Celtic Fire

by Joy Nash

  “Father will be terribly angry if I don’t finish my lessons,” Marcus said. He picked up a hinged wooden tablet and opened it. The inside surfaces were coated with wax.

  “He wants the best for you, no doubt.”

  “So Magister Demetrius says. But Father’s always angry with me for something, no matter what I do. What use is there in trying to please him?”

  Rhiannon couldn’t think of a reply to that, so she nodded toward the tablet in Marcus’s hand. “May I see?”

  Marcus handed it to her. Three scrawling lines of runes had been scratched into the wax.

  “Are these Greek runes?”

  “No,” Marcus said. “This is the Latin. The Greek is there.” He pointed to the scroll laid out on the table.

  Rhiannon took the stool opposite Marcus and peered at the delicate papyrus. Black letters crawled across the creamy surface in neat rows like ants, offering their knowledge to any with the skill to decipher them. The concept amazed her—Celts carried their stories in their hearts. Madog had once told her that Romans and Greeks were possessed with brains softer than sand. Rather than exert the discipline needed to commit their sacred stories to memory, they scratched them in ink. Still, to Rhiannon’s mind, writing seemed a wondrous thing.

  She touched the runes. “What does it say?”

  Marcus made a face. “It’s Aristotle’s discourse on prior analytics.” His brow creased as he read. “ ‘If no beta is alpha, neither can any alpha be beta. For if some alpha were beta, it would not be true that no beta is alpha.’ And more of the same. I’m to copy each line of the Greek and translate it into Latin. As you can see, it’s an exceedingly dull work.”

  Rhiannon was inclined to agree. “Are there no stories on the shelves?” she asked.

  Marcus shot her a glum look. “Yes, but I’m forbidden to read them. Uncle Aulus collected tales from all over the Empire.” He slumped down on his stool, his eyes suddenly bleak. “I can’t believe he’s gone.”

  Rhiannon stilled. “Your uncle?”

  Marcus nodded. “His death didn’t seem real until we arrived at the fort. Before he came here, he served as a tribune in Egypt, but he visited Rome as often as he could and always brought me a new story. I used to wish he were my father.”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “I do. I hardly know Father. He’s been on campaign for as long as I can remember.”

  “Did you not travel with him?”

  “No,” Marcus replied, pressing his fingernail into the wax at the edge of his tablet. “Mother would never have allowed it. But she’s dead now,” he added matter-of-factly. “That’s why I’m here in the North.”

  Rhiannon touched his arm, not one bit fooled by the lad’s careless tone. “I’m sorry your mother is gone.”

  “She died last summer, giving birth to my sister. Demetrius said the babe was turned the wrong way and Mama didn’t have the strength to endure the pain.” His voice trembled. “The baby came out dead anyway, so perhaps it was best that Mama never knew.”

  Without pausing to think, Rhiannon left her stool and knelt at Marcus’s side, pulling him into her arms and ruffling his hair as she had done with Owein so many times. “And your father?” she heard herself ask. “Was he distraught?”

  “Father wasn’t there. He was in Assyria with the emperor. Magister Demetrius wrote to him when Mama got sick, but he didn’t get home until a month after her burial.”

  “How awful!”

  Marcus sniffed. “Father was so angry when he arrived home that I wished he had stayed in Assyria. He’d been there a year and a half already—why bother to come at all?”

  Rhiannon drew back. “Your father had been in the East for a year?”

  “Longer. He’d been gone for two turns of the New Year.”

  “And your mother went to visit him during that time?”

  Marcus gave her an odd look. “Mama? No. She would never have gone to the frontier. She didn’t even like the countryside. She preferred Rome.”

  Rhiannon rose from her stool and paced a few steps away, not wanting Marcus to see the surprise she knew must show on her face. Dear Briga. Lucius’s wife had died birthing another man’s child. No wonder he’d been angry.

  Marcus picked up a smooth stick with a metal nib and made some random marks on his tablet. “But then Father said he’d had word that Uncle Aulus was dead. He was to leave for Britannia and I didn’t want him to go. At least not without me. He didn’t want to bring me, but I begged until he gave in.” He sighed. “I thought I could make him proud of me.”

  Rhiannon came up behind Marcus and laid a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sure that he is.”

  “No.” Marcus studied the tip of his stylus with exaggerated care. “He’s not. I’m a disappointment.”

  “Surely he didn’t tell you such a thing.”

  “He doesn’t have to. I can tell.”

  Rhiannon took hold of his shoulders and turned him toward her. “You’re mistaken.”

  “No, I’m not. I can ride a horse, but I hate history and logic and I’m terrible with a sword. I’ll make a poor soldier.”

  “It matters not. You’ll be a fine man.”

  Marcus dragged the back of his hand across his eyes and blinked up at her. “Do you think so?”

  “I know it,” Rhiannon said firmly, rising. “You have a great curiosity. That’s the mark of the wise.”

  He gave her a small smile, though the expression in his eyes told her he was unconvinced. Turning back to the table, he picked up his stylus and tablet. Rhiannon scrutinized Aristotle’s indecipherable writings. When she raised her head, she found Marcus watching her, the mischievous light restored to his eyes.

  He broke into a wide grin, complete with Lucius’s dimple. Rhiannon’s breath caught.

  “Here,” he said, turning his tablet around. “Look.”

  He’d smoothed out the Roman runes and replaced them with the image of a woman’s face. Though the rendition was only a few quick strokes, his hand had been so skillful that the drawing seemed almost to breathe. Rhiannon stared at it in amazement. Such skill was powerful magick indeed.

  “Do you like it?”

  “Very much.” Then, hesitantly, “Is it your mother?”

  Marcus’s face fell. “No. It’s you. Can you not tell?”

  Rhiannon’s eyes widened. She had never seen an image of her own face, save in a wavering pool of water. Was this truly her likeness?

  Marcus turned the tablet around and regarded it with a critical air. Then he made a sound of exasperation and passed the flat edge of his stylus over the wax, obliterating his work. “You’re right. I did the eyes all wrong.”

  “I didn’t mean—” Rhiannon began.

  “But it’s hardly my fault.” Marcus tilted his head to one side and gave her a shy smile. “You’re far too beautiful to draw.”

  The innocent compliment made Rhiannon blush. “Thank you, Marcus.”

  “My father thinks so too, you know.” He affected a nonchalant tone, but his gaze wandered the room as if afraid to rest. “I saw the way he looked at you in the courtyard yesterday. As if you were Venus herself.”

  “Venus?”

  “A goddess,” Marcus clarified. “Of love.”

  Rhiannon’s face flamed even hotter. She turned back to the scroll. “Aristotle grows weary with waiting.”

  Marcus rolled his eyes. “Aristotle is dead.” He dropped his tablet and stylus onto the table. “Though I suspect he’s not buried deeply enough.”

  Rhiannon chuckled. “Then what will you do, if not study?”

  “Would you like to play a game?”

  “What game?”

  Marcus slid off his stool and moved to the cupboard. “I’m not allowed to go through the scrolls, but Magister Demetrius didn’t say anything about Uncle Aulus’s games.” He opened the cupboard’s tall doors and rummaged through the contents.

  He extracted a wooden board and two leather pouches. “I knew there would be a R
obbers board in there,” he said, returning to Rhiannon’s side. “Uncle Aulus taught me to play. It was his favorite.”

  He frowned at the crowded table, then simply pushed his stool to one side and sat on the floor, setting the checkered square of wood in front of him. Rhiannon seated herself opposite him and leaned forward. “How do you play?”

  Marcus upended the larger pouch, releasing a shower of black and white tiles. He took the black squares for himself and pushed the white ones toward Rhiannon. Then he fished around in the second pouch and drew out two round stone disks, one of each color.

  “This is your leader, the Dux,” he said. “He’s in charge of your band of robbers. If you lose him, the game’s over.” He began placing his tiles on the board, one by one. Rhiannon did the same. As she set down her last token, Marcus broke into a wide grin.

  Her men were surely doomed.

  She was right—Marcus’s robbers made short work of hers in the first battle. Rhiannon lost a second round, but managed to take the third match.

  “You learn far too quickly,” Marcus grumbled.

  She laughed and leaned forward to ruffle his curls. “I have a good teacher.”

  “Let’s see if you’re any good at Knucklebones.” He rummaged once more in the cupboard and returned with a pouch of small bones. “Sheep’s knuckles,” Marcus explained. He chose five and held them in one palm.

  With a sharp motion, he tossed the bones in the air and tried to catch them on the back of the same hand. Three clattered to the floor, but the remaining two stuck.

  “I can do better,” he said. He scooped up the bones and tried again.

  Rhiannon fished more bones from the pouch and imitated Marcus’s toss. All five bounced off her knuckles and skittered under the table. Marcus giggled. Rhiannon retrieved the bones and tried again, sending the lad into a fit of laughter when her second attempt failed as miserably as the first.

  He made a noise of superiority and tossed his own set. Rhiannon swatted at the bones in midtoss, knocking three across the room.

  “Hey! You can’t do that!” Marcus said.

  “I just did,” Rhiannon replied, tossing her own bones well out of Marcus’s reach.

  The lad lunged for them, but Rhiannon still managed to catch one on the back of her hand. She threw him a triumphant look.

  Marcus dove for the bone, slamming into Rhiannon with his full weight. They fell together in a heap on the Robbers board, scattering the tiles across the floor. Marcus scrambled to one side. Rhiannon hoisted herself onto her elbows, met his startled gaze, and burst into laughter.

  Marcus hooted and dropped onto his back on the floor, arms flung wide. Rhiannon leaned back against a leg of the table, giggling like a lass.

  “Clearly,” Marcus said, chortling, “I’m the winner.”

  “No, let me try again.” She gathered five of the bones and tried again to catch them on the back of her hand. When they bounced off her knuckles, she dissolved once more into laughter. “Truly, Marcus. No one could succeed at this game!”

  Marcus sat up and collected another handful. “Uncle Aulus could catch all five,” he said. “So can Father. I saw them playing once late at night.”

  Rhiannon could scarcely imagine it. She readied her pieces for a third try. “You jest. I’m not so foolish as to believe your father excels in such a frivolous pastime.”

  “Well, you should, because—”

  “It is true,” a man’s voice said.

  Rhiannon’s head snapped up. Lucius stood in the doorway—how long had he been there? Mud stained his bare legs and marred the shine of his armor. He’d yet to remove his helmet—the plumes of its crest brushed the door’s stone lintel. The side guards shaded his expression, but she felt his scrutiny with every fiber of her being.

  “Father!” Marcus’s voice hit a high note.

  Rhiannon scrambled to her feet, her fist closed tightly on her set of bones.

  Marcus leaped up as well. His foot slipped on a heap of Robbers tiles, sending him skidding across the floor. He grabbed for the edge of the table, missed, and went sprawling atop it. A writing tablet skittered across the stone and crashed to the floor.

  “Jupiter help me,” Lucius muttered.

  Marcus shot him a fearful glance and dove under the table to retrieve the tablet.

  “Marcus,” Lucius said.

  Marcus jerked his head around and it hit the underside of the table with a crack. He sucked in a breath and emerged slowly, clutching the tablet like a lifeline. Rising to his feet, he placed it on the table with exaggerated care.

  “Marcus, come to me,” Lucius commanded. Marcus stiffened as though he feared his father would run him through with his sword.

  Rhiannon stepped between them. Lucius’s startled gaze focused on her. “Stand aside,” he said.

  “No.” Behind her, Marcus gasped. She held out her palm and offered Lucius the knucklebones. “I would see you perform the feat of which you boast.”

  His expression turned as dark as a thundercloud. “Very well.”

  She dropped the bones into his palm and retreated to Marcus’s side. Lucius weighed the set in his hand. When he looked up, his expression was inscrutable. “What is learned as a child is seldom forgotten.”

  With a swift flick of his wrist, he sent the bones aloft. His palm flipped downward. All five knucklebones landed, neatly balanced, on the back of his hand.

  Marcus gave a gasp of delight. Lucius’s opposite palm closed over the bones. Retrieving a pouch from the floor, he slid the pieces inside and handed the bag to Marcus. “Put this room in order and return to your studies.”

  The lad took the bag, his shoulders visibly relaxing. “At once, Father.”

  Lucius turned to Rhiannon. “Come.”

  She shot a sidelong glance at Marcus. “No. I’ll stay and help Marcus tidy the room.”

  Marcus made a strangled sound. Rhiannon snorted. Did no one ever contradict Lucius? If not, it was time someone did.

  Lucius fixed Rhiannon with a glare that would have caused even the most battle-hardened soldier to drop to his knees. And indeed, Rhiannon did drop to her knees, but not to cower. She began gathering the scattered Robbers pieces.

  Lucius grasped her by the elbow and hauled her back to her feet. The game tiles she held clattered to the floor. “Come,” he repeated in a tone that brooked no defiance.

  He propelled her out the door. When it had shut behind them, Rhiannon wrenched her arm from Lucius’s grip. “What are you about? You scared Marcus half to death.”

  Lucius shot her a dark glance. “I only wish you were as easy to frighten. Why were you disturbing my son’s studies?”

  “He sought me out.” She strode past him into the courtyard. The rain had lightened. Only a few stray drops stirred the puddles.

  She stopped at the edge of the fountain. Lucius came to a halt behind her, not touching, but so close she could smell the musk of the day’s exertion on his skin. Warmth pooled low in her belly. He set one hand on her shoulder and an odd restlessness shot through her. Feigning nonchalance, she moved away, breaking the contact.

  “The boy needs to attend his studies,” Lucius said.

  “He needs a father more. Especially since he has lost his mother.” She sank down onto the stone bench and dabbled her fingertips in the water. A measure of the Great Mother’s calm flowed into her, enough that she dared a look into Lucius’s eyes.

  She saw sorrow there, and regret, before his gaze shuttered. “Demetrius thought the journey north might turn Marcus’s mind from his mother’s death.” He bent and picked up a pebble that had strayed from the path to nestle in the dirt. “He was very attached to her.” He tossed the pebble from hand to hand, not meeting her gaze.

  “Yet she lay with another man while you were at war. She died bearing his child.”

  He started. The pebble glanced off his arm and plunked into the pool, splattering water over the edge. “Marcus told you that?”

  “No. He’s far too inn
ocent. He told me only that you’d been gone more than a year before the babe’s birth.”

  “Another reason why I consented to bring Marcus to Britannia,” Lucius said. “Rome is a city built as much of gossip and rumor as it is of stone. Sooner or later Marcus would have realized the truth. I would rather his memory of Julia be unsullied, at least while he is young.”

  “Even after she shamed you?”

  Lucius shrugged. “I hadn’t visited my wife’s bed since before Marcus’s birth and Jupiter knows I was not celibate all that time. I could hardly expect Julia to comport herself like a Vestal in a city where bed partners change more frequently than the weather.” He met Rhiannon’s gaze. “But I did expect her to use whatever means necessary to avoid bearing a bastard.”

  “Oh.” She kept her eyes fixed on the surface of the pool. “Did you not love her?”

  He was silent for a time. Rhiannon’s breath grew shallow, though she tried to tell herself that his answer was of no matter to her.

  “I loved her once,” he replied finally. “Or thought I did. Long ago, when I was young and blind with lust. Before I discovered she was a gilded box that didn’t contain the treasure I’d hoped for.” He shook his head, as if clearing the memory from his mind. “Julia was a good mother; I cannot fault her on that score. I know Marcus feels her loss.”

  “That’s all the more reason for you to be gentle with him.”

  “And encourage his weakness?” Lucius replied. “No. I think not. He’s better served by putting sentiment aside and applying his mind to Aristotle’s logic. I fear for his future if he does not. Every day he grows more like …”

  “His mother?” Rhiannon ventured when Lucius fell silent.

  “No,” he replied sharply. “Not like Julia. Like Aulus. My brother. Marcus cares more for tales of fancy than for the world before his eyes. Like the story of a Celt woman who ate a bad child and birthed a beautiful one from his bones.”

  Rhiannon’s eyes widened. “Marcus told you that story?”