Celtic Fire

by Joy Nash

  Brennus didn’t seem to appreciate the gesture. The glare he shot at Lucius’s back spit venom.

  She now had no doubt Brennus meant to betray Lucius.

  A wash of nausea stole over her as she realized that when Brennus joined forces with Edmyg, the quartermaster would be in a position to exact revenge on Lucius for today’s humiliation. Dear Briga. Peril circled Lucius like a hawk for the kill, yet he walked through his enemies unconcerned, as though a Legion guarded his back.

  What fate awaited Marcus should his father be killed? Only death, of that she was certain. There would be no mercy for a Roman commander’s son.

  Nausea surged. She could not bear to allow either father or son to come to harm. But how could she warn Lucius of the danger without betraying her clan? By some miracle she had to convince Lucius to take Marcus and travel south before the moon of Beltane, four nights hence.

  Rhiannon swallowed a sudden rise of bile. Shakily, she tore her gaze from Lucius and hunkered down beside Marcus. He was sprawled on the planks, dipping pen to ink and drawing furiously.

  “There,” he said, carefully wiping the ink from his pen with a bit of cloth. “What do you think?”

  She examined his drawing. His lines were simple. If taken separately, each was hardly more than a swirl of ink. Seen together, the strokes took on a life beyond the boundaries of the papyrus. They danced and leapt, clashed and collided. Gazing at the trapped fury of the swordsmen, Rhiannon almost expected the figures to soar from the page.

  “Truly, Marcus, you do magick with your pen.”

  He gave her an uncertain look, as if unsure of her sincerity but wanting more than anything to believe. “Do you really think so?”

  “Your father will be proud,” she said, her voice catching.

  The lad’s hopeful expression crumpled. “No, he won’t. He hates my drawings.”

  “Truly?” How could anyone frown on such a talent?

  Marcus waved one hand over the papyrus to dry the ink. “He says they’re nonsense. But I won’t stop,” he added fiercely. “Uncle Aulus said I should draw every day, as he did.”

  “Your uncle was an artist, too?”

  “Yes. And a storyteller. Father called him frivolous.” Marcus recapped the inkwell and stowed it with his pen in the bottom of the brass tube. Carefully, he picked up the papyrus and passed it back and forth through the air until he was satisfied it was dry. Then, placing a blank sheet atop it, he rolled it tightly and slid it into the tube with the rest of his supplies.

  “We should be going back.” He grimaced. “No doubt Magister Demetrius is already searching for me.”

  They retraced their steps along the battlement and down the ladder. As they stepped clear of the gate tower, the black dog they’d seen earlier raised its head. Rhiannon smiled at the creature. It looked underfed, but its golden eyes held a soulful light. The animal tracked their progress, ears erect. Then, as if coming to some canine decision, it loped toward them.

  Marcus laughed in delight. “Come, boy.” He held out his hand and stood as still as a whisper. The dog nuzzled Marcus’s hand, then turned its attention on Rhiannon. She allowed the beast its exploration, then scratched its ears. When they turned down the alley between the barracks, the dog followed. A few minutes later Marcus stood at the front door to the fort commander’s residence, frowning down at the animal.

  “I don’t think he wants to leave you,” Rhiannon observed.

  “Father will be furious if I let him in the house.” A spark of longing showed in his eyes. “We had hounds at our country home outside Rome, for hunting, but they stayed in the stables. I used to sneak out to play with them. Mother never allowed me one in the city.”

  The dog leaned against Marcus, tail wagging, nose in the air while the lad’s fingers tangled in its dirty mane. The scruffy fur about its head gave it a comical air. Despite her anxiety, Rhiannon smiled. The beast’s head came nearly to Marcus’s chest.

  “We’ll bring him to the storeroom and bathe him,” she said on impulse. “I’m sure your father won’t mind having a dog about if it stays out of sight.”

  Marcus shot her a look that said he feared for her wits; then he giggled. “All right,” he said and pounded on the door.

  The porter gave them a startled glance but made no comment as Marcus scurried through the foyer, the dog at his heels. He had no trouble coaxing the beast into the kitchen, where it promptly rose on its hind legs and snatched a hunk of raw meat from a platter on the worktable.

  Claudia grabbed a knife in her beefy hands and shrieked. Bronwyn, slack-jawed, dropped the container she’d been wrestling to the stove, splashing water over the loaves ready for the oven. Seizing the scruff of the dog’s neck, Rhiannon helped Marcus wrestle his new pet to an open area in the rear of the storeroom.

  She found a pair of hide buckets and returned a few moments later with water from the courtyard fountain. “What will you call him, Marcus?”

  “Hercules,” he said with a decided air. The dog looked at him and thumped his tail once on the ground.

  “He seems to approve.”

  Hercules did not approve of his bath, however, deciding if he were to be drenched, it was only fair Rhiannon and Marcus be soaked as well. After much wrestling and laughter, the brute shook off the last drops of water and settled in a dry corner of the storeroom, chewing on a bone Marcus had pilfered from the kitchen.

  Rhiannon surveyed the soggy ruins and shook her head. “Where shall we have him sleep?” she mused. “I doubt if Lucius’s dour-faced man will allow him a place with the servants.”

  Marcus giggled. “No, Candidus will likely give birth to a cow when he sees Hercules. I’ll let him sleep in my room.”

  The unbounded joy on Marcus’s face was contagious and Rhiannon grinned in response, despite her fears for the future. At the same time, her heart clenched and she sent a prayer to Briga for wisdom. How could she get the lad and his father away from the fort?

  “Great Zeus!” Demetrius appeared in the doorway, a look of pure astonishment on his face. If his grizzled brows rose any farther, Rhiannon thought, they would disappear into his scalp.

  “Do you like him?” Marcus asked ingenuously.

  The healer let out a word that Rhiannon suspected wasn’t part of Marcus’s Greek vocabulary. “Your father—”

  “—won’t even notice he’s here,” Marcus supplied quickly. “I’ll keep him out of the way.”

  “A fiend of that size can hardly be kept hidden,” Demetrius said, “but I suppose it may stay until Lucius removes it. The brute could hardly distract you from your lessons any more than usual.”

  “Oh, thank you, Magister! Hercules won’t be any trouble, I promise!” Marcus jumped up and threw an impulsive hug about the old man’s waist. Hercules, sensing his young master’s excitement, bounded to his feet.

  Demetrius made a strangled sound. “Have a care, boy! You are soaked through.”

  “Oh!” Marcus sprang away. Rhiannon launched herself at Hercules and barely managed to hold him at bay while Demetrius beat a prudent retreat to the protection of the doorway.

  “Marcus, change your tunic and go to the library at once,” he ordered. “I will await you there.”

  After Marcus left, towing his new companion, Rhiannon wrung out the wet washrags. She was hanging them to dry when Cormac found her.

  “The Roman slept alone last night,” he said. “Surely ye can do better than that.”

  Rhiannon pushed past him. “Leave me be.”

  He caught her arm. “I care not how distasteful ye be finding the task, Rhiannon. Ye are to go to his bed this eve.”

  “I’ll nay lure a man to his death.”

  “He’s a dead man already. Would ye let him be taking your kin to the grave with him?”

  Rhiannon turned and looked down at her brother-in-law, wondering not for the first time how a man so grotesquely undersized could loom so large. “What dealings have ye with the fort quartermaster?” she asked.

>   His gaze narrowed. “Brennus? What ken ye of him?”

  “He wears the torc.”

  “Aye. Fashioned with the serpents of Kernunnos.”

  “Is he your ally? The one who will turn the garrison against Rome?”

  Cormac swore softly. “Keep yer voice down, lass. The less ye be speaking of it, the safer ye will be.” He peered into the kitchen before continuing. “Brennus is descended from the old chieftains of Gaul. He’s a fine warrior, trained by Rome.”

  “All the same, Lucius bested him with ease this morn. How can ye be so sure the garrison will side with Brennus? If they are loyal to Lucius, the siege will be a bloodbath.”

  “The Gauls call Brennus king. They willna be shifting their allegiance. Do yer part, Rhiannon, and this fort will fall quickly enough.” He waddled toward the door, then turned back. “Ye had me almost forgetting. I had a message yesterday.”

  “From Edmyg?”

  “Nay. From Madog.”

  Rhiannon’s heart skipped a beat. “Owein.”

  Cormac grunted. “Glynis died birthing Edmyg’s babe, as yer brother predicted. Owein collapsed when he learned of it. He calls for ye. He needs yer magick.”

  “Madog knows far more of magick than I could ever hope to,” Rhiannon whispered.

  “That may be, but he hasna yer touch, Rhiannon, especially with Owein.” A touch of impatience strengthened his voice. “Madog bids ye deliver the Roman to Edmyg and come as soon as ye can.”

  When she didn’t answer right away, he shook his head. “Do what ye must and then put it from yer mind.”

  “ ’Tis not possible.”

  “Ye are far too softhearted,” Cormac replied, not unkindly. “Do ye remember when ye were a lass and ye mended a bird’s wing, only to have the wee creature die a moon later?”

  Rhiannon nodded.

  “Had ye been truly merciful, ye would have wrung its neck.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Aulus looked like Hades. Prometheus chained to the rock could hardly have looked worse.

  The ghost had become so solid, Lucius could hardly credit the fact that no one but he perceived his brother’s presence. Aulus no longer glided through the air; he staggered through the mud as if weighted by the burden of Atlas. His toga was gone and his tunic hung in limp shreds, revealing a torso covered with angry bruises. A week’s worth of stubble clung to his chin. Blood oozed from a gash on his temple.

  The ghost’s color approached that of a living man. The chill that had prevented Lucius’s approach had evaporated like mist burned away by the morning sun. But most disturbing of all was the specter’s scent, a sickening fusion of vomit, blood, and despair.

  Aulus had reappeared the moment Rhiannon and Marcus had quit the battlement after Lucius’s bout with Brennus. The ghost’s lifelike demeanor had been so startling that Lucius had hardly heard the cheers of the men as they’d saluted his victory. He hadn’t, however, missed the savage glint in Brennus’s eyes as he’d pushed himself out of the mud. Lucius regretted the necessity of humiliating the man in front of the entire garrison, but he’d had little choice in the matter. The quartermaster had ignored his direct order to use practice swords. That was a challenge Lucius couldn’t afford to let pass. And in truth, if the defeat caused Brennus to train that much harder in anticipation of a rematch, so much the better. Vindolanda needed every one of its warriors in top form.

  Aulus staggered into Lucius’s path. Lucius gritted his teeth and drew up short. Stepping neatly to one side, he kept his eyes fixed firmly to the fore as he strode toward his residence. He feared if he caught sight of his brother’s tortured countenance one more time, he wouldn’t have to worry about going mad. He would draw his sword and plunge it into his own belly if only for the slim hope that once he was safely dead, Charon might row him across the River Styx and into oblivion.

  The porter admitted him to the foyer and Lucius nearly knocked the man to the tiles in his haste to slam the door. Yet for all his solidity, Aulus simply plodded through the wood and resumed his post at Lucius’s side.

  The porter cleared his throat. “Is everything all right, my lord?”

  Lucius muttered an oath in place of an answer. The man withdrew hastily.

  A women’s scream pierced the air.

  Lucius darted toward the sound. An enormously fat woman—Aulus’s Roman cook, he thought—tottered on the bench by the courtyard fountain. Her face was contorted with terror. Her hands, knotted into her skirt, shook so badly, Lucius wondered that the fabric of her tunic hadn’t ripped.

  Nosing about at her feet was the apparent source of the woman’s terror. A hulking black dog sniffed at her toes, its ragged tail whipping back and forth. Just beyond, one of the flower beds Rhiannon had so painstakingly weeded lay in ruins, its dirt and greenery strewn across the gravel path. Lucius let out an aggravated sigh. How had the misbegotten canine gotten into the house?

  Rolling mounds of flesh quivered at the cook’s heaving breast as she drew in a great gulp of air. Lucius watched, half fascinated, half repulsed, as she prepared to shatter his ears a second time.

  “Cease!” Lucius spoke a moment too late. His command was lost in the unholy shriek that emerged from the woman’s throat.

  The porter had entered the courtyard on Lucius’s heels and now stood cowering behind him. The rest of the household had also appeared—Candidus from the receiving room, the rest of the slaves from the kitchen. Vetus, clad only in a linen towel, scowled from the entrance to the baths. Even Demetrius had dashed out of the library, scroll in hand, moving faster than Lucius would have thought possible.

  The dog placed one enormous paw on the bench near the cook’s fleshy foot and barked. The woman snatched up the skirt of her long tunic, revealing calves of which Lucius would have preferred to remain ignorant. She screamed a third time, but not one spectator moved to her aid. Apparently none had the courage to interfere with a hulking creature the size of a small bear.

  “For the love of Jupiter,” Lucius muttered, striding forward. He drew up sharply when Aulus staggered into his path, his ghostly mouth open in a silent scream. The scent of fresh blood poured off him. Lucius’s gut heaved.

  Then Rhiannon came into sight at the corner of his vision, her footsteps light on the stairway. She leapt over the bottom step and ran into the garden. Aulus vanished.

  Lucius’s relief at his brother’s disappearance was so intense that he staggered back, nearly falling. By the time he’d recovered his balance, Rhiannon had caught the scruff of the dog’s neck and was tugging furiously. To Lucius’s surprise, the beast allowed her to haul it away from the bench.

  He reached her side just as she’d persuaded the dog to lie down.

  “He won’t hurt you,” Rhiannon was telling the cook. “He’s quite docile.”

  “Did you bring that creature into my house?” Lucius demanded. Rhiannon blinked up at him, but before she could answer, Marcus came running from the direction of the latrine.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, panting. “I just left him for a moment. I won’t do it again.” He threw his arms around the animal’s neck and raised his wide dark eyes to Lucius. “Please don’t send Hercules away.”

  “Hercules?” Lucius asked, dumbfounded. It was about the unlikeliest name for the sorry beast he could imagine. The dog lifted its head and added its appeal to Marcus’s, its tail beating an even rhythm in the dirt.

  “Please, Father?”

  Demetrius camouflaged a chuckle with a cough. Lucius shot the old man a quelling look. The last thing Lucius needed was a flea-bitten monster disrupting his household. He opened his mouth to deny his son’s request.

  The words never came. They died on his tongue when he looked into Rhiannon’s golden eyes.

  “Please, Lucius?” she whispered.

  Her voice, soft and pleading, sent an erotic image spinning through his brain. He imagined her naked on his bed, opening her thighs to him, saying those exact words. He held her gaze and let his desire flow into
his eyes. A slow blush crept up her neck, as if his fantasy had leapt from his mind into hers.

  “Yes,” he said and she colored even more.

  Marcus let out a whoop. “Oh, thank you, Father. I promise Hercules won’t be any trouble.”

  The cook’s eyes bulged. Something akin to a growl issued from her throat, along with a string of profanity as foul as any Lucius had heard during his entire military service. She halted abruptly when he raised his eyebrows at her. With a huff of annoyance, the woman climbed from the bench and maneuvered her bulk toward the kitchens. Her assistants trailed behind, all but cowering in the wake of her fury.

  “No doubt tonight’s dinner will not be worth the effort of eating it,” Demetrius commented.

  The dog’s wet nose touched Lucius’s palm. He bent and scratched its head. The beast collapsed on the ground and offered him its belly. He snorted. “Hercules? Whatever possessed you to call him that, Marcus? This overgrown rag has little hope of honoring his namesake.”

  “I don’t know about that,” his son replied with a cheeky grin. He glanced toward the kitchen. “He’s already vanquished the Erymanthian Boar.”

  Lucius threw back his head and laughed out loud. The cook did indeed bear more than a passing resemblance to one of the legendary hero’s larger foes. He chuckled again and then, without thinking, placed his hand on his son’s shoulder and gave an affectionate squeeze.

  Marcus stiffened, but didn’t pull away. Color crept into his cheeks. Lucius removed his hand abruptly, feeling suddenly foolish. Marcus looked up at him and grinned, his dark eyes glowing with adoration. His expression was a mirror of the one Lucius had so often seen shining forth from Aulus’s face.

  Suddenly it was very difficult to breathe.

  “Just make sure our hero stays out of the kitchen,” he muttered. “Else we may find ourselves on barley rations.”