Celtic Fire (5 page)

Aulus moved more fully into Lucius’s line of vision and gave a swift shake of his head. Why? Because he had declined the invitation? Or because Vetus knew the outing had been a sham?

With an effort, Lucius tore his gaze from the ghost. “What happened?”

“The hounds flushed a boar from a thicket. Aulus took up his spear and pursued the beast. He never rejoined the group. By the time his body was located, it had been badly gored.” Vetus placed his goblet on the table, leaving it teetering dangerously close to the edge. “A waste.”

Lucius moved the cup to the center of the table, near his own. “I would speak with the First Centurion.”

“You’ll need to travel to Hades then, for he is also dead. Thrown from his mount while on patrol. As for the others …” Vetus shrugged, but it seemed to Lucius the gesture was forced. “I cannot recall. Speak with the quartermaster, Gaius Brennus. He is—was—acting commander.”

“Brennus? That’s a Gaulish name, is it not?”

“Yes. He’s of the Tungri tribe, from Belgica, as are most of the men stationed here. The unit has been in Britannia for several generations.”

Lucius nodded. Conscripted soldiers were routinely posted far from their homelands, lest they join with the local populace in revolt against their conquerors.

Vetus poured himself another cup of wine, then paced toward the door with the bowl of the goblet cradled in his palm. “The hour grows late. If we wish more than a brief rest before cockcrow, I suggest we seek our beds.”

“Of course.”

Vetus exited the receiving room and disappeared in the direction of the stairs. Lucius set out across the courtyard. At the moment, a bath appealed to him far more than sleep.

A slave boy started awake when the door to the bath’s anteroom opened. He ran to load the furnace. The fire had been stoked earlier, however, for fragrant steam already wafted from the hot room. A fresh tunic and sandals, along with a linen towel, lay in the changing cubicle, causing Lucius to bless Candidus’s unobtrusive efficiency.

He removed his sword, war belt, and armor and gave it to the boy for cleaning, along with additional instructions to replenish the coals in the nymph’s brazier.

The boy scampered from the room. Lucius retrieved his dagger from the changing alcove and set it at the edge of the pool. He would take no chances, even in his own residence.

He stripped off the remainder of his soiled clothing and plunged into the hot pool. Settling himself onto the seat, he heaved a resigned sigh as Aulus shed his own toga and tunic. The ghost sank into the water, taking the bench opposite.

Lucius grabbed a bottle of oil from a niche at the water’s edge and smoothed the fragrant balm over his battle-stained skin. Picking up the accompanying bronze strigil, he pointed the curved blade at his brother. “I’d offer to scrape your back, but I’m afraid I might run you through. Of course,” he added, “since you’re already dead, it hardly would matter.”

Aulus opened one eye and shot Lucius a disgruntled look. Lucius laughed, the sound echoing off the tiles of the bath chamber. By Pollux, if he had to go insane, at least he could take some small pleasure in it. He drew the blade over his skin, scraping away the odor of death along with the oil.

The blood and grime of the skirmish dissolved into the scented water. Lucius’s tense muscles relaxed, leaving him free to pursue his thoughts. Vetus’s mantle of innocence covered him like the whitest candidate’s toga, and yet …

He looked at Aulus. “I’m certain he was lying. You would sooner scour a latrine with a toothpick than charge a wild boar with a spear.”

The Horned God’s favor was capricious.

The thought weighed heavily on Owein as he leaned on the sturdy branch he’d chosen as a walking stick. His breath was short and his chest ached, but he had no choice but to go on foot. His pony carried one of the wounded warriors rescued from the scavenging Romans.

A reluctant dawn cast gray light over the fens. The Romans had resumed their march toward Vindolanda just before sunset. The Celts had hunkered in the forest most of the night, tending their wounded. Some warriors had slept, but Owein hadn’t been among them. His head had ached with the dull pain that preceded a vision. He’d had no desire to close his eyes and look upon yet more blood.

“How many?” Owein heard Madog ask.

“Eight of our clan is missing,” Edmyg replied grimly, striding to the Druid’s side. “Though only six that I am sure died in battle. The others will have fallen on their swords rather than be taken.”

Madog spit on the ground. “Yet the Roman commander walks free.” His pale blue eyes flashed with annoyance. “Could ye nay have taken him yourself, Edmyg, rather than let Owein be attempting the task? The lad is lucky to be among the living. Rhiannon will flay ye alive when she hears of it.”

Edmyg’s expression, already set in stone, grew even harder. “I killed more than any, old man.”

Owein caught his breath. No one dared insult a Druid, not even a king. Did Edmyg wish a curse on his head?

An older warrior, scarred by more years of battle than Owein wished to count, chose that moment to approach the duo. Kynan stood as tall as Edmyg, but his frame was much leaner, as if time had burned away his bulk along with the impetuousness of his youth. Owein repressed a shudder. The man’s nose had been severed in some long-ago battle, leaving him with a visage few could dwell on for long.

“Near half my warriors be lost, Edmyg,” Kynan said. “Had ye sent a competent scout to verify the enemy’s strength, no doubt my kin would walk still.”

Owein gripped his walking stick and edged closer, his heart pounding. How would his arrogant brother-in-law react to Kynan’s challenge? Owein half hoped the older warrior would strike Edmyg down.

“The Romans ne’er march with so many,” Edmyg retorted, his face flushing dangerously. “The commander’s escort was to number no more than twenty men.”

“An’ who was it telling ye this?”

“Cormac.”

Kynan let out a bark of disgust. “The misbegotten gnome?”

Edmyg bristled. “My
brother
is inside the Roman fort.”

“A poor spy he is, then. His blunder killed twelve of my kinsmen. The rest will be loath to join ye in warring again.” With that, Kynan spun about, barking orders to his warriors. The band vanished into the clouded depths of the forest.

Edmyg uttered a curse, his fist clenched at his side. “If Kynan turns the other chieftains against us, ’tis little hope of taking the fort we’ll be having, even with the alliance Cormac has gained us.”

Madog stroked his beard. To Owein’s surprise, the Druid didn’t seem perturbed at this revelation. “The clans will come,” he said. “They willna turn away from Rhiannon.”

Edmyg snorted. “Rhiannon is a woman, not a warrior.”

“Aye,” Madog replied. “A woman who represents all that the Brigantes have lost. All they can regain. Our people look to her and see their freedom. When the time is right, they willna look away, no matter what path Kynan urges.”

“I hope ye have the right of it,” Edmyg said. He retrieved a Roman sword from his saddle and ran a thumb along the edge of its blade. “At least we’ve increased our store of arms.”

The bedraggled company started along a path skirting the ridge above the fens. Owein set his eyes to the north, where two peaks formed what looked like twin thrones. There, according to the Old Ones, Briga, the Great Mother, once sat with her consort, Kernunnos, the Horned God. The Druid circle lay in the shadow of the crags, sheltered by the sacred oaks and guarded by the skull of the Roman slaughtered at Samhain.

Owein trudged just to the fore of his uncle, Bryan. The sooner home, the better. Rhiannon would be sick with worry until he returned. He allowed himself a small smile. When his sister saw him, she would run her fingers through his hair as she’d done since before he could remember. He would protest, of course, but in truth her touch would chase away the horror of yesterday’s battle, if only for a moment.

A slight figure dropped into step beside him. Reese, Bryan’s youngest son. Born two winters after Owein, he was the youngest member of the raiding party. The lad’s boots thudded on the sodden cushion of last year’s leaves, the crook of his bow slung over his shoulder as he walked. Reese hadn’t been allowed in the thick of the battle, but had used his weapon to cover the older warriors.

Owein slid a glance sideways and nodded. “I’m much obliged to ye, cousin. If not for your arrows, I’d be riding yon pony, or worse.”

Reese squinted up at him. “I dinna understand ye, Owein.”

“Ye shot when I dropped from the trees onto the Roman commander.” Owein’s heart pounded at the memory. A reckless move it had been, but the hot urge to show up Rhiannon’s loutish mate had gripped him like a fever. “Your arrows distracted him. Had your hand not been quick on the bow, the foreign dog would have surely gutted me.”

His cousin’s gaze remained puzzled. “But I shot nowhere near ye. I was hidden on the opposite side of the road.”

Owein frowned. None of the older warriors carried a bow—he’d been sure Reese’s arrows had saved him. He set his stick in the mud and hoisted himself over the jumble of rocks blocking the trail.
Someone
had been concealed in the willows during his mad skirmish. The unknown archer had harassed the commander and saved Owein’s life. But who—

A soft whinny came from the brush, followed by a crackle of twigs. Owein whipped his head around as Bryan gave a low whistle. Another nicker, and then a snow-white mare crashed through the branches. The pony didn’t stop until she reached Owein’s side.

“Derwa,” he whispered. Rhiannon’s pony. A horrible suspicion formed in Owein’s mind. His sister had a steady hand on the bow—she’d often shot targets with him when he was a lad. His gut contracted on a stab of nausea more painful than the slice of a Roman sword.

Reese grabbed Derwa’s reins. “This be Rhiannon’s pony.”

“Aye,” replied Owein. “How did the beast come to be so far from the village?”

The mare nudged Owein’s shoulder with her nose. Then she tossed her head and turned, as if expecting him to follow.

“No,” Owein croaked.
Dear Briga, don’t let it be true.
Did Rhiannon think so little of his battle skills that she would follow him to war?

He grabbed the pouch tied at Derwa’s neck and tore it open. The bitter scent of coltsfoot and silverweed, herbs Rhiannon had brewed for him just two days before, assaulted his senses. She’d come after him, but where was she now? She would never have let her pony wander without a rider.

His sister was dead or taken prisoner.

Owein’s nausea surged anew. He doubled over and emptied his stomach on the trail.

The Roman bedchamber was at once wondrous and terrifying.

Sunlight streamed through the shuttered windows, casting bright stripes across a floor paved with bits of colored stone. Beyond, a smooth wall rose to a ceiling ribbed with square-hewn timbers. Exquisite paintings danced across the flat walls, images of tiny men and women so breathtakingly real that Rhiannon half expected them to move.

She marveled at the floor. The shining stone fragments wove a fearsome beast from the colors of the rainbow. The enormous catlike monster bared long, sharp teeth as it swatted at its prey, its mane of golden fur glittering with the reflected light of the sun. Did such a monster truly exist? Or had it been conjured from the artist’s nightmares?

A shiver ran the length of Rhiannon’s spine. She shifted on her raised pallet. Her wounded leg throbbed, but the pain was not unbearable. The soft wool of her blanket warmed her naked skin. The women who had bathed her had taken her ruined tunic and left no replacement. Had the oversight been deliberate? The thought brought a rush of dread.

She pushed herself upright, one hand gripping the curved end of the bed that rose a handsbreadth above the mattress. Intricate carvings etched the wood, twining vines painted so realistically she could almost smell the clusters of small, round fruits nestled among the leaves. A matching terminal rose at the foot of the mattress, giving the bed the aspect of a boat. And indeed Rhiannon had never felt quite so adrift as at that moment.

There was but one door—had it been barred? One window on the opposite wall. The square chamber was small and sparsely furnished, but the few items it held were, like the bed, luxurious. A long wooden table, bearing a tall ewer, stood against the wall. A smaller bench was within reach of the bed, as was a wide stool with crossed legs. A metal tray, filled with glowing coals and supported on squat legs, lay on the floor. Languid heat rose from it into the air, without the haze and odor of smoke that accompanied a hearth fire.

The hairs on Rhiannon’s nape lifted despite the warmth. Never in her life had she been enclosed by flat walls. Her own dwelling was comprised of circular walls and capped by a high conical peak. She gazed at the shadowed corners of the chamber. Who knew what dread beings lurked in the unnatural angles of this place, untouched by the spirals of the Great Mother’s spirit?

Rhiannon forced a swallow past her dry tongue and gathered what courage she could. It would do her no good to worry about unseen demons. The all-too-real Roman commander provided the greater threat. She had to flee before he returned. Pulling the blanket about her, she pushed herself to a sitting position. She would try the door. Perhaps it would open.

She swung her legs over the edge of the cushions. The movement sent a hot poker of pain through her wounded leg. Dark patches clouded her vision. She leaned heavily on the raised end of the bed and waited for the blotches to clear.

A creak of hinges sounded behind her, then,
“Ut vales?”

She wrenched her body toward the voice, gasping as another burst of brilliant pain enflamed her right thigh. A lad some years younger than Owein had slipped into the chamber and closed the door behind him. He stood now with his back pressed against the smooth wood, as if needing the strength of the oak to remain on his feet. One hand clasped something hung on a leather thong about his neck, the other gripped the door’s latch as if he were ready to flee should Rhiannon prove to be a threat.