Celtic Fire
Prologue
Northern Britannia, 116 A.D.
The Roman refused to die.
His screams spiked through the clearing, but any who might have come to his aid were beyond the echoes of his cries. He spun, staggering, his fingers clenched on the iron blade jutting from his belly. The sword’s hilt protruded from his back.
He reeled toward Rhiannon, then away, his bare feet slapping the ground. His naked torso jerked and shuddered. Blood trickled down his chin. Gurgled words followed.
Curse or prayer?
Rhiannon drew her cloak tightly about her shoulders. She understood the harsh language of the conquerors, but could make no sense of the man’s garbled speech. Whatever his entreaty, it went unanswered. Jupiter, mightiest of the Roman gods, had forgotten his son this day.
The doomed man tottered forward, one hand extended. Rhiannon wrenched her gaze away and sought peace in the cool mist of the forest. Soft tufts of mistletoe clung to the autumn branches of the sacred oaks, but by the light of the setting sun the crimson foliage reminded her of nothing so much as blood.
If only the prisoner did not have to die …
A futile wish. The man was a Roman wolf—his life was forfeit to Kernunnos, the Horned God. She’d come with the whole of her clan to witness her enemy’s death. Yet if the choice had been hers to make, she would have set him free.
As if sensing her compassion, his soul tangled with hers, desperate, pleading. Her heart cleaved in two. Because Rhiannon had a healer’s skill, her spirit often intertwined with those in pain. This Roman’s touch was something more. Something she couldn’t name.
Her heart broke as he loosed another keening cry. The wail shriveled to a groan, then a whisper. His body swayed. Shouts rose as Rhiannon’s kin pressed forward, eager to witness death’s victory. Would the enemy die looking at the sky, calling vengeance down upon his tormentors? Or would his mouth fill with dirt, foretelling the triumph of the clan?
Madog stepped to the fore, his pale cloak washed red in the glow of the sunset. Rhiannon had begged the Druid master to excuse her from the Rite of the Old Ones, but he’d refused. The freedom of the Brigantes hinged on his interpretation of the Roman commander’s death dance. Rhiannon was the tribe’s rightful queen. Her presence lent power to the augury.
The Roman sank to his knees. Madog circled behind, his gaze intent. The doomed man pitched forward and clutched Rhiannon’s hem. She gasped and yanked at her skirt, but the Roman’s fingers entwined in the wool and would not be dislodged.
“Tell him,” he whispered on a groan; then his body went limp and he spoke no more.
Madog grasped the hilt of the killing sword with both hands. With a strength that belied his age, he heaved it overhead. Blood trickled down his bare arms.
“Kernunnos, the Horned One, is well pleased with his prize.”
Chapter One
Assyria, Kalends of Januarius, 117 A.D.
“A real ghost wouldn’t have to piss.”
Lucius Ulpius Aquila skimmed a glance over the apparition hovering near his left elbow. The specter dropped the hem of its tunic, an apologetic smile playing about its pallid lips. Executing a graceful turn, it glided to a nearby boulder where an ethereal white mantle lay neatly folded. The transparent linen rippled in the desert air, passing under the figure’s right arm and over its left shoulder. Pale fingers adjusted the garment’s creases with utmost delicacy.
“And a real ghost certainly would not concern itself with the drape of its toga,” Lucius observed.
The specter’s shoulders lifted in a familiar, self-deprecating shrug. Lucius’s chest tightened. The hallucination had been a faceless phantom when it first appeared two months before, but with each passing day its features and mannerisms grew more recognizable. Yet even if Lucius believed souls could drift out of Hades, Aulus could hardly come to haunt him.
Aulus was alive.
“You are a product of the desert sun,” Lucius said, forcing a conversational tone. “Or perhaps the result of some Assyrian spice. A few more days and you’ll be gone.”
The apparition shook its head. It waved one hand toward Lucius, then gestured to the northwest. Aulus commanded a small frontier fort countless miles away in that precise direction.
“You wish me to journey north?”
The ghost nodded vigorously.
Lucius steeled himself. “To Britannia?”
The specter extended its right arm, fist clenched, thumb raised.
A chill raced up Lucius’s spine. He closed his eyes and willed the apparition to vanish, but when he dared another look, it remained, regarding him with an expectant expression.
By Pollux. Was he losing his mind?
He wheeled about and strode toward the camp. Twilight had taken over the Assyrian desert with merciful swiftness, bringing blessed relief from the blistering heat. But far away, winter ice encased the forests of Britannia. When the ghost drifted closer, the chill of the northlands seeped into Lucius’s bones.
Northern Britannia, 116 A.D.
The Roman refused to die.
His screams spiked through the clearing, but any who might have come to his aid were beyond the echoes of his cries. He spun, staggering, his fingers clenched on the iron blade jutting from his belly. The sword’s hilt protruded from his back.
He reeled toward Rhiannon, then away, his bare feet slapping the ground. His naked torso jerked and shuddered. Blood trickled down his chin. Gurgled words followed.
Curse or prayer?
Rhiannon drew her cloak tightly about her shoulders. She understood the harsh language of the conquerors, but could make no sense of the man’s garbled speech. Whatever his entreaty, it went unanswered. Jupiter, mightiest of the Roman gods, had forgotten his son this day.
The doomed man tottered forward, one hand extended. Rhiannon wrenched her gaze away and sought peace in the cool mist of the forest. Soft tufts of mistletoe clung to the autumn branches of the sacred oaks, but by the light of the setting sun the crimson foliage reminded her of nothing so much as blood.
If only the prisoner did not have to die …
A futile wish. The man was a Roman wolf—his life was forfeit to Kernunnos, the Horned God. She’d come with the whole of her clan to witness her enemy’s death. Yet if the choice had been hers to make, she would have set him free.
As if sensing her compassion, his soul tangled with hers, desperate, pleading. Her heart cleaved in two. Because Rhiannon had a healer’s skill, her spirit often intertwined with those in pain. This Roman’s touch was something more. Something she couldn’t name.
Her heart broke as he loosed another keening cry. The wail shriveled to a groan, then a whisper. His body swayed. Shouts rose as Rhiannon’s kin pressed forward, eager to witness death’s victory. Would the enemy die looking at the sky, calling vengeance down upon his tormentors? Or would his mouth fill with dirt, foretelling the triumph of the clan?
Madog stepped to the fore, his pale cloak washed red in the glow of the sunset. Rhiannon had begged the Druid master to excuse her from the Rite of the Old Ones, but he’d refused. The freedom of the Brigantes hinged on his interpretation of the Roman commander’s death dance. Rhiannon was the tribe’s rightful queen. Her presence lent power to the augury.
The Roman sank to his knees. Madog circled behind, his gaze intent. The doomed man pitched forward and clutched Rhiannon’s hem. She gasped and yanked at her skirt, but the Roman’s fingers entwined in the wool and would not be dislodged.
“Tell him,” he whispered on a groan; then his body went limp and he spoke no more.
Madog grasped the hilt of the killing sword with both hands. With a strength that belied his age, he heaved it overhead. Blood trickled down his bare arms.
“Kernunnos, the Horned One, is well pleased with his prize.”
Chapter One
Assyria, Kalends of Januarius, 117 A.D.
“A real ghost wouldn’t have to piss.”
Lucius Ulpius Aquila skimmed a glance over the apparition hovering near his left elbow. The specter dropped the hem of its tunic, an apologetic smile playing about its pallid lips. Executing a graceful turn, it glided to a nearby boulder where an ethereal white mantle lay neatly folded. The transparent linen rippled in the desert air, passing under the figure’s right arm and over its left shoulder. Pale fingers adjusted the garment’s creases with utmost delicacy.
“And a real ghost certainly would not concern itself with the drape of its toga,” Lucius observed.
The specter’s shoulders lifted in a familiar, self-deprecating shrug. Lucius’s chest tightened. The hallucination had been a faceless phantom when it first appeared two months before, but with each passing day its features and mannerisms grew more recognizable. Yet even if Lucius believed souls could drift out of Hades, Aulus could hardly come to haunt him.
Aulus was alive.
“You are a product of the desert sun,” Lucius said, forcing a conversational tone. “Or perhaps the result of some Assyrian spice. A few more days and you’ll be gone.”
The apparition shook its head. It waved one hand toward Lucius, then gestured to the northwest. Aulus commanded a small frontier fort countless miles away in that precise direction.
“You wish me to journey north?”
The ghost nodded vigorously.
Lucius steeled himself. “To Britannia?”
The specter extended its right arm, fist clenched, thumb raised.
A chill raced up Lucius’s spine. He closed his eyes and willed the apparition to vanish, but when he dared another look, it remained, regarding him with an expectant expression.
By Pollux. Was he losing his mind?
He wheeled about and strode toward the camp. Twilight had taken over the Assyrian desert with merciful swiftness, bringing blessed relief from the blistering heat. But far away, winter ice encased the forests of Britannia. When the ghost drifted closer, the chill of the northlands seeped into Lucius’s bones.