by Joy Nash
Dear Briga. Aulus’s soul clung to his brother’s side and Lucius suspected she was to blame. He wasn’t so far from the truth. She’d awoken at dawn, chilled to her soul, choking for breath.
She’d found Lucius gone. She knew she should be glad of it, but she was not.
Tell him. Aulus’s dying plea echoed in her skull. Had he been speaking of Lucius? Did he haunt his brother now, hoping to draw him to the Druid circle, where his skull rode the point of a wooden spike? Unless that skull was buried, neither brother would have peace.
What she’d told Lucius was only part of the truth. She knew no spell to banish his brother’s ghost, but she knew how to release Aulus from his gruesome prison. Lucius had only to bury the skull in some secret place, far from Madog’s influence. Such a simple task, yet he would never perform it. She would not lead a Roman sword into the soft belly of her kin. By rights she should lead him to his death.
Her knuckles went white on the handle of her knife. She was born of a long line of queens, many of whom would not have hesitated to deliver their enemies to the sword. Yet she knew she could not bear to watch Lucius suffer in the Druid circle as his brother had. She would sooner slit his throat with her own hand.
“Have you a knowledge of herbs?”
She dropped the blade and whipped her head around.
Magister Demetrius’s black eyes frowned down on her. “Are you feeling quite well, child? Your wound has not putrefied, has it?”
“No,” she said faintly, shoving a damp lock of hair from her eyes. “It’s healing quite well. You startled me, that is all.”
To her surprise, the old man adjusted his elegant mantle and hunkered down at her side. His age-spotted fingers touched the thin leaves she’d just settled in their new nest. “I am unfamiliar with this herb. What is it called?”
“Meadowsweet. It eases pain. I’ve moved it from the shade. It prefers a sunny location.”
Demetrius uttered a gruff sound that might have been a laugh. “If that is true, you should waste no time in carrying it to Greece. I vow Apollo has not shown his face in Britannia for more than a few hours since I set foot on the island.”
“ ’Tis the season for rain,” Rhiannon said. “The sun will show itself once summer is here.”
“One can only hope.” He straightened, pressing one hand against his back. Rhiannon rose quickly and offered him her arm. He took it, his lips curving in a genuine smile at odds with his weathered features. “Lucius tells me you are a healer.”
“I am,” she said, wondering what else Lucius had told him.
“Are you skilled in herb lore?”
“Yes.” She moved her hand from his arm. “There are many healing plants here. I wonder who planted them.”
“Lucius’s brother, most likely.”
“Truly?”
He nodded. “Aulus loved to tend his garden.”
“Did he have a healer’s hand?” Perhaps that was why his soul had touched hers so readily.
“No.” Demetrius’s smile was sad. “But not for lack of instruction on my part. He had no interest in crushing roots and steeping teas. He preferred to capture the rose with his pen.”
She gave the thorny canes a doubtful glance.
“Ah, you have never seen a rose in bloom, I imagine.” He pointed to the thorn bushes. “They do not grow wild in Britannia. These were brought from Rome.”
“Why would anyone bother to transport shrubs as ugly as those such a long way?”
Demetrius chuckled. “They are not much to look at now, I’ll grant you that, but come summer, the thorns will be hidden by flowers too numerous to count. The scent of them will fill the air.”
“That is hard to imagine.”
“Wait and see,” Demetrius replied and Rhiannon felt her gut clench. If Edmyg’s siege was successful, there would be no summer garden.
“There is a plot in the fort hospital,” Demetrius was saying. “Planted with herbs I’ve never seen. Perhaps you would accompany me there and tell me of their uses.”
Rhiannon’s eyes widened. She’d tried this morning to leave Lucius’s house, but had been denied by the porters at both the front and rear doors. Now the perfect opportunity had presented itself. If she could gain an idea of Vindolanda’s layout, she could figure an escape plan without Cormac’s help.
“I’m most happy to help you, if it means I may leave this house.” As soon as the words left her lips she wished she could call them back. Would the healer suspect she meant to escape?
Demetrius only chuckled. “Lucius should know better than to expect a wild bird to be happy in a cage,” he said. “Though I fear the trip to the hospital will not be a pleasant affair. Shall we go now? Marcus is translating a passage from Aristotle’s discourse on metaphysics. That should give us plenty of time,” he added dryly.
As if on cue, Marcus’s head appeared from behind the low wall encircling the fountain. “If you please, Magister, might I accompany you and Rhiannon to the hospital? I should be glad to learn of medicine rather than metaphysics today.”
Rhiannon hid a smile as the healer glowered at his young charge. “How long have you been crouching in the dirt?”
“Not long. I had to use the latrine.”
“Again?”
“I heard you ask Rhiannon to visit the hospital,” the lad persisted. “May I go with you? I promise not to get in your way.”
Demetrius let out a long-suffering sigh. “Go back to your studies, young Marcus. The hospital is rife with fever. Your father would have my head if you were to fall ill.”
Rhiannon exited the house with the healer. The wide, graveled path beyond the door was no wilderness trail, but the rush of freedom Rhiannon felt upon stepping into the open air was keen. A slice of sky arched over the road. Swallows were diving dizzy circles through it, their plaintive cries carrying on the breeze.
A pair of soldiers strolled by, eyeing Rhiannon curiously before nodding to Demetrius and moving on. The healer guided her past a massive building he described as the fort’s headquarters. Two guards stood at attention before its gated entrance.
“What lies beyond the headquarters?”
“Barracks to the north,” Demetrius replied. “To the south, granaries, stables, and workshops.” Rhiannon fixed the location of each building in her memory. Such information might prove useful.
“The fort village lies beyond the south gate,” Demetrius said.
She knew as much from Cormac’s description. “Do the soldiers guard the village as well as the fort?” she asked casually.
Demetrius nodded. “Many have families living there. Not legally, mind you, since only officers may marry. Ah, here we are.”
The hospital was a wide, squat structure in the shadow of Vindolanda’s western gate. Inside, the odor of illness hung in the air. The groans issuing from the sickrooms roused Rhiannon’s sympathy. She’d never been able to shield her heart from others’ suffering. It mattered not that the afflicted were her enemies.
A soldier hurried forward to meet Demetrius, sparing Rhiannon the briefest of glances. “Medicus, the man you examined yesterday is worse.”
Demetrius’s brows furrowed. “In what way?”
“He shakes, then goes rigid. His skin is covered with welts as fine as sand and he burns with fever.”
“Did you place him away from the others as I ordered?”
“Yes, Medicus. This way.”
Demetrius waved Rhiannon back when she started to follow. “You need not accompany me—see to the garden.” He indicated an open gate, beyond which lay an unkempt plot. “I will come to you when I finish with my patient.”
Rhiannon hesitated. The medic had described an illness similar to one that had swept through her village last summer after a traveling peddler had taken ill. Perhaps she could be of help.
But Demetrius had already turned away. Rhiannon stifled the urge to go after him. The health of a Roman soldier was no concern of hers—indeed, she should wish for his demise rathe
r than his recovery. But though the faceless man was her enemy, Rhiannon found she could not despise him.
She passed through the gate into the walled court that enclosed the hospital garden. The layout was smaller and more utilitarian than the courtyard in Lucius’s residence and boasted no fountain. Rhiannon was relieved to see no soldiers about.
Judging from the condition of the plots, the garden received few visitors. Weeds overran the herbs and choked the narrow paths. Rhiannon waded through the chaos, picking out familiar remedies—coltsfoot and horehound for cough, foxglove for chest pain, mugwort to purify the sickroom. Silverweed for fever, but when the peddler’s illness had afflicted the dun, silverweed alone had not been sufficient to quell both the fever and convulsions. Only mistletoe cut from the sacred grove had eased the malady. Even so, several of the elders and two of the children had died.
Footsteps crunched on the gravel behind her. She turned, expecting to see Demetrius, but the newcomer was not the healer returning from his ministrations. A soldier stood watching her, his eyes shaded by the jutting visor on his helmet. He was tall and broad-shouldered—of a size with Edmyg, Rhiannon guessed. His mail shirt molded his torso as if it were a part of him. His beard was clipped short, but its relative neatness did little to quell the subtle threat Rhiannon perceived in his stance. He projected the menace of a predator waiting to pounce.
A shudder raced through her. She straightened, holding her ground as he approached, his step quiet despite his bulk. When at last he stood before her, the glint of a gold torc at his neck caught her attention. It was old and finely wrought with terminals in the shape of horned serpents’ heads. A symbol, along with the stag, of the Horned God, Kernunnos.
She blinked in astonishment. “What manner of Roman soldier wears the torc of a Celtic king?”
“Ye are the woman the commander captured in battle,” the man replied. It was not a question.
She made no reply.
With a swift motion, he caught her chin in his hand. When Rhiannon tried to twist her head, his grip tightened.
“Let go!” She kicked, striking his knee.
“I enjoy a woman with some fire about her,” he said, unmoved by her struggle.
He caught her wrists and shoved her against the garden wall, pinning her arms above her head and trapping her lower body with his hips. His arousal, hot and hard beneath the leather strips of his war belt, pressed into her belly.
She gave a cry of dismay and tried to free herself, but his fingers only tightened. He gave her no quarter, transferring both her wrists to one of his powerful hands. The other found her breast and palmed it through the thin fabric of her tunic. His fingers tightened on her nipple and his hips jerked against hers with short, brutal thrusts.
His breath, sour with cervesia, came hot on Rhiannon’s neck. Her stomach lurched. She struggled again, then stilled when she realized her movements only increased his excitement. “Take your foul hands from me,” she said from between clenched teeth. “Or I will scream.”
In reply, he covered her mouth with his, thrusting his tongue deep. Rhiannon gagged and fought anew. When he withdrew for a breath, she clamped her teeth on his lower lip and bit as hard as her jaw allowed.
He jerked his head back and swore. His fingers squeezed her wrists with a punishing grip as he wiped the back of his free hand across his mouth, catching a trickle of blood. His lips curved in the parody of a smile. The expression chilled Rhiannon more than his anger had done.
“A firebrand,” he said, his cock hardening even more against her stomach. “Cormac told me as much. Yet I had to see for myself.”
“Cormac? What has he—”
The sound of voices cut off her words. Abruptly, the soldier released her and stepped away.
Demetrius and the fort medic appeared in the doorway. Upon sighting Rhiannon’s attacker, the medic came to attention and saluted. “Quartermaster. I did not know you were here. How may I help you?”
Rhiannon’s attacker nodded to the footsoldier. “At ease.” He turned to Demetrius. “Medicus. How fares your patient?”
Demetrius’s voice was grave. “Worse, and three more have fallen to the same illness. I will do my best to heal them, but the fever comes on like a Fury. I promise nothing.”
“I understand. Nevertheless, we are fortunate to have the benefit of your wisdom.” He turned to the medic. “Commander Aquila requests a full account of the garrison’s health status. Have your report in my office before the seventh hour.”
“Yes, sir.”
His gaze raked over Rhiannon with an air of carnal propriety, leaving her with an urge to scrub her skin until the memory of his touch faded. The brute nodded once more to Demetrius, then turned on his heel and strode from the garden. The medic trailed after him.
“Who is that man?” she asked Demetrius once he’d gone.
“Gaius Brennus, the fort’s quartermaster.”
“An officer?”
The healer nodded. “Lucius’s second-in-command.” His gaze narrowed. “Did he interfere with you?”
“No,” Rhiannon replied quickly. Cormac had spoken about her to the brute. That fact rankled, but she could not afford to accuse the foul-breathed officer of misconduct without knowing what sort of association he had with her brother-in-law.
“He is not Roman,” she said.
“Not a citizen, but he serves the Empire as his father did before him. He is a Gaul from Belgica, as are most of the soldiers stationed here.” He pointed to the first garden bed. “Shall we begin?”
Rhiannon spent the next few hours identifying the herbs in the hospital garden, hardly aware of the information she imparted. Her mind spun with the implications of Brennus’s acquaintance with Cormac. She’d thought the prospect of mutiny unlikely, but now doubt crept into her mind. Gaulish Celts manned Vindolanda. Perhaps, despite their allegiance to Rome, they had not forgotten their blood.
Chapter Ten
Night fell grudgingly in the northlands, coming late and creeping through the sky like a thief. Lucius rubbed one hand over his eyes as Candidus lit a lamp against the gathering gloom in the headquarters office. Aulus paced behind the secretary, the hem of his shredded toga trailing across the floor. The bruises on his face had turned a mottled purple over the white sheen of his skin. Lucius wished Rhiannon were here to banish him.
I’ll promise you tomorrow. His own words haunted him as thoroughly as Aulus did. Was Rhiannon waiting for him as night fell and the house grew still? If she was, why was Lucius dictating correspondence in the fort headquarters office in an effort to avoid her?
Lucius had an uneasy suspicion that the reason was fear. He tidied the stack of wood tablets on his desk, checked the cap on the inkwell, then lined up his writing instruments in a neat row.
“—ready to continue, my lord?”
Lucius refocused on Candidus. The secretary had reinked his stylus and was holding the pen’s sharpened nib poised above the shaved wood tablet, waiting for Lucius’s reply.
“Where was I?” he asked.
“Your last words were, ‘In summary, I find the garrison at Vindolanda to be in a deplorable state.’ ”
“Yes. Continue with, ‘In light of the increased barbarian threat, I request immediate deployment of reinforcements from Eburacum, numbering no less than eighty men.’ ” Little good the request would do, for Lucius knew the commander at Eburacum did not have a full century’s worth of men to spare. Still, perhaps forty might be sent. Provided the messengers bearing the letter managed to reach the fortress.
A young foot soldier approached the doorway, requesting entrance.
“Come,” Lucius said. The man moved forward and placed a clay mug at Lucius’s elbow. “The refreshment you requested, sir.”
Lucius lifted the mug and without looking took a long draught. The next instant he choked, spewing a putrid yellow froth across the desktop.
“What swill is this?” he thundered.
The young foot soldier took several
steps backward. “Cervesia, sir.”
“Tastes like piss,” Lucius muttered. “Looks like it, too. Have you no wine about?”
“No, sir.”
Lucius thrust the mug in the man’s direction. “Get this out of here.” He turned to Candidus, who was already mopping the desk with a rag. “Fetch meat and drink from the residence.”
The secretary straightened. “I’ll go at once, my lord, if you wish, but the correspondence is complete. Why not quit your office for the night?”
Why not indeed? He watched Aulus limp to the doorway, pivot, then start back across the room.
I’ll promise you tomorrow.
Lucius might as well have promised Rhiannon his soul, for he suspected that was what he would lose if he touched her again. She knew of Aulus. She’d seen Lucius frightened, nearly sobbing. That fact alone should have made him despise her, but just the opposite had happened. His uncharacteristic vulnerability had loosed something inside him that had long lain buried. He ached for Rhiannon even more than before.
He felt his control slip with every notch his desire rose. Once he gave in to his yearning and lost himself in her arms, he would be completely ensnared in her witch’s spell.
The thought terrified him.
“My lord? Shall I put away my pen?”
“No. I wish to dictate another letter, to the governor at Londinium. I’ll proceed once you return with our supper.”
The vision coalesced slowly, gaining form and depth by slow degrees until it claimed more solidity than the ground beneath Owein’s knees. It burned with fervor, like the heat that rolled in merciless waves from Madog’s fire. The scent of blood hung in the air as the flames leapt into the night sky. Hideous wails filled the Druid circle—wind in the trees, or the spirits of those long dead? Owein didn’t know, didn’t question.
Madog’s voice creaked like winter branches. “Look into the past this night, lad. See what horrors the Romans visited upon the sacred Isle of Mona fifty long years ago. See what must be avenged.”