by Joy Nash
Lucius snorted. “He babbled incessantly of it on the road.”
“The story of the crone mother teaches that good is birthed from the bones of evil, even as day rises from night.”
“Evil brings only more of the same,” Lucius replied. “Marcus must learn that.”
“He’s yet a lad, and seeking his purpose. His sensitivity is a strength, not a failing. It will lead him to wisdom.”
“Or to disaster. My brother’s death proves it.”
A vivid image of Aulus’s death flashed through Rhiannon’s mind. “How so?” she asked, struggling to keep her voice steady.
Lucius drew his dagger and tested its edge with his thumb, an unconscious gesture that raised the hairs on Rhiannon’s nape. “There’s a man residing in this house. Tribune Vetus. Perhaps you have seen him?”
“The officer who frequents the baths?”
Lucius gave a short, mirthless laugh. “None other. I came north believing Vetus had murdered my brother.” His fingers flexed on the dagger’s hilt.
“Why would you think such a thing?”
Lucius swiped his blade into the air and then to the side in one sleek motion, fighting an unseen enemy. “Vetus penned the report of my brother’s death. Aulus supposedly died while hunting for boar. A sport he abhorred. I suspected Tribune Vetus invented the story. I came north to discover why.” He pressed the tip of his dagger to his thumb, piercing his flesh. A single drop of crimson blood welled from the cut and dropped to the earth.
Rhiannon sucked in a breath. Could it be that Lucius was unaware of the true circumstances surrounding his brother’s death? But why would the tribune invent such a fiction? “What have you found out?” she asked. Her voice sounded strange to her ears.
“So far, little.” Lucius resheathed his blade with a brutal motion and began to pace the gravel path. Stones crunched under his boots. “Aulus’s bones lie in the fort cemetery, yet all witnesses to his death have conveniently disappeared. Vetus is an indolent fool. If he betrayed my brother, I have yet to discover his motive. But the fact remains that someone is lying.” His dark eyes glittered. “If there is a man in this fort who knows the truth, I will find him.”
And if the truth is known only by a woman? Rhiannon withdrew her finger from the pool and crossed her arms over her middle, feeling suddenly ill.
He stopped pacing, pausing in front of Rhiannon’s bench and meeting her gaze. “Justice will be served. When it is, I will leave this wretched island and return to Rome as a civilian. A seat in the Senate awaits me. I can no longer avoid the duty of occupying it.” His expression softened. “I’ll take you with me when I go, of course. I think I would enjoy showing you my homeland.”
Rome. If the luxury of this house was any measure, the capital must hold wonders far beyond her dreams. Part of her longed to see such glory, but she knew such a thing would never come to pass. She refrained from saying as much to Lucius. It mattered little.
She would soon be gone.
At midday, Rhiannon renewed her search for Cormac. Surely he’d returned from the fort village by now. She would corner him in the storeroom and hear a plan of escape from his thick lips, even if it meant the entire household believed they coupled between the shelves.
She found him outside the rear entrance to the kitchens, maneuvering a heavily laden cart. It was the first time Rhiannon had seen the door unbarred. She looked past her brother-in-law’s stubby frame to the unfettered daylight beyond. Even the narrow alley between the house and the stables glowed with freedom.
“Have ye heard from Edmyg?” she asked, rescuing a delicate bundle of spring greens from his rough hands.
“Aye. He came to the village himself. I had words with him while Claudia fussed over a fisherman’s morning catch.” Cormac set his shoulders under a cask of cervesia and heaved it from the cart and into the kitchen. Bronwyn looked up from tending the oven fires and giggled. Claudia, an enormous Roman woman with strong beefy arms and swarthy skin, frowned at the girl.
“And?” Rhiannon said, following her brother-in-law into the storeroom.
Cormac set the cask on the plank floor. “How fares yer leg?”
“ ’Tis well enough. I’ll be having no problem escaping, if that’s what is worrying ye.”
He didn’t meet her gaze. “Ye’ll nay be leaving just yet.”
“Not leaving? I must!”
“Nay. Edmyg bids ye stay.”
Rhiannon’s mouth dropped open. “Stay?” Bronwyn entered the storeroom and made a great show of scooping a measure of beans from a bin. Rhiannon waited until the girl had returned to the kitchen, then said, “What madness are ye talking?”
Cormac straightened to his full height and peered up at her. “Edmyg is thinking to use yer capture to the clan’s advantage.”
“How so?”
He returned to the cart and laid his hands on a haunch of fresh venison. “He seeks to rally the chieftains for an attack on the fort, but Kynan—” He spit into the dirt. “Kynan cowers like a dog with his tail between his legs. He’s afeared of the fort’s new commander.”
Rhiannon pitched her voice low. “As well he should be. But what has this to do with my escape?”
Cormac hefted the venison and waddled to the rear of the storeroom, well away from the heat of the ovens and the ears of the kitchen women. “The soldiers of Vindolanda are Gauls. Celts. They share one blood with the Brigantes, worship Kernunnos as we do. If they can be persuaded to mutiny when the clans attack, the fort will fall faster than a house of twigs in a gale.”
“Mutiny! They are soldiers of Rome, no matter their ancestry.” She shook her head. “They would pay a grave price for such treachery.”
Cormac grinned, showing a rotten gap in his yellowed teeth. “Every beast has its price. If the bait is set carefully, a meal will be had.”
“What bait could ye have set to turn the garrison against Rome?”
He climbed onto a tottering stool and hung the meat on an iron hook. “Ye need not know. Ye’ve only to play yer part.”
A knot of apprehension settled in Rhiannon’s stomach. “Which is?”
Cormac hoisted himself onto a crate that afforded him the height of a warrior. He leaned back against the wall, folded his arms across his chest and regarded Rhiannon with a hard expression. For an instant, he looked so much like Niall and Edmyg that she almost forgot his deformed body.
“What am I to do?” she whispered.
“Has the Roman taken ye yet?”
“No! Nor will he!”
Cormac regarded her steadily. “He was in yer chamber last night.”
Rhiannon’s hands fisted in her skirt. “And what do ye know of that?”
“I’m a spy, dear sister. ’Tis my business to ken all that passes in my domain.” He leaned toward her, his thick lips curling upward. “Does the Roman’s cock thrust as deep as my dear brother’s did?”
“Ye are a brute,” Rhiannon said, furious. “I have nay lain with Lucius.”
“Lucius, eh? So the Roman allows ye to call him by a name other than ‘master’ while ye spread yer legs, does he?”
Rhiannon clenched her fingers into a ball and swung. Cormac’s stubby arm moved like a blur and caught her wrist.
“What lies have ye told Edmyg?” she said through gritted teeth.
“Only the truth,” Cormac replied. “But dinna fret. Edmyg craves the title of king. He’ll nay be setting his queen aside, no matter who she lies with.”
“ ’Tis I who should be setting him aside! He sowed his seed in Glynis.”
“Five years ye were wed to Niall and ye have no babe to show fer it. When Edmyg weds ye, he will plow a barren field. No one condemns him for seeking a son on a willing woman. Ye’ll nay dare be refusing to join hands with him, I am thinking—he is Niall’s heir and the only warrior fit to lead the Brigantes.”
“There are other warriors,” Rhiannon said tersely.
Cormac shook his head. “None who willna split the tribe in two.
Would ye be repeating your grandmother’s folly, lass?”
“ ’Tis not the same at all,” Rhiannon countered. “Cartimandua spurned her king to satisfy her lust. If I reject Edmyg, ’twill be his perfidy, not mine, that causes the rift.”
Cormac spat. “The result will be the same. War among the clans rather than war against the Romans. The foreign dogs will emerge the victors without even having to unsheathe their swords.”
Rhiannon bit her lip. Cormac was right. If she refused Edmyg, the Brigantes would never drive the Romans south.
“Listen well, lass. There is little time to lose. The new commander has been in residence only a few days, but he’s already begun to unravel my entire winter’s work with his dawn drills and barracks inspections. If I’m to turn the garrison against Rome, we need to be rid of him. He’ll nay be expecting a woman to best him.”
The blood drained from Rhiannon’s face. “What would ye have me do?”
“Distract him with yer body. Then, when I give ye the signal, lure him outside the fort gates for a tryst in the forest—alone. Once he is”—a leer twisted Cormac’s lips—“bare-assed and pumping, Edmyg will take him.”
Rhiannon stared at him, aghast. “I’m to lure Luc—the Roman to his death?”
“Aye, that’s the short of it.”
A wave of nausea buffeted her. “No. I will not.”
Cormac’s fleshy fingers closed on Rhiannon’s wrist. “Ye will.”
“I won’t.” She glared at him, her fury building. “I’m a healer, not a murderess.”
His grip tightened until she thought her bones would snap. “Ye’ll do as yer told, lass.”
She twisted her arm from his grasp. “Nay. Ye have no need of me to kill him. Ye may sneak into the Roman’s room any night the fancy strikes ye.” The thought made her ill.
“Aye, I could slip a knife betwixt his ribs—perhaps even escape with my life after. But Madog wants the man alive.”
Alive. “For the circle,” Rhiannon whispered.
“Aye. At the summer fires. With the Roman’s blood offered in tribute to Kernunnos, we willna fail.”
An image of Lucius’s bloodied body sprawled in the Druid circle flashed before Rhiannon’s eyes. Her gorge rose.
Cormac jumped down from his perch on the crate. “Even barring the Horned One’s blessing, any fool can see that the fort will fall much quicker with the Roman gone—he’s far more able than his predecessor. Ye must do yer part, Rhiannon. Think on the clansmen who will die if ye do not.”
Rhiannon swallowed past the painful lump in her throat, not daring to answer.
Cormac’s gaze narrowed. “So much concern ye have for an enemy. Yet ye’ve nay asked after yer own brother.”
“Owein? What of him?”
Cormac waddled past her toward the door to the kitchen. Rhiannon overtook him with two quick strides and barred his path. “Is he ill?”
The dwarf halted and peered up at her. “Not ailing, exactly, as I heard tell.”
Icy fingers squeezed Rhiannon’s heart. “What then?”
“Edmyg has turned him out of the dun.”
“Turned him out? For what cause?”
“The lad woke the entire village two nights past, raving like a mad wolf in the mud. The clan gathered ’round him as he screamed his Druid curses.”
Rhiannon’s stomach rolled. “What do ye mean?”
“A death wish it was. For Glynis and her babe.”
“Nay,” Rhiannon whispered. “No curse. A vision. He canna help it. They come unbidden.”
“Owein has the Sight?” Cormac asked sharply. “Does Madog know?”
“Aye. Where is Owein now?”
“I dinna ken, but Edmyg vows he will kill the lad if he comes near the village. He’s forbidden any to speak to him.”
“He’ll have sought Madog,” Rhiannon said, her mind racing. “I must go to him.”
“Aye,” Cormac said. “Ye must. Deliver the Roman into Edmyg’s hands and I’ll see ye safe to the Druid’s door.”
Chapter Six
Twilight deepened into night as Lucius stood outside Rhiannon’s bedchamber, wanting more than anything to enter.
Walking through her door would mean leaving Aulus outside. Once within, the aura of futility Lucius breathed like murky air would vanish. The lilting cadence of Rhiannon’s voice would drive the self-reproach from his head. Her warmth would banish the chill failures from his heart. He would catch her scent, a shimmer of forest greenery and summer mist. Her body would tremble with need when he touched her, even as she pushed him away. The very thought of it caused Lucius’s rod to harden with pleasure akin to pain. To feel his nymph’s surrender, to bury himself inside her …
Lucius had no doubt that making love to Rhiannon would fill the aching chasm that had become his soul.
Yet still he hesitated and, after another long moment, left her door untouched. He shoved open his own. The heavy wood thudded shut behind him, but not before Aulus had slipped into the room. Lucius lit the handlamp and watched the shadows retreat to the corners.
He told himself Rhiannon needed more time to accept the idea of becoming his concubine. He rationalized that patience would bring her to his bed far more quickly than heavy-handed persuasion.
Fine tales, but lies. In truth, he’d grown wary of the nymph and the power she seemed to wield over Aulus.
In the world he inhabited, logic ruled. As a senator’s son, he’d been born to a life of tradition and duty. Schooling in rhetoric and philosophy, a decade of military service, a political career that commenced by the thirtieth year—the age Lucius had currently attained. Lucius had never questioned the path mapped out for him until Aulus’s ghost had sprung from the sands of the Eastern desert.
His brother’s unrest had cracked the very foundation of Lucius’s ordered world view. If the dead did not stay safely within their graves, what prevented any part of life from violation? And if one beautiful nymph could command his brother’s soul …
He sent Aulus a piercing look. “What power does she wield over you?”
Aulus developed a sudden interest in the ceiling beams.
Lucius fought the urge to grasp his brother by his ghostly shoulders and shake some life into him. “Is she a witch?” He stepped closer. “Do you fear her?”
Aulus drifted toward the bed. The creation was another Egyptian monstrosity, gilded and garish, double the size of any bed Lucius had ever seen.
“Look at me when I speak to you, by Pollux!”
With an air of infinite weariness, Aulus sank to the cushions, still avoiding Lucius’s gaze.
“She’s hardly one of the hideous daughters of Diana described by Horace,” Lucius muttered. He strode to the side table and poured himself a cup of wine. “Still, who’s to say a beautiful woman cannot command witch’s powers as easily as a hag?”
He drained the cup and refilled it. “If she has the power to keep you from her presence, perhaps she can banish you from mine as well.”
Aulus’s head snapped up. Fear illuminated his pale eyes. His shoulders had gone rigid, giving him an eerie semblance of solidity. Lucius looked closer. His brother looked weary, haggard. Haunted, even, if such an irony were possible. Lucius set his cup on the table and moved as close as he dared.
Ice and despair enveloped him.
The smoldering veil of peat smoke skulked into Owein’s lungs, dragging at his breath like a wolf bitch hauling her kill to her young. He shifted on his lumpy pallet and drew his blanket over his head. The thick woolen fabric might have blocked the worst of the haze, but it did little to muffle the wet rasp of Madog’s snores.
Searing pain spread through Owein’s temple, a sensation by now so familiar that he could barely remember a time when agony had not been his companion. A vision of Glynis’s still body rose in the sight of Owein’s inner eye. The image of a newborn babe strangled by its birth cord joined it. The child was a lad, a son Edmyg should have planted in Rhiannon’s womb.
Owei
n’s face went hot with rage. He’d seen Edmyg and Glynis coupling in the forest on more than one occasion. He’d told Rhiannon, hoping she would renounce him. But she’d refused, despite Edmyg’s betrayal. Why?
Guilt that her own babe had died before its first breath had been drawn? Shame that a second child had refused to take root in her body? Or did Rhiannon believe that as the Brigantes’ strongest warrior and Niall’s brother, Edmyg deserved the title of king? Owein knew most of the clansmen thought as much, but he didn’t agree. To his mind, Edmyg’s arrogance, quick temper, and slow wit were poor traits for a ruler.
His fingers tested the taut muscles encased in his upper arm. For a man of fifteen winters, he was strong, but he was no match for a seasoned warrior who had seen nearly twice as many years.
If only he were older, stronger, he would challenge Edmyg for the right to lead the clan and hold the dun for Rhiannon. Then his sister could choose another mate. A man worthy to be called king.
The magnificent battle played out in Owein’s imagination. In the scene he was a giant of a warrior, broader and fiercer than any the Brigantes had ever known. He swaggered toward Edmyg, buoyed by the cheers of his kin. He unsheathed his sword like lightning. His thrust was swift and merciless. Edmyg crumpled, clutching his chest, blood streaming from the wound. Owein lowered his weapon and turned to Rhiannon. Her eyes were shining with tears.
Her eyes were shining with tears.
Owein jerked upright, his breath coming in gasps, his right temple pounding so violently that he thought it would burst. A dream image of Rhiannon’s face hovered before him, but Owein knew beyond a doubt that he was seeing his sister as she was, at that very moment.
The tears she cried were real. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing them to remain dry as he watched his sister sob. What abuse had her Roman captor visited upon her? When the vision faded, he threw off his blanket and crawled toward the door.
Once free of the hut Owein sucked in a clear breath of midnight air and let it out in a long stream. The cries of the night creatures throbbed about him. Above, a hazy gibbous moon tried to break free of the clouds.
