Celtic Fire (8 page)

He let out a long, frustrated breath as he passed Rhiannon’s chamber. He’d been far too long without a woman. Five months and twenty-one days, to be exact, since the night prior to Aulus’s first appearance on the Kalends of November. It was now well past the Ides of Aprilis. Small wonder he was losing his mind.

He laughed, throwing his head back and emitting a brittle, hopeless sound. It echoed through the stairwell, fading only as he reached the lower level of the house. Aulus shot him a sharp look.

A fine state of affairs, when even a dead man thought him mad.

Demetrius’s calm voice drifted from the library, exhorting the beauty of Aristotle’s discourses. An elegant lecture, for all that it was wasted on Marcus. Lucius could well imagine the glazed expression in his son’s eyes.

“He prefers folklores and fantasy to logic,” Lucius told Aulus as he strode to the foyer. “As you did.”

Candidus stood by the front door with Lucius’s newly laundered military cloak over his arm. “Where is Tribune Vetus?” Lucius asked him.

“In the baths, my lord.”

“So early?”

“I’m told he receives a massage and bath each morning, and again each afternoon.”

Lucius snorted. “He must be the sweetest-smelling officer in the Roman army.”

“Quite so,” Candidus replied. He extended Lucius’s cloak. “Your
sagum,
my lord? The skies promise rain.” Aulus drifted into Lucius’s line of vision and nodded vigorously.

“I’m well able to dress on my own,” Lucius retorted.

Candidus started. “Of course, my lord.”

Lucius ripped his gaze from the ghost. “No need for the
sagum,
Candidus,” he said, exerting considerable effort to keep his voice calm. “Britannia’s sky delivers rain almost daily. I may as well get used to it. How have you found my brother’s household?”

“The kitchen is well stocked, my lord, as are the storerooms. As for the slaves …” He tapped his palm with his forefinger. “Six women, four men, and two boys are Celts from the south, near Londinium. Another man is a misshapen half-witted brute from a local tribe. A woman in the fort village takes the laundry every fourth day. And the cook—praise Jupiter! She is Roman.”

“Have the Celts become shiftless since my brother’s death?”

“No, my lord, they seem industrious enough. Tribune Vetus has kept them active, I would imagine. But they do like their beer.” He shuddered. “A noxious liquid fermented from barley, if you can imagine such a thing.”

Lucius’s lips twitched. “I assure you, I cannot. I trust there’s wine in the storerooms for the rest of us.”

Candidus inclined his head. “Yes, my lord. Master Aulus had nothing but the best vintages and I thank Bacchus for it. Otherwise, we would be forced to drink water.”

“A grim thought indeed,” Lucius said dryly. He fell silent for a moment, considering. “What do the slaves say of my brother’s death?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary, my lord, at least not yet. It may be they are reluctant to confide in me so soon.”

“Keep me apprised, then.” Lucius dismissed the man. As his footsteps faded, Aulus, who had been hovering at the edge of the courtyard, drifted toward an alcove near the door.

Lucius followed, halting at his brother’s side before the house altar. There, on a polished stone slab, tiny gods and goddesses clustered about an offering bowl like soldiers drawn to a game of chance. Lucius gritted his teeth. The lares were charged with the guardianship of all who lived in the household. They had failed miserably in their duties toward Aulus.

Aulus lifted one hand and touched a goddess fashioned from a fragment of alabaster. Lucius sent a sharp glance toward his brother. He recognized the figurine and what she represented.

“Justice,” he said. “I’ll find it, brother. Without the aid of fickle spirits.”

He backed away from the altar and strode to the door, nodding to the porter as he stepped into a day of miserable weather. Ponderous clouds spat moisture but couldn’t seem to commit themselves to rain.

The passage onto which his residence fronted cut a wide, straight line from the east gate to the west. Six long barracks faced him, obscuring the towers of the northern gate. Even without prior exploration, Lucius knew the headquarters and hospital lay to the left, the stables and granaries to the south. Every fort in which he’d served had shared essentially the same arrangement.

Vindolanda was a frontier outpost. As such, it didn’t approach the dignity of the great stone fortress at Londinium or even the smaller fortress at Eburacum. Its walls were thick turf topped by a sturdy wooden palisade and battlement that provided a clear view of the surrounding countryside.

Though modest in size, the post’s strategic importance could not be underestimated—Vindolanda commanded the center of the road linking the eastern waters to the Hibernian Sea, at the narrowest point in Britannia’s core—a mere seventy-five miles. With the surrounding lands secure, Rome controlled the intercourse of the docile southern tribes and their more warlike northern neighbors. In return for the taxes Rome exacted from the local Celts, the army provided secure trade routes and the chance for profit by all.

The sentry at the headquarters’ gate saluted as Lucius passed into the unroofed center yard. In contrast to the fort commander’s residence, no graceful plantings graced the wide space. Lucius gave the fort commander’s office a cursory glance, wondering if Aulus had spent much time there. If he were to cast lots on the question, he would wager against it.

He approached a second, smaller cubicle, where a guard snapped to attention. Lucius looked past the footsoldier at Vindolanda’s interim commander, the man who was now his second-in-command.

Gaius Brennus sat behind a battered desk far too small for his bulk, marking notes on one of the thin wooden tablets used for military records and correspondence. A number of identical tablets were scattered haphazardly before him. An open inkwell perched dangerously close to his right elbow. Smudges of ink and dirt showed on his fingers.

At Lucius’s approach, Brennus set his stylus aside, got to his feet, and raised a hand in salute. The Gaulish officer was tall, even taller than Lucius, who was considered almost a giant among his Roman companions. His eyes were a watery gray, his face ruddy and pitted with scars.

A Celtic torc of twisted gold glinted behind his short, red-blond beard. The terminals had been fashioned in the shape of horned serpents with rubies for eyes. The neck ornament appeared old and in need of cleaning, Lucius noted. In that last detail, it matched the officer’s tunic and mail overshirt.

“At ease,” Lucius said.

“Commander Aquila. I await your orders.”

Aulus brushed past Lucius and drifted to the far wall, where a large map of the fort and its surroundings had been affixed. Leaning forward, the ghost peered at the papyrus as if he were searching for some hidden path.

“What are you doing?” Lucius asked.

“Sir?”

Lucius clenched his jaw and sucked in an angry breath between his teeth. If he couldn’t control his babbling, the fort would soon be as rife with rumors about his sanity as his Legion had been. With effort, he refocused on Brennus. “What is the report from the hospital?”

“Two of the men wounded in yesterday’s attack died in the night. A third will most likely lose a leg. Fully half your escort from Eburacum is either dead or injured.” Brennus’s palm connected with the desk, causing the inkwell to lurch dangerously close to the edge. “Those men were the first reinforcements Vindolanda has seen in nearly a year. Every spare soldier in Britannia has been seconded to Gaul or Germania as replacements for the Legions bound for the East.”

Lucius nodded. He was one of the few officers who had recently traveled the route in reverse. “I would examine the current duty roster.”

After much shuffling, Brennus extracted a tablet from the clutter on his desk. “This is the status as of the Kalends of Aprilis,” he said, frowning down at the sprawling list. “Since then, seven or eight men have been taken ill with fever. The medics have had little success treating it.”

“Is there no physician?”

“He died last winter, sir.”

Lucius suppressed a sigh of frustration as he scanned the roster. Of the 437 soldiers who had been attached to Vindolanda the past autumn, fifty-six were dead, as many killed in accidents as in skirmishes with the Celts. Were Aulus’s men so poorly trained as that? The discipline of Rome’s auxiliary troops was notably less strict than that of the citizen soldiers in the Legions, but even so Lucius expected at least a semblance of competence. Apparently, Aulus had spent his three years in Britannia scribbling stories and puttering in his garden, to the detriment of his duty as a commanding officer. He shot his brother a dark look, barely managing to bite back the reproof that sprang to his lips. Aulus blinked back at him, unperturbed.

The miserable report continued: ten men on leave, thirty-six seconded to Maia to assist in the construction of a seawall. Twenty-seven were in Londinium at the governor’s command; fifteen were sick or wounded; eleven suffered from inflamed eyes. Twelve were listed simply as “unfit.” Even with the addition of the surviving reinforcements, Vindolanda stood at barely more than half its optimal strength.

“Less than an ideal situation,” Lucius told Brennus, not bothering to conceal his disgust.

“Yes, sir.”

“Especially as the recent attack on my party certainly signifies an increase in hostilities with the local tribes.”

“I’m not convinced that’s the case, sir. A few spring raids are only to be expected.”

Lucius kept one eye on Aulus, who had drifted toward Brennus and was regarding him with a distinctly disgruntled expression. “Nonetheless, caution is warranted. The gates will remain closed and the intercourse with the fort village must be closely monitored. Post a double guard on all shifts.”

Brennus looked for a moment as if he would argue. Then he saluted. “As you say, sir.”

Lucius paced a few steps to the wall map. A bold black square indicated the fort. The crooked line nearby traced the course of the small river that provided the garrison with water for drinking and bathing. Neat barley fields, tended by the relatively friendly locals who inhabited the fort village, ringed the fort walls. Beyond the fields lay the forest, thick and nearly impenetrable.

Aulus had been studying the northern portion of the map. There, rocky crags and deep ravines—most likely blanketed with Britannia’s infernal fog—provided enough cover to hide several Legions’ worth of barbarian warriors. Quite unlike the bleak Assyrian desert, in which the enemy had precious few places to hide.

By Pollux, he wished his brother had never come to this place. He turned back to Brennus. “What can you tell me of my brother’s death?”

Brennus shifted his weight. “It was an unfortunate accident, sir.”

“This garrison seems prone to accidents. Were you in the commander’s hunting party that day?”

“No, sir. Commander Aquila rode out with the First Centurion and two junior officers. Sextus Gallus and Petronius Rufus.”

“I understand the First Centurion was killed last autumn.”

“Yes, sir. An accident.”

“I would speak with the others, then,” he said, his gaze drifting back to the map. Perhaps Aulus was trying to tell him something about that fateful day.

Brennus cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, sir, that won’t be possible. Both men were injured in training during the winter. Their wounds proved fatal.”

Lucius regarded Brennus in silence for a long moment. “More unfortunate accidents,” he said at last.

“Yes, sir.”

He strode toward the door. “It seems the First Cohort of Tungrians is in sore need of discipline. Call the men to the parade grounds. I wish to inspect those who have somehow managed to stay alive.”

The raven cackled in Owein’s dream, driving shards of pain into his skull.

It had been the same every night since Rhiannon had been lost, but tonight his vision had taken an ominous turn. The great black bird no longer spread its wings in flight. Instead, it swooped low to the ground and landed. Darting forward on its twig legs, it dipped its beak and speared the eye of a newborn lamb. Its gruesome meal complete, the hulking creature rose into the air. It soared across the treetops, only to dive again almost immediately. It alighted on the rack of a magnificent stag.

“Kernunnos,” Madog said when Owein told him. “The Horned God may take the shape of any creature, but the hart is his favorite.” He stroked his beard with one long, crooked finger. “A good omen it is. What form the power will be taking is yet to be revealed.”

Owein let out a long breath and stared moodily into the fire in the center of Madog’s forest hut. The cloying scent of the bundled herbs drying over the flames mingled with the moldy smell of the mud and dauble walls, which leaned inward so precariously that Owein wondered if a Druid spell kept them upright. The skull of a stag guarded the only opening, a low portal hung with the skin of a wildcat. The Druid master’s iron sword and silver dagger lay on a low table. A wooden-handled scythe with a blade of gold hung from the twisted rafters. Madog’s staff—fashioned, Owein knew, from the heart of an oak struck by lightning—was not far from his hand.

The severed head of the Roman commander perched atop it.

Owein wondered at the skull’s presence in Madog’s hut. Until their return from the disastrous raid, the gruesome talisman had been displayed atop a stake inside the Druid circle. Now the Roman’s hollow eyes surveyed Madog’s sacred sanctuary. Dark patches on its surface—scraps of oiled skin and matted hair—seemed to dissolve in the shadows, leaving glimpses of smooth white bone.

Owein shuddered. So long as the Roman’s head remained unburied, his soul was trapped in the formless land between death and life. His spirit was forced to lend its power to the cause of his destroyers. The dark slavery stretched into eternity with little hope for freedom.

He closed his eyes, remembering the man’s hideous death dance. Rhiannon had cried for three full nights after Madog had thrust his sword into the prisoner’s back. Owein’s own visions had begun soon after. By chance, or were his nightmares a consequence of the Rite?