Celtic Fire

by Joy Nash

  “True enough, but I’m not in the habit of forcing women into my bed, slave or free.”

  She forced a laugh. “You’re a Roman.” She let her contempt show in her eyes. “A defiler.”

  His hand dropped from her cheek. He placed his palms on the bed, one on either side of her body and leaned close, so close that his hot breath grazed her neck, though he didn’t touch her.

  “I am a man, like any other.”

  A man. Niall’s face, twisted with lust, flashed before her eyes. How many times had she lain beneath her husband as he took his pleasure with no thought to hers? “I know the ways of men, Roman.”

  He caught a strand of her hair and let it slide between his fingers. “Do you, my nymph?”

  “Yes. They sate their needs with a few quick thrusts. Afterwards, they run to their mugs and boast.”

  He frowned.

  Rhiannon closed her eyes, berating herself for her quick tongue. She’d wanted to buy herself time in the hope that she could contact Cormac before the Roman forced himself on her. Instead she’d provoked her captor past any man’s patience. She braced herself for his assault. He would press her into the cushions and part her legs. She would fight, but in the end she would not escape his lust.

  “A few quick thrusts?” His incredulous whisper stroked her ear. “Not all men expire so soon, little one. You and I will enjoy a far more leisurely lovemaking.” He drew back slightly and captured her with his dark gaze. “First I’ll explore you with my fingertips, learning your body until it becomes as familiar as my own. Then I’ll lower my lips to your sweet flesh. Your scent will fill my nostrils. I’ll savor your taste on my tongue until you writhe beneath me.”

  His words were as heady as the wine Rhiannon had tasted earlier. They poured like sparkling heat through her veins. Taste her? Dear Briga! Surely he did not mean …

  She shifted, trying to assuage the restless ache that had sprung up between her thighs. What was happening to her? Neither Edmyg’s words nor his touch had ever provoked such a reaction.

  Lucius’s voice dipped low and she found herself leaning forward, closer to his heat. Still, he did not touch her.

  “Your moans will be sweet music in my ears, your fingertips like fire on my skin,” he whispered. “My flesh will harden, longing to find its home within you.”

  The words painted a vivid image in Rhiannon’s mind.

  Instinctively she reached for him, if only to steady herself on the strength of his body.

  He stepped back. Cool air rushed over her skin. The door closed with a soft thud, leaving her alone.

  Rosebushes hardly belonged in Britannia.

  Lucius leaned on the wooden rail opposite the nymph’s chamber door and looked down into the courtyard below. Clusters of bare canes, studded with thorns, ringed a small fountain pool. In Rome, no doubt, gardens were already resplendent with roses. Here in Britannia, the first tentative leaves had scarcely begun to unfurl.

  A flicker of white settled beside him.

  “The roses are too large for you to have brought them with you three years ago,” he commented without turning his head. Aulus had reappeared the instant he’d emerged from the nymph’s chamber.

  “One of our hapless predecessors must have transported the shrubs north for his wife.” Lucius snorted. “I hope she polished his sword well for his trouble.”

  He turned in time to catch his brother’s answering grin. His heart slammed in his chest at the familiar sight. Lucius would have given much to be able to throw his arm around Aulus’s shoulders, but the chill that accompanied the specter kept him from closing the distance between them.

  He pushed himself back from the railing. “Why do you stay away from the nymph?”

  Aulus shrugged.

  “Ah, so I am right, you are avoiding her. Why?”

  Aulus looked away, into the courtyard, as if studying the roses.

  “Perhaps,” Lucius mused as he paced toward his chamber, “you wish to afford me a modicum of privacy at last. Jupiter knows I’ve been loath to bed a woman in your presence.” He paused to shoot a glare at his brother. “Though I suspect you wouldn’t have protested.”

  Aulus glanced back at the nymph’s door and smirked.

  Lucius’s own gaze followed his brother’s. His rod was still hard from his encounter with Rhiannon; he’d barely escaped the room without ravishing her. He’d approached her too soon, of course. Too soon for both of them. He’d been intending to allow her a few days to become accustomed to her new situation, but he’d found himself unable to stay away.

  Rhiannon. She was as mysterious as the forest from which she’d sprung. She brought to mind fingers of mist sifting through the trees, beckoning him to explore wild places he had never known. He was as eager to taste her as a man dying of thirst was to drink from a mountain spring. She’d been gloriously savage in her resistance to him—how much more so would she be in surrender?

  His mind raced with plans for her seduction, his rod springing upward once again. He would gentle her like a new colt, drawing her closer each day, until she rested in his arms. He had no doubt of his ultimate success. Women varied little from one end of the empire to the other. They were creatures of sensation, susceptible to flattery. Rhiannon would revel in his endearments and the luxuries a civilized household provided. And she would no doubt enjoy making love to a man who lasted beyond a few swift thrusts.

  He crossed the threshold to his bedchamber. Aulus drifted in behind before Lucius could shut the door. The room was crowded with Egyptian-styled furniture even more hideous than the table in the receiving chamber. A wide bed, another table, a padded bench. A tall cabinet opened to reveal trinkets, jewelry and small works of art.

  A golden chain hung with a perfect teardrop of amber caught his attention. The color reminded him of Rhiannon’s eyes.

  “Just how many wagonloads of useless items did you bring to Britannia?” he asked Aulus.

  Aulus, of course, gave no response. He floated about, inspecting the corners of the chamber as if lately returned from a long holiday. Lucius sighed and reached for his armor. He fastened the hammered metal over his short war tunic and cinched his war belt about his waist. He slid his battle dagger into its sheath.

  His hand closed next on his sword. The hilt was fashioned in the shape of a wolf s head, the emblem both of Lucius’s family name—Ulpius—and of the Roman Empire itself. The artist who had crafted it had been clever—the blade seemed to spring from the beast’s jaws.

  “Do you remember when you gave me this?” he asked Aulus, rubbing his thumb along the gilded edge of the cross guard. “It was on my twenty-second … no,” he amended, “my twenty-third birthday, when you had but fifteen years. Seven years ago. You told me I was the warrior, you the dreamer. I was to buy you a new translation of Homer for your birthday.”

  Had he done so? Lucius couldn’t remember. He thought not.

  He moved one jerky step to the low table on which the contents of his toilet kit lay scattered. He dragged a comb through his hair, then slid it into its leather case. With careful precision, he retrieved the other items one by one and fitted them into their proper slots in the polished wooden toiletry case. Razor and strop. Toothpick. Tweezers. A small mirror of polished silver.

  He looked up from his task to find Aulus watching him with sad eyes. “I grew to manhood basking in your adoration,” he said, his chest constricting painfully. “Was there ever a time when I didn’t take your love for granted?”

  His throat burned. He swallowed hard and closed the toiletry case, taking care to fit the corners in place despite the slight tremor in his hands. He lifted his crested Legionary helmet and left the room, too cowardly to dare another glance at the ghost drifting by his side.

  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 h
e 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.