Celtic Fire (24 page)

Lucius shook his head. “I think not.”

“Then I’ll take my leave.” Lucius watched Vetus move off. His gut told him the tribune had had nothing to do with Aulus’s death. But if not Vetus, who? The two men who had seen Aulus die, only to meet with fatal accidents soon after? That was far too convenient a circumstance.

He watched the rivulets of muddy water course over his brother’s grave. It made little sense that life should turn to ashes so easily, but Lucius had seen far too much death on the battlefield to doubt the power of the Fates. Life: a fragile thread, easily snapped.

Lucius stood motionless a moment longer before realizing Aulus had not entered the cemetery. The ghost huddled at the perimeter of the burial ground, fingers gripping the top of the stone wall. His shredded tunic hung in limp scraps about his hips.

Lucius shuddered, but could not tear his gaze from his brother’s tortured eyes. “What ghost is frightened of a cemetery? Most especially of its own grave?”

Aulus swayed from side to side, his ethereal body trembling, whispers of perspiration glistening on his brow. His eyes, almost black now, locked with Lucius’s as he shook his head. One trembling hand raised and pointed north.

Lucius looked toward the hills, then back at the grave, a dread suspicion forming in his gut.

“What are you telling me, brother?”

Dear Briga, what am I to do?

Rhiannon stood at the kitchen worktable, kneading dough. Or, more accurately, pounding it. She would have much preferred working in the courtyard garden, but heavy rains forbade that activity. Marcus, accompanied by Hercules, had plodded into the library after Demetrius had ignored the lad’s complaints of a headache. Not wanting to remain alone and idle above stairs, Rhiannon had offered her services in the kitchen.

Claudia, the cook, was by now recovered from the trauma of Hercules’s attentions. She hovered at the stove, fleshy arms bared, preparing pastries for the ovens. Alara sat on a stool by the door, cleaning peas. Bronwyn, like Rhiannon, stood at the worktable, kneading.

Rhiannon squeezed the soft wheat dough, so unlike the coarse barley mixture she was accustomed to preparing for Owein and Edmyg. As she worked, her mind wandered, seeking out dark memories of Lucius’s mouth and tongue on her body. The man had been shameless, licking her skin, tasting her everywhere. When he’d dipped his head between her thighs, she’d cried out so loudly it was a wonder the entire household hadn’t come running.

Heat rose at the thought, spreading up Rhiannon’s neck and into her cheeks. She bent her head and worked the dough harder, praying Bronwyn wouldn’t notice.

He’d taken her thrice last night and already she wanted more. What had come over her? She’d never before felt such a yearning to be with a man. Her muscles ached with the exertion of loving in ways she’d never dreamed were possible. Niall had always sank atop her, rutting swiftly, then rolling to the side. Lucius’s teasing voice and clever hands had stretched the night into eternity.

Now, when she walked, the soft skin on her inner thigh stung from the scrape of his morning beard. Each time she thrust the dough against the table, the sensitized peaks of her nipples brushed the fabric of her tunic, reminding her of her lover’s touch. The mere thought of Lucius’s heated gaze kindled an answering fire low in her belly. Her thighs grew damp, her breathing shallow, and she cursed herself as the worst of fools.

She lusted after a Roman. How could the daughter of queens have sunk so low?

But dear Briga, how he’d watched her! His eyes had glittered in the light of the hand lamps he’d placed around the bed. She’d been embarrassed, then aroused by his scrutiny. Then he’d touched her and she’d seen her own pleasure reflected on his face.

That a lover could take such satisfaction in a partner’s bliss was a new concept for Rhiannon. She’d come to understand it quickly enough, though, when she’d moved to stroke Lucius’s warrior’s body in ways she never before dreamed of touching a man. She’d felt his response in her heart. It was as if they inhabited one skin, shared one soul. A fanciful notion, but one Rhiannon couldn’t seem to shake.

Was this love?

Rhiannon punched the dough with the heel of her hand and folded the flattened mound in half with a vengeful twist. How had her situation become such a tangled mess? She could not love Lucius. She couldn’t love his harsh self-discipline and the glory she’d found when he’d lost it. She couldn’t love his crooked smile and the way laughter leaped to his eyes an instant before his lips curved. She couldn’t revel in the feel of his clean-shaven jaw, his unruly dark curls, the sinew and muscle that roped his shoulders and chest, his hands …

Dear Briga. She had to escape.

The door to the alley opened. Cormac waddled into the room, a sack of wheat from the fort granaries slung over his shoulder. He upended his burden into the bin near the oven, then surreptitiously swiped his finger through a bowl of cream at Claudia’s elbow. The cook pivoted as fast as her girth allowed, wooden spoon raised. The dwarf raised a brow and sucked suggestively on his finger. Claudia blushed crimson and giggled.

Rhiannon eyed her brother-in-law with amazement. Was here no woman in the house, save herself, that Cormac hadn’t taken?

He dipped his finger in the bowl a second time and lapped the froth with the tip of his tongue. This time the spoon did fall, on his head, but the blow was a mere tap.

“Take yourself away,” Claudia said, “or dinner won’t arrive at table this eve.”

Cormac flashed her a grin and sauntered to the worktable. “I’ve plover eggs from the village to bring in,” he said to Rhiannon. “I’m worrying they’ll be crushed if I lift them from the cart. Come help me, lass.”

Rhiannon wiped her hands on a rag and followed him into the alley. The high walls on either side gave shelter from the worst of the rain, but the runoff from the slanting roof was nearly a deluge in itself.

Cormac climbed onto the wheel of the cart. “I’ve seen Edmyg,” he said, his voice tight. “Pray that he doesna find yer brother.”

Dread blossomed in Rhiannon’s stomach. “What has happened?”

“Edmyg’s son followed its mother yestereve.”

Rhiannon sucked in a breath. “Dead?”

“Aye. The second part of Owein’s curse has come to pass.” He thrust a basket of eggs into her hands. Rhiannon took it automatically, clutching it to her chest with fingers gone suddenly numb.

“ ’Tis not his fault!”

“Edmyg’s not of that mind.”

“He canna think Owein would harm a mother and babe.”

Cormac leaned over the cart’s rail, close enough that Rhiannon could smell the stale scent of last night’s
cervesia
on his breath. “If ye were at yer man’s side, perhaps he’d be seeing the truth of that. As it is, the chieftains gather for war and find their queen missing. There are some what are wondering if ye’ve rejected Edmyg.”

Rhiannon lowered her gaze. It would not do for Cormac to know that in her heart she had done just that. “ ’Twas Edmyg who bade me stay here.”

“True enough, but ’tis also true ye could have been safely home by now, had ye done as he ordered.” He set one large bony hand on her shoulder and squeezed hard. “Does Roman cock please ye so much that ye forget the clan?”

Rhiannon nearly dropped the egg basket in her struggle to evade his grip. “Let me go. I’ll not listen to your foul mouth.”

Cormac’s fingers tightened. “Think ye I care where ye take yer pleasure? I dinna fault ye for enjoying a cock larger than Niall’s sorry stump.”

When Rhiannon did not reply, Cormac gave a harsh laugh. “I saw the Roman this morn. Besotted, he looked to be. He’ll follow ye into the hills like a dog.”

Rhiannon twisted again and this time Cormac’s hand fell away. “In case ye had not noticed,” she said, “ ’tis raining. I’ll nay be convincing any man to lie with me in the mud.”

“Rain or no, the chieftains are gathering their warriors and there is much quarreling among them. Kynan is of a mind to abandon the attack if the Roman is not taken from the fort beforehand, and many side with him. It wants but three nights to the summer moon.”

He squinted into the sky. “Edmyg says if ye deliver the Roman within that time, he’ll nay seek Owein’s life in payment for his son’s.”

“Great Zeus, Lucius. Can we not wait until the storm passes?” Demetrius sent a look of disgruntlement at the cascade of mud flowing across the path.

Lucius shifted his shovel on his shoulder and strode through the dirty stream. “That happy event might not occur for a solid week. I must have my answer now.” He shoved open the gate of the cemetery.

Demetrius gathered his tunic in one fist and lifted the embroidered hem clear of the ground before following. “Tell me again why we have embarked on this folly.”

Lucius stole a glance at Aulus. The ghost stood on his own grave, leaning heavily on the monument. The last shreds of his tunic had fallen away, leaving him naked. Lucius’s stomach twisted. His brother’s skin was mottled with purple bruises and a harsh pattern of welts had risen on his back as if he’d been beaten long and cruelly.

“Luc?” Demetrius’s sharp tone pulled Lucius back. “Did you hear me? Why do you suspect Aulus lies elsewhere?”

The ghost plodded to the north corner of the cemetery and looked to the hills, then turned and stretched one hand, palm upward, toward Lucius. “I cannot say,” Lucius told Demetrius. “A hunch.”

The physician snorted. “I’ve never known you to go to so much trouble on a whim. There is something you are not telling me.”

Lucius replied with a thrust of his shovel into the dirt. “At least this cursed weather keeps the ground soft.”

He dug, heaving sodden shovelfuls to one side. Rainwater rushed into the hole. He bent lower, boots sinking into the muck, and liberated another clod of earth. He stabbed at the dirt with fevered urgency, not stopping for breath until he’d sunk waist-deep in the hole.

“Your labor does not go unnoticed,” Demetrius murmured. Lucius lifted his head. A cluster of Celts stood on the fringe of the village, peering at him through the rain. “They’re welcome to their curiosity,” he said. He shoved his spade into the earth yet again. This time the blade hit something other than mud.

He threw the tool aside and plunged his hands into the muck. Aulus’s body had been cremated and his bones wrapped in linen. He hoped the bones would be enough to identify his brother.

“You need not lift it all.” Demetrius crouched on the edge of the pit. “The lower half of the right legbone should be sufficient.”

Lucius nodded. Aulus had broken his leg as a youth and Demetrius had splinted the injury. Lucius wrenched the remains of the skeleton’s right limb upward. Drawing his dagger, he sliced through the knee joint as if he were butchering a stag. Bile rose in his throat, but he forced it back. His need to be certain far outweighed his disgust.

He handed the leg bones to Demetrius, then set to the task of climbing the slippery walls of the grave. By the time he’d heaved himself out of the pit, Demetrius had finished his examination.

“Well?”

The physician lifted his eyebrows. “Your hunch is correct. These are not Aulus’s remains.” He rubbed the corner of his sodden mantle over the shinbone, then thrust it into Lucius’s hands. “See?” he said, pointing. “Unmarred. If this were Aulus’s leg, there would be a bump, right here, at the site of the break.”

“You are sure.”

“Yes.”

Lucius closed his eyes and let out a sigh. When he looked up again, it was toward Aulus, who had moved from the gravesite and fallen in a crumpled heap against the cemetery wall. He twisted, trying to avoid an unseen boot or stick.

His lips parted. Lucius heard his brother’s cry in his mind as clearly as if it had sounded in his ear.

“Please, Gwenda, ye must help me.”

“Nay. The Roman will be having my head if I do.”

Rhiannon grasped the laundress’s arm. “He’ll not be knowing ’twas you, nor will any of the others. The kitchen is nearly deserted.” It was the day of the month allotted for the slaves’ use of the bathing rooms and everyone save the porters had gathered at the pool.

Gwenda shifted the bundle of soiled clothing in her arms. “I dinna know … There’s Cormac to be considering as well.” She glanced about the storeroom as if expecting the dwarf to leap from behind a flank of boar’s meat.

“Do ye know? About Cormac?”

Gwenda lowered her voice. “Aye. ’Tis my brother that carries his messages to Edmyg.”

“He’ll not know ye helped me.” After a moment’s hesitation, she touched the amber pendant at her throat. “I’ll give ye this for your trouble.”

“By Briga! Such a piece would feed my family for a year.” Gwenda’s eyes narrowed. “Where did ye come by it? If ’tis stolen, I want no part of it.”

“Nay. ’Twas a gift.” Rhiannon’s hands shook as she drew the chain over her head. She couldn’t shake the memory of Lucius’s face as he’d placed it there. How hurt he would be to see her give it away! But if parting with a bit of gold and amber might save his life, she had little choice.

She had to leave, had to get to Owein’s side. But she wouldn’t forfeit Lucius’s life to do it—couldn’t let him face the clans and the betrayal of his own men if there were another path. If Lucius wouldn’t leave Vindolanda, it was up to Rhiannon to stop the attack on the fort. She had a plan to do just that.

The warriors Edmyg gathered came to fight in her name. If she ordered their swords sheathed, she was not sure whether they would obey her or follow the man who was to be their king. But if she renounced Edmyg and chose another, less militant chieftain to be her consort, some would shift their allegiance. If she chose a man with a steadier hand on his sword, the attack on the fort might be abandoned. But who? Her consort must be a chieftain who was a strong warrior and respected by many, but one who would not bow to Edmyg.

Kynan was the only man who fit that description. Rhiannon shuddered as she thought of the older warrior’s mutilated face, but there was little choice. He was the only chieftain who dared to spit in Edmyg’s face.

Yes. It would have to be Kynan, and even then Rhiannon was not so sure the attack on Vindolanda could be entirely avoided. Her people had borne the weight of Rome for far too long to give up their thirst for vengeance. But even if the clans didn’t abandon the siege, her actions would cause a delay at the least. During that time, she would steal Aulus’s head from the Druid circle and bury it, ending Lucius’s torment. By the time the chieftains finished quarreling and staged their attack, Lucius and Marcus would be long gone.