Celtic Fire (26 page)

She was sobbing now. “Please, Lucius. I want—”

His fingers tightened. “What?”

“You.”

A heady flare of satisfaction pulsed through him. He entered her again, driving deep, losing himself in her heat. He withdrew and thrust again, savoring her cry of relief as he filled her. He bucked hard and fast, urging her surrender, until she sobbed his name a final time and came apart in his hands. His own climax followed, pulsing, unending, until his legs gave way and he collapsed atop her, gasping for breath.

Rhiannon made little protest when at last he pushed himself off her and hoisted her to her feet. Her tunic was smeared with mud, soaked through and plastered to her skin. He snatched the sodden cloak from the ground and wrapped it around her shoulders. She looked up at him, a bemused expression on her face.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked, suddenly ashamed. He’d intended only to prevent her escape, not to rut with her in the dirt like a beast. Had he lost his dignity along with his mind?

“Nay,” she whispered, but she turned away from him. The gesture tore at his heart.

He took her by the elbow and propelled her out of the forest and through the village. She offered no complaint, indeed, she gripped his arm as if it were a lifeline. He guided her between the south gate towers, ignoring the stares of the sentries. He pounded on the door of his residence as rain sluiced out of the sky, harder than before.

Rhiannon shivered and drew her arms tight across her chest. A scant moment later they stood in the foyer, dripping onto the mosaic floor. Lucius waved the porter away.

Only then did Rhiannon finally raise her head and look at him. Her dazed expression was gone, replaced with anger.

“You are a brute.”

“Then you crave a brute’s touch.”

“You cannot keep me here.”

Lucius snorted. “I disagree. Henceforth a military guard will be posted at each door. I suggest you do not try to pass.”

“And if I do, what will happen? Will you beat me with your son and the rest of the household looking on?”

“Don’t speak to me of Marcus. The boy adores you. You surely didn’t take his feelings into consideration when you decided to run from me.”

“I considered more than his feelings,” she said quietly. “I considered his life.”

He narrowed his gaze. “What do you mean?”

She drew a deep breath. “What if I told you that you were right in naming me a witch? If I promised that if you release me, I will see your brother’s spirit sent to rest?”

“If you were to say such a thing …” His hands fisted at his sides. “If you did, then I would tell you to cast your spell now, while I stand before you.”

Panic flashed in her eyes. “The words must be spoken in the forest.” She bit her lip and looked past him to the door. “I cannot cast such a spell within walls.”

“Cannot? Or will not?” He stepped close and gripped her shoulders. “Tell me the truth, Rhiannon. Did you imprison Aulus? Is his suffering at your hand?”

When she didn’t respond, he gave her a rough shake. “Answer me, by Pollux!”

“No!” she said. “ ’Tis not I, I vow! But I can free your brother, Lucius, if you let me go.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“You must! I didn’t imprison your brother’s spirit, but …” She shut her eyes briefly. “I know how he died.”

Lucius stilled. “What?”

“I’ve always known. I … I saw it.”

“Tell me.”

She went deathly pale. His grip on her shoulders tightened. “I will have the truth. Now.”

“I saw Aulus die. It was no hunting accident.”

“How, then?”

Her lips opened, then closed. “I can tell you no more than that.”

In the vicinity of Lucius’s heart, something broke. All this time Rhiannon had known how Aulus had met his death. She knew his murderers but had said nothing, even as he had bared his soul to her. The betrayal cut deep, though he supposed he should have expected it. He’d admired her pride and her loyalty, but she’d gifted neither to him. She would protect her people with her dying breath. And despite her deception, he loved her for it.

He was worse than a fool. He was an idiot.

“So Aulus was killed by barbarians,” he said quietly. “Your people?”

Her silence was acknowledgment enough.

“I will find my brother’s murderers. You will lead me to them.”

“Nay. I will not.” She gathered her sodden skirt in one hand and took a step toward the stair.

“Rhiannon.”

She stopped, but didn’t look back.

“I would have your loyalty.”

Her spine stiffened. “I cannot give it to you.”

“Then seek your bed with the rest of the slaves.”

“What did you do to Rhiannon?”

Lucius’s exit from his bedchamber was halted by the agitated presence of his son. The hour was early; dawn was only a dull sheen in the cloudy sky. Had the boy been lying in wait all night? His hair was damp, the dark curls plastered to his forehead. The insect-infested pile of fur he’d claimed for a pet stood nearby. When Aulus staggered into the passageway, the animal issued a low growl.

“I’ve done nothing to her. Why? Is she ill?”

“She’s crying.” Marcus seemed almost ready to break into tears himself. Red patches adorned his cheeks and his eyes were unnaturally bright. “She’s huddled in the back of the storeroom, weeping, and nothing I say will make her stop.”

A pang of guilt stabbed Lucius, but it was a small prick compared to the horror he’d felt when Rhiannon had admitted being a witness to Aulus’s death. His mind was still reeling from the shock of it. Once his sense of betrayal had settled to a dull ache, a new thought had arisen. His brother had been murdered by Celts, not mangled by a boar. Who in the fort had concocted the false report? And why?

“Go to her, Father. Tell her you’re sorry.”

“Marcus—”

“She’s my friend.”

Lucius started for the stair with Aulus limping after him. “Go begin your studies, Marcus.”

Marcus drew a deep breath. “No.”

Lucius halted, staring at his son in disbelief. The boy had never dared to defy him so openly. “I’ll repeat my order only once,” he said slowly. “Go to the library and take up your Aristotle.”

“No. I’ll make you go to her.” Marcus launched himself forward, fists raised. Hercules, apparently sensing a romp, bounded forward at the same time. Lucius watched, stunned, as boy collided with dog and landed in a heap at his feet.

He caught Marcus by the arm and hauled him upright. His tunic was damp, his body shaking. When the boy looked up, his eyes were not quite focused.

“I … I thought you liked Rhiannon.”

Lucius ignored the tightness in his chest. “She’s but a slave, Marcus.”

“So was Magister Demetrius, long ago. He told me.”

“True, but—” He broke off to take a closer look at the boy. The crimson flush on his face was not entirely due to emotion. His anger at Marcus’s outburst quickly turned to fear. “Marcus, are you feeling quite well?”

“Well enough, but …” He frowned. “One moment it’s so hot I can’t bear it, the next so cold that I’m shaking.”

Lucius pressed his palm to his son’s cheek. By Pollux, he was burning up. Looking up, he met Aulus’s gaze and was chilled to the bone by the expression he saw there.

Marcus swayed and would have fallen if Lucius hadn’t caught him. “Where is Magister Demetrius?” he asked the boy.

“Hospital,” Marcus mumbled.

Lucius swept his son into his arms. He carried him to his own bedchamber and lowered him onto Aulus’s bed. Marcus gave a shuddering sigh and went limp.

Terror blacker than a storm-ridden sea churned in Lucius’s gut. He covered his son with a blanket and made for the fort hospital.

“More water. Hotter than before.”

Rhiannon heaved the bucket of water to the stove and filled the boiling pot. “Marcus is worse?”

Demetrius emptied the contents of a glass vial into the water, releasing the odor of spoiled eggs. “He grows delirious.”

“And the fever?”

“Increasing. There is a blockage of fluids in Marcus’s body. This purge should allow the humours to flow.” His hand shook so violently that the stopper missed the hole.

Rhiannon took the vial and plugged it herself. “You fear for his life.”

“This malady has claimed ten men since I arrived at Vindolanda. I could save none of them, neither with the medicines I brought from Rome nor the remedies you showed me in the hospital garden.” He rubbed his eyes. “Marcus is asking for you.”

“Truly?”

“Yes. Come with me above stairs. Perhaps your presence will sooth him.”

“But Lucius forbade …”

“Lucius left for headquarters an hour past.”

“Oh.” He’d left his son’s side while the lad was so ill?

She followed Demetrius to the upper level. Marcus lay in Lucius’s bedchamber, the shutters drawn tight against the day. The five braziers that had been set in a circle about his bed threw off waves of heat but little light. A thick, fetid odor hung in the air—a combination of herbs and vomit. A bucket of noxious fluids stood by the door.

Bronwyn sat on a stool, closer to the door than the bed, and the expression on her face clearly said she wished to be elsewhere. At Demetrius’s nod she took hold of the bucket’s handle and disappeared through the doorway.

“The chamber wants cooling,” Rhiannon said.

“Marcus’s constitution suffers from an excess of water,” Demetrius replied. “Heat aids its release.”

Rhiannon couldn’t fathom how anyone could hope to survive when already shut in a tomb. In her opinion, fresh air would be far more helpful. That and a potion brewed from mistletoe harvested from the branches of the sacred oaks near the Druid circle. She crossed the room swiftly and knelt at Marcus’s side. His face was dry and hot to the touch, his pulse far too rapid.

“Marcus,” she whispered. Then, when he didn’t seem to hear her, “Marcus. ’Tis Rhiannon.”

His swollen lids lifted, but it was a long moment before his eyes seemed to focus. “Rhiannon?”

She entwined her fingers with his. “Yes, love. I’m here.”

“Stay.” His eyes closed again.

She murmured a healing spell and sought the lad’s soul with her own. When she found it, she held it tightly, appalled by how weak the spark of his essence was.

“Raise his head,” Demetrius said, lifting the cup he had carried from the kitchens. “He needs to drink the purge.”

“He is so weak. ’Twould be better to let him rest. Some cool air would help.”

“Such a thing would surely kill him,” Demetrius replied. He advanced toward the bed, bearing the purge. Rhiannon slipped onto the cushions and cradled Marcus in her arms, lifting his head so he could take the healer’s remedy. Dear Briga, but he was hot! His head lolled to one side and he seemed hardly to know what was happening.

Demetrius coaxed the liquid down his patient’s throat. Marcus sputtered but managed to swallow most of the vile brew. He slumped against Rhiannon, his breathing so shallow she had to bend her head to hear it.

She stroked the curls from his forehead. Demetrius located an empty bucket. A moment later, Marcus groaned, then went rigid. Vomit spewed from his mouth, soaking the coverlet. A second stream, tinged with blood, landed in the bucket.

The lad retched until Rhiannon feared for his life; then he lay back, exhausted, muscles twitching, face a vivid scarlet. Demetrius sank heavily onto the stool as Rhiannon began clearing the soiled linens.

“Now we wait,” he said. “Zeus knows there is little more I can do.”

Lucius’s hand lay motionless on his bedchamber door for a long while before he found the courage to shove it open. When at last he did, the rank odor of vomit washed over him like a vengeful tide. Outside, the night sentry called the last hour before cockcrow.

Marcus’s whimpering sounded from the bed. The piteous sound filled Lucius with relief. By some small favor of the gods, the boy had stayed alive during the long hours that his father had feigned industry in the fort headquarters, unable to face the sight of his only son lying on his deathbed. Lucius’s steps dragged into the chamber. Aulus, naked and battered, limped to the threshold and disappeared.

Rhiannon half rose from the stool by the bed, then dropped down again as if Lucius’s sudden appearance had weakened her legs. Her fair skin was deathly pale save for the dark smudges under her eyes. Her hair was disheveled, her tunic soiled. The sight of her sent a fierce pain crashing through his chest.

Her fingers were entwined with his son’s. The boy’s dog lay at her feet. As Lucius stepped forward, the ragged beast raised its head and thumped its tail once against the floor.

“Why are you here?” he asked her. Before she could open her mouth to reply, Marcus cried out and wrenched his hand from Rhiannon’s grasp. He thrashed against his blankets, tangling them about his legs and arms as if wrestling a Fury.

Lucius strode to the bed and quickly loosened Marcus’s limbs from their restraints. “Marcus. Lie still.”

He began to shake. “Cold.” He opened his eyes and looked wildly about the chamber, his teeth clashing so violently Lucius thought they would shatter. “So cold.”

Rhiannon retrieved the blanket from the floor and tucked it over the bed, though with the boy’s skin so hot it seemed a ludicrous thing to do. “Why are you here?” he asked again.

“Marcus asked for me.”

“Where is Demetrius?”

“I told him to seek his bed, lest he collapse on the floor.”

“But you stayed.”

“Yes.”

Lucius rubbed his hand over his eyes. “Leave now. Send another woman to tend my son.”

She hesitated, then said, “None will come. They are too afraid.”

Another moan drifted from the bed. Hercules’s head came up. Lucius bent over Marcus. By the gods. The boy’s face was as red as if he’d been stranded in the Eastern desert. His cracked lips parted, revealing a bloated tongue covered with a white sheen. His breath came shallow and rasping. A thick lump rose in Lucius’s throat. His son was dying.

Rhiannon took a clean linen and dipped it in a bowl of water. She wrung it out and gently wiped Marcus’s face, murmuring in her native tongue as she worked. Then she drew back the blankets and repeated the procedure on his chest. The boy seemed to relax under her ministrations.