Celtic Fire (19 page)

The lad shrank into his meager cleft in the rocks, choking on terror. The odor of burning flesh met his nostrils. His gut heaved.

He huddled in a pool of his own vomit, awaiting the end.

Owein clawed through the suffocating remnants of the vision, gulping great shuddering breaths of air. His arms shook when he tried to lift himself from the rain-soaked earth. The first gray cobwebs of dawn stretched across the sky, binding the limbs of the oaks. Clumps of mistletoe perched on the branches like giant spiders, hairy limbs trailing.

“Steady, lad.”

Madog grasped Owein’s arm and heaved him into a sitting position. Owein concentrated on his next breath, then the one after that. Finally he looked into the old Druid’s eyes.

“Tell me,” Madog said. One of the old man’s hands remained on Owein’s arm, imparting strength; the other was wrapped like a vine about the twisted staff bearing the Roman skull.

Though the nightmare had seared itself in Owein’s memory, its description didn’t come easily. He bit out the words between gasps. “Romans. Set ashore on a Druid isle. The Holy Ones called Kernunnos, but he did not answer.”

“ ’Tis the Druid stronghold at Mona ye saw, lad. The Romans burned its sacred groves. Killed its Elders. Raped its women. In the end, only charred stumps and ashes remained.”

“A true vision?” Owein asked.

“Aye.”

Owein shut his eyes. “Death,” he whispered. “Always death. Why can I See naught else?”

Madog sank to his knees by Owein’s side. “With power comes pain. ’Tis the way of Kernunnos.”

Owein bowed his head and prayed he would be worthy of the Horned God’s favor. He would gladly give all that he had, bear any hurt to bring Rhiannon home. He prayed in the language of the Old Ones, speaking the Words of power as Madog had taught him. When he had finished, he looked up.

“The lad I saw—did he survive?”

The Druid’s gray eyes turned flat. His hand trembled as he brushed a tear from his craggy cheek. He held silent so long that Owein wondered if he would answer at all.

“Aye,” he said at last, his voice distant, as if speaking to those who had died on that dread day.

“That he did, lad. That he did.”

“Hurry!”

A fragile thread of dawn hung over the fort as Marcus slipped into the alley between the barracks. Rhiannon hurried after him, wondering at the lad’s destination. He’d crept into her bedchamber as the night sky lightened, begging her to rise and follow quickly in silence. His dark eyes had flashed with the same mischievous light Rhiannon had seen so many times in Owein’s blue gaze.

She could not help acquiescing to his appeal. To her amazement, he’d commanded the slave at the front entrance in a tone so like his father’s that the porter had unlocked the door and allowed them to pass without question. Once in the street, Marcus had broken into a run.

She lifted her skirt and sprinted after him. “Marcus! Where are we going?”

He paused at the corner of a long, low building, his hand gripping the end of the brass tube he sheltered with one arm. “Over there,” he said, pointing. “The gate tower.”

The gate tower.
Dear Briga! Could Marcus get them both through it? Her heart pounded in her throat. “Are we leaving the fort?”

He shook his head. “The guards would never let me pass! We’re going up onto the battlements.”

“Why?” Rhiannon asked, but Marcus had already grabbed her hand and was towing her across the wide gap between the edge of the barracks and the perimeter wall.

“You’ll see. Come on.”

They inched along the earthen foundation past the row of ovens built into the turf where a shaggy black dog snuffled for scraps. Rhiannon threw a longing glance toward the stout timber gate. Just beyond, so close she could almost taste it, lay freedom.

Marcus halted in the long shadow of the gate tower and squared his shoulders. “Follow me,” he whispered. “Act as though we have the right to be here.”

He approached the guards—one a burly man with a bored expression and one a tall, slender youth whose beard had not yet fully grown. After some minutes of finagling, the burly man nodded and opened a door behind him. Marcus entered. Rhiannon followed, slapping away the guard’s hand when it strayed too close to her breast.

The room within the tower was little more than a shaft with a wooden ladder propped up against the wall. Marcus placed his foot on the lower rung and began to climb. Rhiannon waited for the door’s thud before she hiked up her skirt and followed him.

They emerged on an intermediary platform and, after negotiating a second ladder, gained the upper level. The high walkway ringed the fort in an unbroken path, with bridges spanning the towers flanking the gates. Rhiannon looked to the north and drank in the sight of her home for the first time since her capture.

Her breath caught. Towering crags stood like blue mist on the horizon. The rains would not come this day, for the clouds had fled in the night. The sky was a rare deep blue, tinged with rose where the sun had yet to rise. Birds dipped and soared, calling madly. One long-tailed swallow landed on the rail and blinked at her. Rhiannon sighed. If she had wings, she would lift herself from the battlements and fly home to Owein.

Below her, a man’s voice shouted. Marcus nudged her excitedly. “Look.”

Rhiannon blinked past the hills and the wide sweep of barley fields and focused on the trampled area just outside Vindolanda’s wall. Neat rows of soldiers lined the clearing like sticks set in the mud. Off to one side stood the unmistakable form of Brennus. Rhiannon curled her fingers, fighting the urge to scratch the foul itch that crawled across her skin at the memory of his touch.

“Father and Quartermaster Brennus are to cross swords.”

Rhiannon’s gaze snapped to Marcus. “Indeed? For what cause?”

“Father wishes to show the troops how a Legionary soldier fights. The quartermaster is his second-in-command. The men will be in awe of Father when Brennus falls.”

“For that your father will risk his life?”

Marcus shot her a disbelieving look. “Father had the command of the Thirtieth Legion. He’s hardly at risk fighting an auxiliary quartermaster. Besides,” he added, “I imagine they’ll be using practice swords, not real ones.”

Rhiannon’s gaze narrowed. “And how is it that you know all about this?”

Marcus had the grace to look guilty. “I went out yesterday while you and Magister Demetrius were at the hospital. I heard some soldiers laying wagers on the fight.”

“Demetrius wouldn’t be pleased to know you’ve been sneaking about the fort.”

“You won’t tell him, will you?”

Rhiannon laughed. “No.”

“Good.” He turned his attention back to the assembly. “Look. There’s Father.”

Rhiannon leaned over the railing. Lucius paced the rows of men, sword drawn. “Why is your father’s uniform different from that of Brennus and the others?” she asked Marcus.

“Father wears the armor of a Legionary. The auxiliary soldiers wear only mail shirts and leather.”

Lucius stopped before one unfortunate wretch and flicked the tip of his blade at some imperfection on the soldier’s chest. The man’s spine stiffened. Lucius regarded him in silence for a long moment before moving down the line and repeating the scene.

A warm sensation flooded Rhiannon’s belly as she watched him.
I’ll promise you tomorrow.
Two nights had passed. Why had he not come to fulfill his pledge?

Lucius reached the end of the row directly below Rhiannon’s perch on the battlement, glanced to the rear, and went very still. Then his gaze lifted, meeting hers as if she’d called out to him.

The ghost. When it fled, he knew she was near. Rhiannon raised a tentative hand in greeting. Beside her, Marcus blanched and sank to the plank floor.

“Do you think he saw me?”

“I’m sure of it,” Rhiannon replied, still watching Lucius. She thought she saw a hint of amusement in his expression, but because of the distance and the shadow of his face guard, she couldn’t be sure. Pivoting, he started in on the next row of soldiers.

“He’ll flay me alive,” Marcus said miserably.

Rhiannon chuckled. “Then may I know why you are taking such a grave risk to be here?”

The lad slid the brass tube from his belt, where he’d secured it before scaling the ladders. Carefully, he removed the cap and slid out the contents: several scraps of papyrus, a pen, and a small pot of ink.

“You’ve climbed to the battlements to write?”

“Not write. Draw.” He gathered his equipment. “I overheard Father telling Demetrius that Vindolanda houses the sorriest collection of auxiliary bastards he’s ever had the misfortune to command.” At Rhiannon’s raised brows, he grinned. “He said he’ll drill them like dogs until he’s satisfied they can distinguish their heads from their asses.”

“Is that so?”

Marcus nodded vigorously. “Yes. I’ve always wanted to draw a real swordfight, not one copied from some Greek vase.”

“Ah,” said Rhiannon, understanding at last. “But why did you need my company? It would have been much simpler to come on your own.”

The lad busied himself opening the inkwell and setting it with care on the ground. He rolled open a piece of papyrus and weighted it with several small stones. Then he straightened and peered over the battlements onto the parade grounds.

“I don’t know exactly. I did think to come alone, but when I woke this morning I thought you might enjoy sharing the adventure.”

She smiled. “I do. I also like to watch you draw.”

He grinned up at her shyly. “Knowing that will make me draw all the better.”

She ruffled his hair, aware of a sweet tug in the vicinity of her heart.
It would be so easy to love this lad. As easy as it would be to love his father.

The thought, so unexpected and yet so natural, set her heart pounding. She snatched her hand from Marcus’s dark curls. Fortunately, he’d already returned his attention to the soldiers and didn’t seem to notice Rhiannon’s sudden discomfort.

She steeled herself to look down at the assembly. As she watched, the men exchanged their battle swords for wooden blades and separated into sparring pairs. Grunts and shouts peppered the combat, which to Rhiannon looked as fierce as the battle in the fens, if not as bloody. If these men fell far short of Lucius’s ideal, she shuddered to imagine the carnage his Legion in the East had wreaked.

After a time, Lucius barked an order, causing the men to cease their battle-play and fall into a wide arc. He retrieved a wooden practice sword from the ground and lifted its tip waist-high.

“Gaius Brennus, advance.”

A murmur rippled through the assembled garrison as Brennus swaggered into the circle. The slanting rays of the sun glinted off the twisted gold of his torc. “Commander.”

“Take up a wooden blade,” Lucius said.

“I’ll not spar with a child’s toy.” Brennus spat into the dirt, then slid his battle sword from its hilt and set it at the ready. The men at his back shifted forward, a current of anticipation rippling through them.

“Very well.” Lucius flung the practice sword away and drew his own blade.

Beside her, Marcus’s breath caught. “Father will carve that Gaul’s heart out!”

Rhiannon clung to the lad’s confidence as the two men circled. Brennus stood taller than Lucius and outweighed him as well. Lucius’s plated armor provided a far better defense than Brennus’s mail, yet it would provide scant protection if the garrison mutinied. Her gaze moved to the foot soldiers. How many of them had rejected Rome and pledged their secret allegiance to the quartermaster? Would they come to his aid if he fell today?

The two men circled slowly, like winter wolves. Behind, men jostled for the best view, discipline forgotten. In the rear of the pack, wagers were being cast and recast furiously.

Brennus’s arm whipped toward Lucius.

Lucius parried easily. He dodged the next slice as well, then darted forward more quickly than Rhiannon would have thought possible for a man weighted in full battle armor. Brennus spun away, but even so the edge of Lucius’s blade caught the larger man’s leather breast shield, carving a path through it to the mail beneath.

Enraged, Brennus lifted his sword with both hands and brought it down and to one side, the edge angled toward Lucius’s neck.

Rhiannon’s cry mingled with Marcus’s gasp. Lucius lunged to one side, unscathed. In the same motion, he spun about. Taking advantage of Brennus’s forward motion, he slammed the flat of his sword into the quartermaster’s back.

Brennus hit the ground with a dull thump, drawing a mixture of shouts and groans from the audience. The large man lay motionless, the point of Lucius’s sword pricking his neck. Rhiannon let out a long breath.

Marcus took one last look, then dropped to the ground and snatched up his pen. “Magnificent!” he breathed.

Rhiannon was inclined to agree. Lucius’s hard body had been a breathless combination of strength and grace, his sword but a flash of light. Had he wished Brennus dead, she had no doubt that the larger man’s blood would now be soaking the earth.

Lucius looked to the battlements and speared her with his dark gaze. Heat washed through her veins in a flood. She gripped the edge of the railing, sending a splinter of wood into her palm. On the first night of her captivity and every night after, Lucius could have forced her to his bed far more easily than he’d thrown Brennus to the mud. Yet he hadn’t. He had stepped back and waited.

She watched him now, heart pounding with a violence that left her gasping. She wanted him—she could deny it no longer. Yet perhaps it was better that Lucius hadn’t come to her last night, whatever his reason. He would soon be locked in battle with her kin. How could she give her heart to her tribe’s enemy?

He lifted his sword. Silence fell as Brennus heaved himself from the ground and retrieved his own weapon. Lucius turned his back on the man and barked an order for the soldiers to resume their sparring. The command afforded his opponent some measure of dignity, Rhiannon thought.

Brennus didn’t seem to appreciate the gesture. The glare he shot at Lucius’s back spit venom.