Celtic Fire(102)

“I climbed back onto the roof. I saw the bastards bring you from the western gate tower. I climbed to the roof of the bathing room and jumped across the alley to the headquarters roof. I had to wait for the yard to clear before I could free you. I was so afraid that …” He swallowed and cut through the last of the rope. “The guards only just fell asleep,” he said as if anticipating a reprimand.

Lucius rubbed the feeling back into his arms. “You’re a brave one, Marcus. I’m proud to call you my son.” He took the stolen dagger and crept toward the sleeping traitors who had been his guards. With ruthless efficiency, he slit the throats of the two men. He relieved the first of his war belt, sword, mail shirt, and helmet.

He strung the dead soldier up on the post as best he could with the cut ropes. With luck, he and Marcus would be long gone before the deception was noted. He stripped the second man’s gear for Marcus, rejecting the sword as too heavy. The boy was tall for his age. With Fortuna’s favor, he would pass without question.

He donned the first guard’s mail and tested his sword. It was not as finely wrought as Lucius’s own, but it would do. “Stay close,” he told Marcus. “But don’t crouch. Try to walk with a swagger.”

He picked his way around the unconscious men sprawled in the yard, pausing at the gate to peer into the street. To the left, a rowdy cluster of soldiers played at dice near the west gate. “This way,” he whispered to Marcus, moving to his right.

“But Rhiannon …”

Lucius’s jaw clenched. “What of her?”

“I saw the quartermaster take her to the residence. We have to get her out.”

“We don’t. She knew of the attack. Helped plan it, most likely. She’s with Brennus of her own accord.”

“She’s not! He nearly had to drag her to the door. He’ll hurt her.”

Lucius’s resolve wavered, then hardened anew. Rhiannon was not some barbarian peasant girl in need of rescue. By Pollux, she was the hidden queen Aulus had written of in his history. She had fled his protection, then rallied her people to the sword. It was clear where her loyalties lay.

“We’ll not endanger our escape for a barbarian woman,” he told Marcus. “She’s chosen her path.”

“But Father, we must rescue her! She’s my friend.”

“No. It’s not our concern.”

A drunken soldier chose that moment to stumble into the road from the alley between the headquarters and the residence. He shoved past Lucius, barely sparing him a glance as he lifted his tunic and relieved himself against the wall. His need taken care of, he stumbled toward the group at the west gate.

Lucius shoved Marcus in the opposite direction. “Go.”

The boy dug in his heels. “No.”

“Marcus …”

“She doesn’t want him! She wants you. You have to get her out.” He darted toward the residence door. Lucius cursed and ran after him, setting his jaw against the pain that shouted from his ribs.

He caught Marcus by the scruff of the neck. “We are not going in there.”

“We have to! You told me yourself that a Roman fights with honor. What honor is there in crawling out of the fort gates and leaving a helpless woman behind?”

Lucius snorted. “Rhiannon is hardly helpless. She—”

A woman’s angry voice cut into the night from the high window directly above Lucius’s head.

Rhiannon.

Gaius Brennus answered with a snarl. “Ye’ll not deny me, woman. Remove your tunic.”

Lucius’s fury exploded. He looked down at Marcus. The boy’s eyes had gone wide with fear. “All right,” he said. “We’ll save her. Keep your dagger close and follow me.”



“Ye’ll not deny me, woman.”

Brennus had returned just as Owein was leaving. Rhiannon cursed her luck soundly. Somehow she had to get out and free Lucius. She had little time to waste before her brother located a pony on which to carry his captive to the Druid circle.

“Remove your tunic.”

“I told ye, I canna lie with ye this night. ’Twill be several days at least.” She dropped her chin a bit, feigning embarrassment. “The moon flux …”

Brennus gave her a scowl and half turned away. He unsheathed his dagger and Lucius’s sword and flung the weapons onto a long stone table. His war belt clattered to the floor. Rhiannon watched with growing unease as his mail shirt followed it.

He faced her, wearing only a dirty shirt and torn braccas, the laces straining with his arousal. “Unclothe yourself.”

“Nay,” Rhiannon said, fighting the urge to step back. “I would not dishonor ye so.”