Celtic Fire(10)

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.