Celtic Fire (2 page)

“Nay, do not speak so! Kernunnos is a dangerous ally. We are the Brigantes, the children of Briga. Madog would do better to seek the favor of the Great Mother. Not the dark powers of the Horned God.”

As if summoned by her words, Madog’s voice, strident but unintelligible, sounded from the yard beyond the hut’s doorway.

Edmyg’s booming speech answered. “— ’tis nay my fault.”

Owein scowled. “Nay, it never is. How can ye think to join with that hulking animal, Rhiannon? The entire clan knows Glynis is about to birth his bastard.”

Rhiannon’s hand stole to her flat stomach. “He seeks a son. I will not give him one.”

“If Edmyg wants a son, he shouldna take ye as his mate. But he will, because his lust to be king is far greater than his honor.”

“Madog blessed the match. Edmyg is the Brigantes’ greatest warrior.”

“Aye, and the tribe’s greatest brute as well.” The flash of a man’s anger showed in Owein’s young eyes. “You are queen, Rhiannon. He is nay fit to carry your cloak.”

“The clan chieftains have put aside their differences to follow him.”

“They’ll follow another just as well.”

“Nay. Niall has been dead less than a twelvemonth, but his memory is far from cold. If I do not accept my husband’s brother as my new consort, the chieftains will be at each other’s throats within a fortnight.” She shook her head. “ ’Twould be the greatest service to Rome I could perform. I canna risk it.”

Owein opened his mouth to reply, then fell silent as the hut’s wooden door scraped a path over the dirt floor. The spring wind sent a swirl of dust into the air.

Madog entered with Edmyg dogging his heels. “The clans must gather today, not on the morrow,” the Druid muttered.

“Kynan’s dun alone answers my call, and reluctantly at that,” Edmyg replied, scowling. “The other chieftains will nay come while the moon of Cutios shines. They await the fires of Beltane.”

“They be fools, then,” replied Madog. “Cormac’s message was clear. The new Roman commander arrives on the morrow afore the sun sets. Once he disappears behind the high walls of Vindolanda, we’ll not be easily drawing him out again.”

“He’ll nay reach the fort,” said Edmyg. “We’ll attack on the road with the Horned God at our backs.”

Madog stroked his white beard. “Kernunnos or no, we’ll have need of every man in Kynan’s dun and our own.”

“We will have them.” Edmyg’s gaze lit on Owein. “The lad will come as well. ’Tis past time for his weaning.”

Rhiannon sprang to her feet and drew herself up to her full height, which, to her misfortune, barely reached Edmyg’s shoulder. “Owein cannot join ye. He’s weak still.”

“He’ll ne’er be strong if ye persist in coddling him,” Edmyg retorted. He took a step toward her.

Owein jerked to his feet and stepped between them, the sudden movement causing him to sway. Rhiannon put out her hand to steady him, but he brushed it off and looked at Edmyg. “My sister is forgetting I am a man grown. I’ll accompany ye.”

“Ye serve her well in this, lad,” Madog said. “We’ll be driving the Romans south afore the next snow.” He lowered himself to a stool by the fire and nodded for Edmyg to do the same. Owein took a third seat.

“Rhiannon will sit the throne of her grandmother,” the Druid continued. “Ye’ll erase the memory of her shame, lass, once the Romans are gone.”

“Aye,” Rhiannon said. She’d been weaned on tales of redeeming Cartimandua’s folly. Two generations past, the great queen of the Brigantes had spurned one king in favor of a less popular consort, plunging the clans into civil war. In the end, only the Romans had benefited. Another reason why Rhiannon could not spurn Edmyg, despite his perfidy. She would not repeat her grandmother’s selfish mistake.

Now a new war approached, one in which the clans would unite against the conquerors. Bloodshed was as certain as the sun’s rising. The thought of the Brigantes’ crossing swords with the formidable Roman army left Rhiannon sick with dread. How many of her kin would perish?

“Now then, have ye food and
cervesia
for an old man?”

Rhiannon nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She took the flask of barley beer from its hook and filled three mugs. She set them on the low table, then moved to the cauldron and ladled the remains of the past evening’s stew into wooden bowls. Taking up her own portion, she joined the men by the fire.

Edmyg used a barley bannock to retrieve a hunk of meat from his bowl. “We’ll take the Romans where the road crosses the fens,” he said, chewing around a large mouthful. He washed the stew down with a swig of
cervesia,
straining the liquid through his blond moustache. A portion dribbled onto the braids in his beard. “The forest is dark there even at midday.”

Rhiannon put her meal aside, her meager appetite now completely gone. The fens were a day’s journey to the south. If Edmyg meant to be in the marshes tomorrow, he would have to travel through the night. Owein’s breathing had eased, but his strength was still fragile. The journey, coupled with a battle, would surely bring on a relapse.

But Edmyg’s will was set, as was Owein’s, who was determined to prove himself more than a lad. And the Great Mother knew a woman had little hope of shoveling sense into a man’s head when it was filled with thoughts of war.

As the sun rose into a line of clouds, the clan gathered in the muddy yard to prepare for the raid. The honing wheel turned, scattering sparks from iron blades. Above, the pointed roofs of the roundhouses scratched the gray sky. A wall of logs ringed the huts, capping the crest of a steep hill. The palisade would protect the women while their men fought.

A raven sailed into view overhead, then disappeared just as quickly. Rhiannon shivered. The creature of Owein’s vision. Did it foretell victory or death?

She plunged her frayed willow twig into a wooden bowl and mixed the woad and water with savage strokes. Her hand painted blue swirls on Edmyg’s face and chest. When his protection was complete, she turned to Owein, murmuring a fervent prayer with each pass of her brush. She rubbed a mixture of lime and clay in his hair and drew the curls into spikes.

The warriors gathered outside the palisade, spears and shields ready. Edmyg slung his battle horn onto his saddle and mounted his war pony. Though the men numbered no more than twenty, they were fierce, and—with the exception of Owein and one or two other lads—well honed for battle.

Edmyg raised his sword. “Death to Rome!”

He kicked his pony into a gallop. Madog, Owein and a handful of others followed on their own mounts, but the greater number ran afoot. They vanished into the forest in a heartbeat, leaving only a spatter of mud and the stale reek of hatred. Rhiannon hugged her arms to her chest as she walked back to the village with the women. The men of Kynan’s dun would more than double the band. Would it be enough?

She bit back the taste of bile. Madog wanted the new Roman commander taken alive. If her kinsmen managed that feat, the Druid master would repeat the Rite of the Old Ones. A second Roman skull would overlook the ancient stone circle.

And Rhiannon’s nightmares would begin anew.

Lucius pulled back on his stallion’s reins and allowed his escort to advance on the road. The tattoo beat of the soldiers’ footfalls didn’t falter. The auxiliary unit marched in two columns, eight deep, with their centurion at the fore. An equal number brought up the rear. In the center, the remaining soldiers flanked a boy and an old man on horseback.

The road threaded a narrow valley crowded on either side by dense woods. An idyllic scene, but Lucius would have gladly traded it for the wind-scoured moorland he’d traversed the day before. Far better to freeze his ass in the open than to present an easy target in comfort.

He shot a glance to his left, where his younger brother rode in ghostly majesty, the hem of his toga trailing over the flank of an invisible mount. The specter had dogged Lucius’s every step for near half a year, driving his well-ordered life into chaos.

Aulus hadn’t been this annoying since childhood.

“Britannia leaves much to be desired,” Lucius said. “I cannot fathom why you preferred this wild country to Rome.”

Aulus looked away into the shadowed forest. Lucius’s gaze followed. He detected no hint of movement, but he was not yet delusional enough to believe his passage went unnoticed. It was said the
Brittunculi
sprang as if from the earth. The half-naked, blue-painted wildmen struck like lightning, spewed death, then vanished into the mists like wraiths bound for Hades. Aulus had written of Britannia’s beauty, but gazing into the depths of the ancient forest, Lucius sensed only malevolence.

His fingers tightened on the reins. The official report stated that A. Ulpius Aquila, commanding officer of the frontier fort Vindolanda, had died in a hunting accident. A plausible scenario, but Lucius was certain it was a lie. His younger brother had been no huntsman. His eyesight lacked a proper perception of depth, a handicap he’d kept secret since boyhood. Indeed, Aulus would have eschewed military service entirely if such an option had been possible for a senator’s son. A strong suspicion of foul play, coupled with insistent prodding from his brother’s ghost, had propelled Lucius north to investigate.

Aulus floated closer until he rode less than an arm’s length away. A frigid aura rode with him.

“At the least, you could put on your uniform,” Lucius said irritably. “Who in his right mind would ride all this way wearing a toga?”

Aulus shrugged.

“I suppose I should be grateful I haven’t conjured a voice for you. I—”

“Father! Who are you talking to?”

Lucius turned to the small stranger who was his son. At ten years of age, Marcus sat his horse well and had been allowed to ride in the fore rather than with the wagons. He should have stayed in Rome, of course, but the boy had begged to come north, and with Julia so recently dead, Lucius hadn’t had the heart to refuse. To Marcus’s credit, he’d offered few complaints during the six weeks of hard travel.

Just endless questions.

“Who—”

“No one, Marcus.”

“But I heard you.”

“To myself, then.” By the gods, the boy never let go of an inquiry without an answer. Lucius sent an annoyed glance past his son to Demetrius, but the old Greek physician who had been Lucius’s own tutor merely raised his gaze to the sky.

“How much longer to the fort?” Marcus asked.

“We’ll reach Vindolanda by nightfall.”

Demetrius gathered his saffron mantle about his rigid shoulders. “Not a moment too soon, if you request my counsel on the matter.”

“I don’t remember asking for it,” Lucius said.

“You should not have split the century,” Demetrius continued, unperturbed. “We will be fortunate to escape with our hides when the barbarians fall on us.”

“Forty men is a sufficient escort, my friend. The Celts rarely travel in large numbers. Besides, the repairs to the supply wagon will take only a few hours. The rear company will soon catch up with us.”

“Let us hope they find us alive when they do.”

Marcus stirred, his eyes shining with excitement. “What will we do if the blue warriors attack?”

“If Mars sends a battle, we will fight,” Lucius replied.

“Even against the women?”

Lucius shook his head. To be sure, he’d heard tales of Britannia’s females taking to the battlefield with their men, but he could hardly believe such an arrangement was common. Did the wretched Celts not protect their women? He tried to imagine Julia fighting at his side, but the vision was too ludicrous to contemplate. A woman would be a deadly burden in battle.

“Be prepared for anything, Marcus,” he said. “A Roman meets his fate with strength and fights with honor.”

Marcus gripped the hilt of his small sword. “I’m ready.”

Lucius hoped it would not come to that. The boy was a miserable swordsman.

The road dipped into mist-shrouded marshlands. Vapor rose from the black water to entangle the booted feet of the soldiers. The scent of decay clung to Lucius’s nostrils. Willows nudged the oaks aside as the forest drew close to the road.

Too close.
Unease clawed at his nape and his hand drifted to his sword hilt. Behind, the road curved to the right and disappeared. The damaged axle was taking longer to repair than anticipated. Could barbarians have attacked the rear company?

Lucius let his mount drift closer to Marcus and Demetrius. The road curved, bringing the Tyne into view. The swollen river had overflowed its bank and crept onto the paving stones.

When the spear sliced out of the shadows, it came so silently Lucius thought at first he had imagined it. Then a soldier lurched to one side, blood spurting from his neck. Aulus gestured like a madman toward the forest.

The blast of a battle horn rent the air, loosing a flood of shrieking barbarians. Lucius wrenched his sword from its sheath as the enemy poured from the trees like a raging river. One blue-faced demon lunged for Lucius’s reins. He skewered the apparition and it fell, howling.

“Orbis!”
he shouted.

The soldiers fell into a circle around the horses, shields raised in a tight wall. Leaning, Lucius caught Marcus by the arm and hauled him off his mount. He dropped the boy on the road beside Demetrius, who had already flung himself to the ground. “Keep the beasts steady,” he commanded.

Marcus clung to his mare’s reins, for once without question.

Demetrius glowered his outrage. “I told you—”

“Later,” Lucius replied, dodging a spear. Mounted, he made a fine target, but he took a moment to gauge the enemy force before snatching his shield from its saddle hook and swinging from his stallion’s back. The Celts numbered, incredibly, more than fifty men. His best tactic was to stand firm and hack them to pieces, one body at a time.

He muscled into the orb formation between the centurion and one of the foot soldiers. The officer shot him a startled look. “Commander! You cannot risk yourself on the line.”

“I don’t mean to cower with an old man and a boy,” Lucius replied, thrusting his sword at a spike-haired wild man. Behind him, Demetrius rattled off supplications to an impressive list of gods and goddesses, both Greek and Roman.