught himself just in time. Instead he folded his arms and eyed Hook suspiciously.

"And what in Danu's name are you doing here, Marius Henricus?" The captain enunciated the name so precisely that Henri knew he was being made fun of.

"None of your business."

"Oh?" Hook echoed, mocking him. "You'd better learn to guard that tongue of yours, lad. You're not in Rome anymore, by a damn long sight. Now, I'll ask again. What are you doing?"

Henri hesitated one last time, but as he could not see the ferry, his former companions, or any way to get out of this that did not involve discretion as the better part of valor, he finally broke. "I was trying to get to Londinium. In Britannia. Not that I'll be able to get there now, after – "

"Londinium?" Hook's blue eyes remained fixed on him. "Why?"

"I wanted to see the provincial governor." Best to make the bastard think he was as important as possible, and worth far more alive than dead.

"Quintus Lollius Urbicus?" Hook spat. "If he wants you, then I'll do my damndest to ensure otherwise. It would give me great pleasure to – "

"It's not Urbicus." Uninformed savage. "I suppose you haven't heard, busy causing misery and mayhem as you have been, but there's a new governor now. David Aurelius."

For an eternal instant, there was complete silence. Hook looked verily as if someone had just thrown a stone and caught him dead to rights between the eyes, and for some reason, not sure why, Henri knew that this name meant something to him. Sudden hope that he might get out of this after all welled up in him; he tamped it down, anxious not to overplay his hand until he knew the precise nature of his advantage. "Well?" he said. "Anything else?"

"No." Hook turned away, clearly trying to control his face. He opened and closed his good hand, flexing the fingers as if reaching for someone's throat. "I hope you like swimming, boy."

"Oh, do I?" Henri took a step. "What about if you sailed me across?"

"What in hell do you think I am? A bloody ferryman? Besides, you can't pay."

"Actually." Henri thrust a hand into his tunic, to the one thing he had carefully saved, wondering if or ever it was to be proved useful. The moment of truth. He held out the silver ring Robin had given to him before he escaped Rome. "What about this?"

Hook bit back some undoubtedly bloodcurdling oath in Gaelic, taking two strides across the sand and snatching it out of Henri's hand. His voice was low, dark, terrible when he snarled, "And where did you get this, exactly?"

"It was a gift." Henri straightened his shoulders defiantly. "I didn't steal it."

The pirate turned the ring over and over in his hand. He was wearing several of his own – all of which looked like Roman signets, no doubt cut from the fingers of men he'd killed. His dark brows were knitted together over his thunderstorm of a face, as he finally looked back at Henri again. "Who gave it to you?"

"Robin." Henri paused. "I don't know any other name. A British slave in Rome."

Hook closed his eyes. It looked as if this was information he manifestly could have done without, and now, knowing it, was bound to a course of action he would have considered unthinkable just a moment before. "All right," he growled at last. "What do you want?"

"The governor isn't in Londinium right now," Henri said. "He's in Eboracum. And I'd never get there on my own. I want you to take me there."

The pirate barked a mirthless laugh. "In exchange for what?"

Henri glanced pointedly around at the smoking ruins of Gesoriacum harbor. It stuck in his throat, but honor was honor. "In exchange," he said, "I'll tell him that someone else did – did this. That you shouldn't be punished for it."

"But I did do it," Hook said coolly. "I'm not the sort of man to blame another for my deeds or to let them take credit. Besides, I'm not bloody frightened of them. If they did want to punish me, they'd have to catch me first. With a legion, not some brave but stupid boy like you."

"Please." Henri didn't know how to react after the pirate had turned down his first offer; he had assumed that any outlaw and thief would want immunity from persecution. He hated to be reduced to begging, but could see no other option. "He can pay you."

"I don't want his gold." Killian mac Dáithí's shoulders were hunched and hard. "I don't accept any payment that I couldn't take for myself. Especially not from them."

"His daughter." It was a shot in the dark, with no way of knowing whether it would help or hinder. "Emma Aurelia. She's there. I need to talk to her."

Killian – it was definitely the man just then, not the fearsome pirate captain – jerked as if he'd been stabbed. "Why?"

Henri selected the simplest explanation. "She was my patroness, back in Rome. My – my parents died in a fire, and I was orphaned. I'm traveling here in hopes she would take me in."

Killian blew out an unhappy breath. But it was plain to Henri even then that he was beaten, that there was no other argument he would offer, nothing but at last a grudging acceptance. "Well then," the captain said at last, almost under his breath. "Eboracum it is."

They crossed on the tide that evening, sailed all night beneath the glittering stars, and landed on the barren coast of Britannia as dawn was breaking the next morning. Now that their captain had made the decision to commit himself to Henri's cause, the crew treated him with a sort of gruff camaraderie, even if he still spoke no word of Gaelic and they no word of Latin; if actual communication apart from back slaps and grunts was needed, Killian had to interpret. Henri was aware, however, that they referred to him by some word that did not sound at all flattering, and that plenty of them sported trinkets and medals from Roman officers they must have killed. He struggled not to feel personal offense on the dead men's behalf, but it was hard. Even worse was knowing that he'd have to do the honorable thing and tell David Aurelius to spare them, whether or not Killian wanted it. They should suffer for the Romans they'd harmed and the damage they'd wreaked, but it could not come from him.

Killian warned him that it was a long travel north, that they went fast and rough, and that if Henri could not keep up with the pace, there would be no accommodations. Henri took this as a challenge, but by the end of the first day, he was completely exhausted, collapsing by the campfire and barely staying awake long enough to gulp down his portion of supper. He had vivid and demented dreams, and woke up feeling just as tired as when he'd gone to sleep. But the men were watching him, and he refused to look like a weak, pampered Roman nancy-boy, the confirmation of all their worst expectations. Grimly, he hoisted his pack and set out again.

For obvious reasons, they stayed well away from Roman roads and fortresses, guiding by queer marks on trees and rocks. When Henri asked, Killian told him that they were ogham, the writing of the druids. There was certainly plenty of evidence of people hidden in the green hills and dales, and one night Henri awoke to see Killian conversing with some blue-painted tribesman, who appeared to be drawing some sort of map with the a stick in the dirt. When the tribesman caught sight of Henri, his toga and short haircut, he became quite exerted, shouting, "Romani!" in a thick accent and nearly waking the entire camp, but Killian hauled him back onto the boulder and appeared to inform him to the contrary. It was the sort of brusque, efficient authority he had with everyone; once or twice Henri found himself thinking it was a pity that he hated the Romans so much. He would have made a fine commander for a legion, serve in the army and fight for the glory of the empire. But instead, he was selfishly devoted to destroying them.

The further north they got, the wilder and further between any sign of civilization became. There was nothing but empty space, mountains and fells and moors and streams, so much that Henri, who had hereto spent his entire life in the greatest city in the world, began to get unnerved. Paradoxically, he found himself sticking to Killian more closely; the pirate captain was not what you would call friendly or comforting, but he would at least usually answer Henri's questions when he asked, and he was plainly devoted to making sure Henri arrived in one piece. Henri's blisters had turned to calluses, his legs getting stronger and his stamina greater every day, and he was now mostly able to keep up without complaint. Correspondingly, the men had started to thaw towards him, and their teasing (so much as he understood it) had become more good-natured than not. They had let him have his sword back, apparently not at all feared that he might try to use it on them, and at supper that night, asked him a few curious questions. With Killian translating, Henri told them the tale of his parents' death and his adventures across the empire to find Emma Aurelia, his patroness. While they were all interested and almost sympathetic, what Henri noticed was the great trouble that Killian had with saying her name. When the others had gone back to the main camp to lay out their bedrolls, he dared to approach the pirate, still sitting on the rock and staring into the fire. "You know her, don't you. Emma."

Killian grunted. "Whatever gives you that idea?"

"It's obvious." Henri plumped down next to him. "She was the reason you agreed to take me to Eboracum. Don't lie, I know it was. And that manicayou wear – I think you were in Rome at one point. That you knew her there."

Killian turned to face him at last. The smile he flashed was not at all friendly; teeth bared, walls up, so that Henri could almost see him transforming back into Hook. "Don't ask questions you don't want the answers to, boy."

That reminded Henri so much of what Regina had said, back in Rome before he escaped, that it rocked him back as if he'd been pushed. And then – from nowhere, a sudden and horrifying possibility occurred to him, as if it had fallen from the sky at his feet. Killian knowing Emma, knowing Robin as well, Robin saying that Henri looked so much like his –

No. He felt choked. No, it wasn't that. No, it certainly wasn't that. Whoever had sired him once upon a time was dead, had to be. Some other slave, some –

"What was that?" Killian got to his feet abruptly, head cocked.

"What was what?" Henri hadn't heard anything.

"That." Killian was frowning, and this time Henri heard it as well. It sounded like the howl of a – well, some sort of animal, moving through the thick copse of trees in which they'd made their camp. Almost like a wolf. More than one, in fact. Like a pack. Close, and coming closer.

"It's summer," Henri said, trying to reassure himself. "They'd be fat and docile."

"Normally, aye." Killian's hand had gone to his sword. "But with you bloody Roman bastards harrying the countryside, destroying all the food and fodder and hunting up all their usual prey, I'd not be so sure of that now."

A faint foreboding settled into Henri's stomach. He hopped to his feet and pulled out his own sword, hurrying to stand shoulder to shoulder with the captain. "Are we in danger?"

Killian adroitly scooped up a branch with his hook, thrust it into the embers of the fire, and blew it to life, sweeping the torch back and forth. The other men had retreated some distance away, to the sheltered riverbottom where they were sleeping – still in earshot, but not easily reachable in case of alarm. Henri took a better grip on the hilt of his sword, heart beating hard in his throat. He thought he saw shadows moving in the dark trees, but that could have been his over-stimulated imagination. He also felt stung at how Killian had once more so easily relegated him to the role of Roman bastard; there was a small part of him (very small, he reassured himself, and only because he was unavoidably spending so much time with them) that wanted to be seen as one of them, a fierce Celtic warrior. "I don't see anything," he said. "Let's get back and – "

The rest of what Henri had been going to say was cut off in a scream as a wolf the size of a pony leapt the fire and went straight for his throat. He hit the ground not an instant too soon – felt hot breath, slavering jaws, mad scrabbling – a sharp pain, blood dripping down his side – then quite abruptly, where the whirlwind of fur and teeth and claws had been an instant before, nothing. He sat up, confused and blinking, wondering if the wolf had abruptly vanished into thin air, but –

Then he heard a horrendous sound, half man, half beast, and whirled to see that Killian had thrown himself onto the wolf's back. The two of them were wrestling furiously, legs and back paws tearing gouts from the ground, rolling over and over, as Killian jammed his hook between the wolf's snapping jaws, trying to keep it away from his exposed throat. His eyes caught Henri's briefly, and Henri could see the message he mouthed. Run.

For an instant, Henri thought about it. But only for an instant. No honorable man ran from a fight, tarred himself as a coward. Aye, and he was sure the rest of the men would be delighted to take the Roman who had abandoned their captain to a gruesome death the rest of the way to Eboracum, no questions asked. Not like this. Not now.

With absolutely no more idea of what he was doing than when he'd leapt down in the middle of the pirates back in Gesoriacum, Henri charged.

He reached the fight, pulled out his sword, and began whaling away furiously at anything furry. The wolf twisted its head, snarling at him, but Henri stabbed blindly, again and then again, clutching onto his sword with both hands as it tried to tear it loose. He got one arm around its neck, hand fisted in its ruff – stabbing, still stabbing, as blood bloomed on his hands and he had no idea who it belonged to. The world had shrunk to nothing, to this, heat and madness and the fury of the beast, until finally it went to its knees and slumped beneath him, and in a funny, detached, disbelieving way, Henri realized that it was dead.

Panting, he lay sprawled on it for several more moments, bloody sword still clutched in his free hand. Then he rolled off and shoved the carcass away, suddenly panicking. "Killian? Killian!"

The pirate captain was flat on his back, not moving much. His right shoulder was a bloody mess; if he hadn't been wearing the gladiator's manica, the wolf would have taken not just his hand but his entire arm off. A chunk of the beast's flesh was still impaled on his hook, where he'd assisted Henri in its demise by cutting its throat, and he moaned in pain when he tried to sit up. He fell back heavily, breathing short and ragged.

"Let me see." Henri's hands hovered over the buckle of the manica, which had been mashed and twisted almost beyond recognition. "Let me look."

"No." Killian's good hand came up, trying to knock him away. "Help me up. . . get me back to camp. There must be more of them."

"You're bleeding too much," Henri said, with a calm practicality that must certainly not belong to him. "Stop being a stubborn arse and let me look."

Killian shook with something that must not be laughter, but dropped his hand and let Henri unbuckle the manica, easing it off. A further rush of dark, sticky blood came with it, making Killian groan again, and Henri felt a sudden twinge of remorse. The imprints of the wolf's jaws were cleanly visible in his collarbone, and it turned Henri nearly faint to see how close it had come to catching the great artery in his neck. If it had gotten that, there would be nothing anyone could do for him, but it seemed fortune favored the brave once more. He tried to think what could be used for a bandage, when something else caught his eye. A tattoo, etched in blue ink on the left side of Killian's chest, over his heart. Roman letters, not Ogham. Emma.

Henri sat back on his heels, feeling very much as if he too had just had the wind knocked out of him. Only the continued seep of blood from the deep puncture wounds reminded him that there was still an urgent task at hand, but he felt half dreamlike. Wanted to ask, couldn't.

"What?" Killian grunted, clearly in considerable pain, not all there and not aware that Henri had seen it. "What?"

Henri shook his head. "Nothing," he muttered, using a corner of his toga to wipe up the blood, tearing some off and tying it tightly, and otherwise contriving as much of a dressing as he could. Then he helped Killian up, pulled his good arm around his shoulders, and let the pirate put most of his weight on him as they limped down the hill toward the camp. The men, attracted by the ruckus, had just been on the verge of coming up to them, and took charge of their wounded captain with sharp exclamations of shock. Since Killian was going in and out of consciousness, he was in no fit state to translate, and thus Henri was reduced to explaining the fight with the wolf as best he could in sign language. After much confusion, they finally seemed to understand, and cast dark looks at the surrounding forest. Responsibility discharged, Henri took his leave to his own bedroll, stared up at the stars, and listened to the sound of the entire world as a lie.

By the next morning, Killian was not in much better shape, but insisted on heavily bandaging up his arm and pressing them on; he said that they were almost to Eboracum and it was to no point and purpose to delay now, that he wanted the business over and done with. They had only gone a few hours, however, when it became starkly plain that Killian had to stop. He sat heavily on a boulder, unable to catch his breath, then summoned one of his underlings over and conversed with him in low-voiced Gaelic. Henri's understanding of it had gotten somewhat better after weeks exposed to it, but he still couldn't make out more than the basic gist. Killian seemed to be instructing the other man to go look for someone, to bring them back here. Quickly.

The man departed on his errand, and the others were left to anxiously pretend to occupy themselves. Henri got up and moved closer, staring at the pirate, trying to decide if there was really that much of a resemblance. The black hair, aye, and the blue eyes as well, and apparently the same pig-headed stubbornness and sarcasm and courage, but nothing to make him certain. Not really. This man couldn't be his father. Not this outlaw, this bastard, this hater of everything Roman, this slave and thief and murderer, this. . .

He couldn't think of a good epithet. It made his head hurt, and strangely, his heart as well. Carefully, he squatted at Killian's side. "You should come to Eboracum with me," he said. "Get that looked at, cared for."

Killian grunted again. "Don't be an idiot. I can't go within a league of a Roman city. They'd have my head off to decorate the gate before my foot crossed the threshold."

Henri nearly shot back with some reply about how that was entirely the bugger's own fault, but it felt like too literal a case of adding insult to injury. "I can protect you," he insisted, not entirely certain if it was true. "If you're coming with me, I'll tell them not to."

Killian gritted a sardonic, disbelieving laugh. "And what makes you think you can sway David Aurelius, boy?"

Because I'm his grandson, Henri thought. "Because I can. That's a bad wound, you need it cared for."

"It's not the first wound I've ever taken, or the worst. I'll live."

"Fine," Henri snapped, hurt despite himself. "Lose the other arm as well. It would serve you right, for everything you've done." A sudden, uncontrollable pain was bubbling up in him, brimful, about to spill over. No, this man was most certainly not his father. They were nothing alike. He didn't want to be anything that Killian was, and very much doubted that Killian wanted to be anything he was. Marius Victorus was the only father he would ever name, acknowledge, or desire, and Marius Victorus was dead. "I don't care."

Killian turned to look at him sharply. He seemed about to say something, when the man who had been sent off trudged back into sight over the hill – but not alone. He was accompanied by a tall, rough-hewn, black-haired youth, who nonetheless for some reason looked vaguely familiar. Apparently Killian thought so as well, because he bolted to his feet, said something incredulously in Gaelic, and clapped the youth on the shoulder, grimacing. After a long conversation and more signs of familiarity on both their parts, Killian turned to Henri. "This is Roland. He has a way to get into the governor's villa in Eboracum. He'll take you there."

"But – " It was what he had wanted, what he had striven for half a year now, and yet Henri couldn't help feeling hollow. "But I – "

"Listen to me, boy. You and I, we're done. You saved my life, I got you here. That's it. There's nothing left. No loyalty on either side. Bloody damnation. Go."

"But – " To hell with it, Henri decided. They were the only two men here who understood Latin, and he was sick of lies. "You want to see her!" he yelled. "Emma Aurelia. I know you do. You were in love with her. I think you still are. Are you just going to run?"

Killian's pale face went even paler, the color of bone or winter sky. He stared at Henri as if he had never seen him before, could not quite formulate words. Then he said, sounding as if his heart was being torn out of his chest again, "Aye, I loved her. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

"Then why won't you – "

"Because she's happy!" Killian roared, so loudly that it echoed off the rocks, making his men blink and stare at him; even if they did not understand Latin, they could clearly hear his rage and pain. "She'll be happy now, away from me, from that pain. That was all I ever wanted – for her to be happy, with or without me, and since it damn well was not and will never be with me, couldn't be with me!" He swayed and fell to his knees in front of Henri, begging, anguished. "That bastard – Gold, Cassianus, whatever they call him – he took my hand, he destroyed us, destroyed her, and I've spent every day since wanting revenge! On the Romans, on all of them, and now – to do that to her – it nearly killed me to let her go the first time! I can't do it again!"

Henri felt staggered, stunned. Didn't know what to do or say. This was not real, this was not happening. "Then you did it," he said, harshness and grief spilling over too fast, before he could catch it. "You as good as destroyed her yourself."

The expression on Killian's face could not have been more agonized if Henri had taken out his sword and driven it into him, to the heart. The instant the words were out, Henri would have given anything to take them back, wanted to scream that he didn't mean them, that he didn't understand, that he was a lost boy, more lost than he'd ever dreamed – but it was too late. Killian jerked his head, and Roland seized Henri by the arm, marching him off, up over the path and out of sight, as he was still too much in shock to offer any resistance. When he looked in front of him, the walls of Eboracum were just visible on the horizon, a low dark smudge. But when he looked behind him, the pirates had already vanished without a trace into the mist.