Conaire’s side, moving closer to Eremon. ‘Goddess, what of Dunadd?’ Their fort sat in the middle of the marsh on a rock crag, and could not be seen from the sea.
Eremon chewed fiercely on his lip, then glanced at Conaire. ‘What choice do we have but to land? We are only a few, yet I can see no people at Crinan.’
Conaire was nodding as he curved his broad arm protectively around his wife, his gold hair a fierce beacon in the sun. ‘We can see nothing from here anyway, brother. If anything is amiss, we are few enough to land and approach Dunadd by stealth, in case there are scouts.’
Rhiann was feeling sicker by the moment, still trying to shake off the daze of the rocking sea and sunshine. It was still so early in leaf-bud, despite the fine weather. The marsh grass was new and green, yet the tops of the mountains that ringed the plain were still dusted with snow. How could the Romans have come so early in the season? How could they have been caught out again?
As soon as the boat grated on the mud beach beside the first pier, the warriors were splashing through the shallows, swords drawn. Above, on a spur of rock that guarded the river mouth, the scattering of roundhouses crouched silent beneath their pale thatch roofs. As Eremon had seen, the nobles’ timber boats with their carved prows were bobbing unharmed on their weed-furred ropes. The little hide curraghs were drawn up in rows above the tideline, alongside dugout canoes. Yet there was no bustle of people coming and going, and no children crying. Only a lone dog, tied up against the first house, barked at them in a frenzy.
At Eremon’s orders, Rhiann and Caitlin stayed in the boat with the Sacred Isle sailors, ready to push off at his sign. But no sooner had his warriors disappeared among the rocks, than Rhiann’s eye was caught by a pale blur in the shadows of the houses. Her heart gave a great lurch as she recognized the shape – her mare Liath, led by a short, rotund man who stumbled past Eremon in agitated haste.
Drawing up her long robe with both hands, Rhiann put one foot on the railing and jumped down into the shallows, heedless of the freezing water that soaked her leather boots to the skin. ‘Didius!’ she cried, splashing free and breaking into a run.
In the middle of the sand they met, Didius stumbling and yanking on Liath’s reins, making the mare throw up her head in protest. Rhiann halted, her initial smile of greeting faded. Didius’s plump cheeks were quivering beneath his straggly, black beard, and his nose, the only large, straight thing about him, was red and streaming. ‘Didius?’
Didius stuffed his fingers in his mouth to halt the sob that rushed out, his black, Roman eyes shining with tears. ‘Lady, I am sorry,’ he gulped at last, the musical Alban speech thickened by his native Latin.
As Rhiann soothed the mare, stroking her cheeks, Didius snorted and wiped his nose on his tunic sleeve. All of his Roman clothes were long gone, as were his clipped hair and shaven face. If it wasn’t for his swarthy skin and oval eyes he could almost pass for one of the Epidii now, though, because of his girth, not a warrior.
‘Didius, what is wrong? Where is everyone?’
Eremon stepped up now, sheathing his sword on his belt, and the Roman glanced up at the prince with some of his old fear. Yet his distress got the better of him, and he grasped Rhiann’s hand and pressed it between his own. ‘Lady, we thought you drowned! All of you, in the sea!’
Rhiann drew in a sharp breath.
‘Dead?’ That was Eremon. ‘Who said such a thing?’
‘The – the chief druid. Gelert.’
Eremon’s eyes met Rhiann’s, and she saw the same terrible question dawning there. How did the druid know about the shipwreck?
‘Didius,’ Rhiann strove to calm her voice, ‘tell us how this happened.’
Didius’s throat bobbed as he stumbled through an explanation: that after returning from Calgacus’s fort by land, the chief druid went into