by Joy Nash
“Quies,” he said again.
She kicked and pain shot through her leg. “Filth!” she snarled in the Roman’s own tongue, glad for the first time that Madog had taught her the foul language. “Take your hands from me.” She tore at his face.
The Roman swore. Catching her wrists in his hands, he pinned them on either side of her head and shifted his torso over her. The sharp edges of his armor cut into her breast. She lay beneath him, chest heaving, caught like a mountain hare in a trap. The thought enraged her. Dear Briga, if only her arrow had pierced his neck instead of his arse! She writhed, cursing, but his hold was sure and his body as steady as an oak.
Her captor looked down at her, a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. The dog dared to mock her? She gathered what moisture she could on her tongue and spat in his face.
His smile vanished into an oath to some Roman god. He hauled her wrists over her head and held them with one hand. He used the other to wipe the spittle from his cheek. His dark eyes never left her face.
“Hurry,” he said.
Rhiannon understood, but couldn’t guess his meaning. Hurry? How, when she lay trapped? Then a second man’s voice emerged from behind the Roman and she realized her captor’s command had not been meant for her.
Hands grasped her wounded leg, bringing a spike of pain so vivid that lights burst in her vision. She gasped, trying to catch enough air to breathe. The Roman barked another word and swung his head to the side.
The sudden movement sent the room spinning.
Lucius gazed at the barbarian woman’s pale face, a stark contrast to the wild flame of her hair. He’d thought her a girl, but now, as he examined his prize more closely, he saw her figure was that of a woman. A sylvan nymph, born of fire and mist.
“She’s fainted,” he said, as if Demetrius didn’t have eyes and ears of his own.
“So I see,” the old Greek replied. With professional precision, he tore the woman’s checkered tunic from waist to hem, completing the rip from the neckline Lucius had begun.
Her breasts were small and exquisite, her navel a gentle dip in the curve of her belly. Lucius’s gaze touched the coppery thatch of hair at the apex of her thighs, but didn’t linger. At the moment, the ugly gash on her leg was a much more compelling sight.
Demetrius dipped a length of linen into the basin of warm water and wine at his elbow. “Thank the gods she’s quiet at last. Now, perhaps, I can attend to my labor in peace.” He wiped the cloth over the wound, clearing the worst of the blood.
Lucius stood, his gaze probing the shadows at the corners of the chamber. Aulus hadn’t reappeared after the battle. Where in Hades had he gone? The irony of Lucius’s reaction didn’t escape him. For half a year he’d sought to banish his brother’s ghost. Now, perversely, Aulus’s absence left him wary.
He rubbed the pounding pulse in his right temple. “Will she live?” he asked, trying not to care.
The physician shrugged without looking up from his task. “She seems strong enough and the cut is not deep.” He drew apart the edges of the wound. A trickle of fresh blood stained his hands.
“Stitch it and be done, then.”
“The wound must be cleared of debris, else it will corrupt. As well you know.” Demetrius’s grizzled eyebrows arched above his hawklike nose as he probed the gash with his fingers.
More blood oozed, streaking over the nymph’s pale skin like veins through marble. Lucius was no stranger to battle injuries, but to see such a wound on a woman …
He looked away.
Demetrius caught the movement and snickered. “The mighty warrior grows faint?”
Lucius glared at him. “I’ve seen far worse.”
“No doubt.” Demetrius threaded a thin strand of sinew through the eye of a bronze needle. “Be of some use to me, boy. Bring that hand lamp closer.”
Lucius obeyed without hesitation. He’d been taking orders from the ancient scholar since childhood. Old habits died hard.
Demetrius pulled the edges of the wound together and made one careful stitch, then another. “I’m glad you sharpened your sword before hacking at her,” he said in a conversational tone. “A ragged edge would have been much harder to close.”
Lucius gripped the lamp and refused to take the bait.
“She spoke in the Roman tongue,” Demetrius continued.
“That’s not surprising. Many Brittunculi do. Her clan must have dealings in the fort village.”
“The barbarians provide grain one day, a spear in the back the next.”
“It’s the way of things on the frontier. Assyria was no different.”
Demetrius finished stitching the wound. He put the needle aside and took up a strip of linen. “Raise her leg, Luc, so I may bind it.”
Lucius set the hand lamp near the basin of water and slid his hands under the nymph’s leg. Her ankle nestled in his left palm, his right hand caressed her thigh. Carefully, so as not to disturb the new stitches, he lifted the wounded limb.
The movement parted her legs, giving him a glimpse of the dark mystery hidden by the triangle of curls guarding her sex. His breath caught and he leaned closer.
“Enough time for drooling once the girl awakens,” Demetrius said with a cackle.
Lucius jerked his head back. The old man’s mirth far outweighed his wit, he thought darkly. Then the barbarian woman sighed and he leaned forward again, his gaze fixed on her face.
Her eyelids fluttered and opened. She stared for a moment, dazed. Then comprehension dawned in her golden eyes and she bucked. Her arm shot forward.
Lucius jumped back, the nymph’s fist missing his jaw by a hairsbreadth. No gentle goddess here. He grabbed her wrist in time to prevent a second attack. “Quiet, little wild thing. I’m not going to hurt you.”
Demetrius chuckled. “She’ll make a lively bed-slave, if you can tame her.”
“Canis!” she hissed. “Roman dog!” She wrenched her head to the side and sank her teeth into his forearm.
Lucius swore. He inserted the fingers of his free hand into her mouth and pressed deep, forcing her to gag. Leaning forward, he pinned her shoulders to the bed and gave her a slight shake.
“Cease, or I will have you bound.”
She stilled. Demetrius shook his gray head. “I suggest you brand her now. She will run when she is able.”
The nymph’s eyes blazed and her head gave a violent shake. The dark flame of her hair had fallen from its braid. It shimmered in waves about her shoulders, obscuring his hands. Her breasts, firm and pink-tipped, heaved with fury.
By the gods, she was magnificent.
He shot a quelling look in Demetrius’s direction. “Your jest lacks humor, old man. You know I never mark my slaves.”
“You’ve marked this one already, boy. That scar won’t fade.” The physician gathered his tools, wiping them carefully with a clean cloth.
Lucius removed his hands from the woman’s shoulders. He straightened but kept his gaze locked with hers, daring her to move. “She brought that wound upon herself.”
Demetrius snorted. “As you say.”
A knock sounded at the door.
“Come,” Lucius called.
Two women entered, carrying clean water and bed linens. The pair, along with more than a dozen others, had been Aulus’s slaves. Now the entire household belonged to Lucius and with them the contents of a richly furnished residence. His brother might have embraced the wilds of Britannia, but he’d been loath to discard the luxuries of Rome.
Lucius watched the slaves set out the bathwater. The Celt nymph scowled at him, then reddened as the older slave woman peeled away the remnants of the checkered tunic. Lucius turned away so as to afford her some semblance of privacy.
The chamber’s single window looked out onto a starless night. From his vantage point on the upper story of the fort commander’s house, he could distinguish the shadowed roofs of the barracks, the northern gate, and the torch-studded rim of the fort’s perimeter wall. A night sentr
y passed on the high battlement, his helmet catching the glare of torchlight. Beyond, silent hills rose on the horizon.
He rested a hand on the window frame. By rights, he should have installed his new slave on a mean cot in the slaves’ quarters. Instead, he had carried the barbarian woman up the narrow stairs and into the room adjoining Aulus’s former bedchamber, now Lucius’s own. Demetrius had raised his eyebrows but had made no comment.
After a moment, Lucius turned back to the physician. The Greek had moved from the nymph’s bedside to a table set before a mural of Cupid and Psyche. His saffron mantle was torn and streaked with blood and his striped tunic had fared little better. Fatigue showed in the line of his shoulders, but his gnarled fingers were steady as he fitted his surgical instruments into a small wooden chest.
The slave women finished their labors. Gathering the soiled linens and water, they looked to Lucius. At his nod, they left the room.
Demetrius caught his gaze. “There are too many others in need of my skills for me to tarry here. I will offer my assistance at the fort hospital.”
Lucius shook his head, but knew any order he gave would be ignored. “Go if you must, but don’t tire yourself unduly. Seek your bed before dawn.”
The heavy oak door thudded shut, leaving him alone with the nymph. Her pallid face put him in mind of his brother’s ghost, who, to Lucius’s great puzzlement, still hadn’t reappeared. He took a step toward the bed. The nymph went rigid, clutching the thin woolen sheet to her chest and staring at Lucius as if he were some foul beast escaped from Tartarus.
Her eyes spit fury, but Lucius did not miss the wash of terror behind her anger. Did she expect he would abuse her? If so, her fear was unfounded. He preferred a willing woman. In the twelve years of his military career he’d sampled the charms of females from every corner of the empire. Not one had left his bed disappointed. This forest nymph might hate him now, but in the end she would welcome him gladly enough.
The embers in the brazier had gone white, leaving the room chilly. Lucius closed the shutters against the night air. The barbarian woman would be calmer after taking her rest. He would send a boy to replenish the coals.
He retrieved a second blanket from an ornate wood chest near the window. The nymph flinched when he wrapped the soft material about her shoulders, but otherwise offered no resistance. Her wounded leg must hurt like Hades, yet no tears filled her eyes. His admiration of her rose another notch.
“Rest,” he said. “We will talk in the morning.”
“You cannot hold me here. My people will come.”
“Your people are counting their dead.”
“As are yours.”
He inclined his head. “But I count also the living.” He leaned closer. She smelled of roses. The slave women must have perfumed her bathwater. Suddenly, Lucius became all too aware of his own aroma—the stink of sweat and battle grime.
He straightened. “I’ve no desire to harm you. Just the opposite.” Then, since he couldn’t bear to leave without touching her, he brushed the back of his hand across her cheek.
She drew a sharp breath, a flicker of something like recognition showing in her eyes. Curious. He’d expected her to strike him again, but instead she’d gone still. Encouraged, he traced a line along her jaw, stroking his thumb under her chin and down the column of her throat. Her eyelids fluttered closed and her lips parted on a quick intake of breath.
His rod stiffened.
His secretary’s voice sounded at the door. “My lord!”
“Yes, Candidus?”
“My lord, you wished to be informed when the porter admitted Tribune Vetus. The tribune awaits you now in the reception chamber.”
Vetus. The man who had penned the improbable account of Aulus’s death. Lucius’s hand dropped to his side. “Tell the tribune I will greet him at once.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Lucius took a step toward the door, then halted and returned to the bed. With a swift movement designed to preclude any protest, he dipped his head and placed a brief kiss on the nymph’s lips. “Until tomorrow.”
She stared up at him, eyes wide, her fingers clutching the edges of her blanket until her knuckles turned white. “I will kill you for that, Roman.”
Her expression was so serious that Lucius couldn’t suppress a smile. “You’re welcome to try, little one. I’ll look forward to it.”
Aulus was waiting outside the chamber door.
Lucius shot him a dark look. “Have you been lurking out here the entire time?”
The specter shrugged.
“Come along, then,” Lucius said in disgust. He headed toward the stairwell at the far end of the upper gallery, navigating the passage by the light of the torches burning in the courtyard garden below. Once on the ground floor, his footsteps slowed outside the reception chamber.
Tribune Vetus lounged in a low chair, his face half turned from the open door. Though dressed in full military uniform, the young patrician somehow managed to project an air of graceful indolence. A bronze goblet rested in his right hand; his left stroked the intricate carvings on the chair’s armrest. A junior officer, two years into his obligatory decade of military service, if Lucius’s memory served.
Aulus glided past Lucius to the threshold and halted, his transparent shoulders nearly filling the doorframe. Lucius eyed his brother uneasily, loath to step through bone-numbing cold to gain entry to the chamber.
Vetus’s head turned. “Aquila. At last. Why do you hover on the threshold like an old woman? Come in, man.”
Lucius took a cautious step forward and let out a sigh of relief when Aulus moved aside. “Salve, Vetus.”
The tribune rose. He was not a tall man, but carried himself as though he were. “I’m relieved to see you unharmed.” He took a closer look at Lucius and frowned. “There’s a private bath in the house. I might suggest you pay it a visit.”
Lucius spread his palms. “A fine suggestion. But as you see, I’ve yet to remove my armor. You’ve been at the hospital?”
“And to the morgue. Rome lost far too many men today.”
“We were ill prepared,” Lucius said bluntly. “The commander at Eburacum assured me the Celts raided in small bands.”
Vetus peered into his goblet. “Yes. Well. Most Celt attacks are erratic affairs.”
“There was nothing erratic about this one. The barbarians numbered fifty men at the least.”
“So I was told.” Vetus took a delicate sip from his cup. “More than one local clan was certainly involved. Very surprising. It’s been my experience that the Brittunculi fight each other more fiercely than they’ve ever battled Rome.”
“They were united today.”
Vetus made a dismissive gesture. “An aberration, I’m sure. They are a wretched, undisciplined people. Hardly worth the trouble of conquering.” He took another draught of wine. “I cannot conceive why the emperor does not abandon this frontier.”
Lucius crossed the room and lifted a pitcher from a granite table carved in the image of an Egyptian temple. “The strength of Rome lies in her victories, not her retreats.”
“Perhaps, but the riches of the East command Trajan’s attention these days. There’s nothing in Britannia outside of a few lead mines.”
Aulus drifted to the far end of the Egyptian table. Lucius considered the hideous piece of furniture. His brother’s previous post had been as tribune in Egypt.
“That monstrosity is heavy enough to put a strain on any wagon axle,” Lucius muttered. “I cannot imagine how or why you transported it north.”
Aulus sent him a repressive look. He stretched out his hand and stroked the red stone lovingly.
“Eh? What did you say, Aquila?”
By Pollux. He’d addressed the ghost in Vetus’s presence, without even being aware of what he was doing. He covered his dismay by splashing wine into an empty goblet. “I said, the land seems fertile enough here in the north.”
Vetus snorted. “If the barbarians would exploi
t their resources, perhaps a man could make a profit. As it is, the natives are content to wallow in the mud. Their largest village is a dismal cluster of sheep-dung huts.” The tribune joined Lucius at the table. “And the winter is as cold as a spinster’s tit. At least Assyria was warm.”
“You were in the East?”
“Attached to the Fourth Legion.” His gaze drifted to the granite table. “I would have preferred Egypt,” he said softly.
“What brought you to Britannia?”
“I arrived late last summer to assess the fortifications from Segedunum to Maia. Seventy-five miles of misery. According to my scouts, a barbarian lurks behind every tree.”
“You didn’t travel the road yourself?”
“Are you mad? I much prefer my head attached to my body than dangling from some Celt war chief’s saddle.”
Lucius regarded the tribune in silence for a long moment. “Your report is complete, then?” he said at last.
“Yes. I’m to deliver it directly to General Hadrian. I’ll leave as soon as an escort can be arranged.”
“I’m afraid I can’t allow that,” Lucius said. At least not before he investigated the circumstances of Aulus’s death.
Vetus’s head shot up, the first swift movement Lucius had seen the man make. “What do you mean?”
“After today’s attack, I must assume the local chieftains have banded together. They could strike again. I won’t be able to spare sufficient men for your safe passage south.”
Vetus swore. “I was to have left a month ago, but the road was flooded.” He refilled his goblet and stared morosely into his wine. “Barely a day passes without rain here. It’s a far cry from the Eastern deserts.” He looked up. “You’ve come lately from Assyria as well, have you not?”
“Yes,” Lucius said. “I commanded the Thirtieth Legion.”
“You left a prestigious post to come north. A step in the wrong direction, most would say. All of Rome expected you to claim your father’s seat in the Senate after his death last year.”
Lucius could hardly reveal that a ghost’s urgings had brought him to Vindolanda. “I came to retrieve my brother’s belongings.”