Celtic Fire (17 page)

Aulus stopped pacing and came to peer over Demetrius’s shoulder. Not for the first time, Lucius wondered why the physician didn’t feel the same icy chill that gripped Lucius whenever the ghost neared. “I read as much in a volume published by Tacitus last year,” he replied. “Save for the claim of a child. All this took place over fifty years ago. It has no bearing on the present situation.”

“There is more,” Demetrius said. Aulus drew closer, his fingers tearing at the purple stripe on his ragged toga. “ ‘Local lore holds that the line of Cartimandua is not extinct. The Brigantes await the day a hidden queen will unite the clans and drive Rome south.’ ”

“You expect me to believe that a queen is hiding in a sheep-dung hut, waiting to claim her throne?”

Demetrius’s finger trailed farther down the papyrus. “Your brother also writes of the Druids.” At this pronouncement, Aulus jerked as if he’d been struck.

Lucius only just managed to stop from reaching out to him. “Druids? That foul cult was outlawed after Gaius Suetonius burned their sanctuary on the Isle of Mona.”

“Some say they are scholars and priests, equal in learning to Rome’s.”

“That’s preposterous. They may speak Greek and Latin, but their religious practices include offering the blood of men to their gods. Dark altars were found on Mona, hidden deep in the forest and strewn with human bones. No civilized people would countenance such rites.”

“Aulus claims the Brigantes hold the Druids in high esteem.” Demetrius came to the end of the scroll, rerolled it, and slid it back into its brass tube.

Lucius rubbed the stubble on his chin as he looked from Aulus to the physician. “Despite the fascinating nature of local superstition, I would prefer to find an account of my brother’s dealings with the fort officers, or anyone else who might have meant him harm. But it seems no such volume exists. I’ve already searched my bedchamber and my office at the fort headquarters.” He walked the length of the shelf and back again, inspecting tags. His brother drifted beside him, shaking his head. “You never wrote about anything practical, did you?” he asked Aulus.

“I? Lucius, I think you need some sleep. You make no sense.”

Lucius started. “You are right, Demetrius. I am fatigued.” He took a step back toward the table, then changed course abruptly when Aulus barred his path.

Demetrius gestured to the stool. “Luc. For the love of Aphrodite, stop pacing. You are upsetting my stomach.”

Lucius dropped onto the stool sideways, straddling it with one leg on either side. “My apologies, old man. We must safeguard your digestion at all costs. I wouldn’t wish the aroma of the latrine to worsen.”

“Insolent wretch,” Demetrius said affectionately. He fell silent for a moment, then asked, “What information has Candidus gleaned from the slaves?”

Lucius frowned. “Aulus kept largely to himself, in the garden or library, until Vetus’s arrival late last summer. After that, the tribune was often in my brother’s company. The pair dined alone on the night before Aulus’s death.”

“Their conversation?”

“Light banter.” He spread his palms on his knees and rose. “It seems Aulus and the tribune were”—he grimaced—“the closest of friends.”

“Ah,” Demetrius said, understanding. “Aulus never was one to turn from pleasure.”

“Indeed.” Lucius had nothing against pleasure-seeking, but Aulus’s predilection for male companionship in his bed was a subject upon which he’d never cared to dwell.

“Do you suspect a crime of passion?”

Lucius sighed. “It’s difficult to say. I have a hard time believing Vetus capable of any passion save that for cleanliness. I doubt he killed Aulus over the temperature of the baths.” He squinted at the narrow window set high in the outside wall. The sky was lightening. Dawn could not be far off.

Demetrius stood wearily. “Perhaps the dilemma will seem clearer after a few hours’ rest.”

Lucius glanced at Aulus. He’d sunk to his knees. His upper body rested on the cushion of a stool, face buried in his crossed arms.

“You go,” he said. “I’m to address the garrison at cockcrow.”

“Very well.”

“What has gotten into you?” he asked Aulus once Demetrius had gone. “Did my nightmare affect you?”

Aulus didn’t look up. Lucius inched closer. He had the sense that his brother had changed in more than demeanor. His shoulders shook with emotion, causing his toga to slip off his shoulder and onto the floor. There were wounds on Aulus’s upper arms Lucius hadn’t seen before and as he stared at the vicious welts in horror, his mind dimly registered that the blood oozing from Aulus’s wounds was no longer gray, but pink. His brother’s body seemed almost solid. Almost alive.

Lucius’s blood turned to ice in his veins.

Aulus sobbed and though no sound stirred the chamber, Lucius heard the echoes of his brother’s grief in his mind. Without thinking, he reached out and laid a comforting hand on Aulus’s shoulder. His palm cooled, but the chill was not unbearable. Lucius could almost imagine that something other than air brushed his fingers.

“I’m trying to help you, brother, though I’ve begun to wonder what good it will do.”

Aulus looked up, his pale eyes wet with tears.

The pilfered brass knife sliced easily, piercing a fine network of roots. Rhiannon lifted the fragile clump of greenery from the garden bed, murmuring soothing words to the plant as if it were a babe. Meadowsweet should catch the sun, not hide in the shade. She settled the herb into the shallow hole she’d prepared earlier and swaddled its roots with a blanket of soil. It would thrive here, away from the spreading branches of the apple tree.

Unless, of course, Edmyg was successful in taking the fort. If that happened, one of his warriors would surely trample it.

She sat back on her heels. In the short time she’d been in the fort, the Roman thorn shrubs—roses, Lucius had called them—had begun to fill out. Tiny leaves covered the arching canes. They were edged in red, as if an unseen hand had dipped them in blood.

Blood. She’d dreamed of blood as she’d slept in Lucius’s bed. Once again she’d seen the Druid circle. Madog’s sword had thrust deep, plunging through the fragile flesh of Lucius’s brother. A red river had flowed from his stomach, even as his hand reached for her …

Dear Briga. Aulus’s soul clung to his brother’s side and Lucius suspected she was to blame. He wasn’t so far from the truth. She’d awoken at dawn, chilled to her soul, choking for breath.

She’d found Lucius gone. She knew she should be glad of it, but she was not.

Tell him.
Aulus’s dying plea echoed in her skull. Had he been speaking of Lucius? Did he haunt his brother now, hoping to draw him to the Druid circle, where his skull rode the point of a wooden spike? Unless that skull was buried, neither brother would have peace.

What she’d told Lucius was only part of the truth. She knew no spell to banish his brother’s ghost, but she knew how to release Aulus from his gruesome prison. Lucius had only to bury the skull in some secret place, far from Madog’s influence. Such a simple task, yet he would never perform it. She would not lead a Roman sword into the soft belly of her kin. By rights she should lead him to his death.

Her knuckles went white on the handle of her knife. She was born of a long line of queens, many of whom would not have hesitated to deliver their enemies to the sword. Yet she knew she could not bear to watch Lucius suffer in the Druid circle as his brother had. She would sooner slit his throat with her own hand.

“Have you a knowledge of herbs?”

She dropped the blade and whipped her head around.

Magister Demetrius’s black eyes frowned down on her. “Are you feeling quite well, child? Your wound has not putrefied, has it?”

“No,” she said faintly, shoving a damp lock of hair from her eyes. “It’s healing quite well. You startled me, that is all.”

To her surprise, the old man adjusted his elegant mantle and hunkered down at her side. His age-spotted fingers touched the thin leaves she’d just settled in their new nest. “I am unfamiliar with this herb. What is it called?”

“Meadowsweet. It eases pain. I’ve moved it from the shade. It prefers a sunny location.”

Demetrius uttered a gruff sound that might have been a laugh. “If that is true, you should waste no time in carrying it to Greece. I vow Apollo has not shown his face in Britannia for more than a few hours since I set foot on the island.”

“ ’Tis the season for rain,” Rhiannon said. “The sun will show itself once summer is here.”

“One can only hope.” He straightened, pressing one hand against his back. Rhiannon rose quickly and offered him her arm. He took it, his lips curving in a genuine smile at odds with his weathered features. “Lucius tells me you are a healer.”

“I am,” she said, wondering what else Lucius had told him.

“Are you skilled in herb lore?”

“Yes.” She moved her hand from his arm. “There are many healing plants here. I wonder who planted them.”

“Lucius’s brother, most likely.”

“Truly?”

He nodded. “Aulus loved to tend his garden.”

“Did he have a healer’s hand?” Perhaps that was why his soul had touched hers so readily.

“No.” Demetrius’s smile was sad. “But not for lack of instruction on my part. He had no interest in crushing roots and steeping teas. He preferred to capture the rose with his pen.”

She gave the thorny canes a doubtful glance.

“Ah, you have never seen a rose in bloom, I imagine.” He pointed to the thorn bushes. “They do not grow wild in Britannia. These were brought from Rome.”

“Why would anyone bother to transport shrubs as ugly as those such a long way?”

Demetrius chuckled. “They are not much to look at now, I’ll grant you that, but come summer, the thorns will be hidden by flowers too numerous to count. The scent of them will fill the air.”

“That is hard to imagine.”

“Wait and see,” Demetrius replied and Rhiannon felt her gut clench. If Edmyg’s siege was successful, there would be no summer garden.

“There is a plot in the fort hospital,” Demetrius was saying. “Planted with herbs I’ve never seen. Perhaps you would accompany me there and tell me of their uses.”

Rhiannon’s eyes widened. She’d tried this morning to leave Lucius’s house, but had been denied by the porters at both the front and rear doors. Now the perfect opportunity had presented itself. If she could gain an idea of Vindolanda’s layout, she could figure an escape plan without Cormac’s help.

“I’m most happy to help you, if it means I may leave this house.” As soon as the words left her lips she wished she could call them back. Would the healer suspect she meant to escape?

Demetrius only chuckled. “Lucius should know better than to expect a wild bird to be happy in a cage,” he said. “Though I fear the trip to the hospital will not be a pleasant affair. Shall we go now? Marcus is translating a passage from Aristotle’s discourse on metaphysics. That should give us plenty of time,” he added dryly.

As if on cue, Marcus’s head appeared from behind the low wall encircling the fountain. “If you please, Magister, might I accompany you and Rhiannon to the hospital? I should be glad to learn of medicine rather than metaphysics today.”

Rhiannon hid a smile as the healer glowered at his young charge. “How long have you been crouching in the dirt?”

“Not long. I had to use the latrine.”

“Again?”

“I heard you ask Rhiannon to visit the hospital,” the lad persisted. “May I go with you? I promise not to get in your way.”

Demetrius let out a long-suffering sigh. “Go back to your studies, young Marcus. The hospital is rife with fever. Your father would have my head if you were to fall ill.”

Rhiannon exited the house with the healer. The wide, graveled path beyond the door was no wilderness trail, but the rush of freedom Rhiannon felt upon stepping into the open air was keen. A slice of sky arched over the road. Swallows were diving dizzy circles through it, their plaintive cries carrying on the breeze.

A pair of soldiers strolled by, eyeing Rhiannon curiously before nodding to Demetrius and moving on. The healer guided her past a massive building he described as the fort’s headquarters. Two guards stood at attention before its gated entrance.

“What lies beyond the headquarters?”

“Barracks to the north,” Demetrius replied. “To the south, granaries, stables, and workshops.” Rhiannon fixed the location of each building in her memory. Such information might prove useful.

“The fort village lies beyond the south gate,” Demetrius said.

She knew as much from Cormac’s description. “Do the soldiers guard the village as well as the fort?” she asked casually.

Demetrius nodded. “Many have families living there. Not legally, mind you, since only officers may marry. Ah, here we are.”

The hospital was a wide, squat structure in the shadow of Vindolanda’s western gate. Inside, the odor of illness hung in the air. The groans issuing from the sickrooms roused Rhiannon’s sympathy. She’d never been able to shield her heart from others’ suffering. It mattered not that the afflicted were her enemies.

A soldier hurried forward to meet Demetrius, sparing Rhiannon the briefest of glances.
“Medicus,
the man you examined yesterday is worse.”

Demetrius’s brows furrowed. “In what way?”

“He shakes, then goes rigid. His skin is covered with welts as fine as sand and he burns with fever.”

“Did you place him away from the others as I ordered?”

“Yes,
Medicus.
This way.”

Demetrius waved Rhiannon back when she started to follow. “You need not accompany me—see to the garden.” He indicated an open gate, beyond which lay an unkempt plot. “I will come to you when I finish with my patient.”

Rhiannon hesitated. The medic had described an illness similar to one that had swept through her village last summer after a traveling peddler had taken ill. Perhaps she could be of help.

But Demetrius had already turned away. Rhiannon stifled the urge to go after him. The health of a Roman soldier was no concern of hers—indeed, she should wish for his demise rather than his recovery. But though the faceless man was her enemy, Rhiannon found she could not despise him.