Celtic Fire(12)

“Yes,” Lucius said. “I commanded the Thirtieth Legion.”

“You left a prestigious post to come north. A step in the wrong direction, most would say. All of Rome expected you to claim your father’s seat in the Senate after his death last year.”

Lucius could hardly reveal that a ghost’s urgings had brought him to Vindolanda. “I came to retrieve my brother’s belongings.”

The tribune gave a sidelong glance to the Egyptian table. “A prodigious undertaking, I’m sure, but you need not have taken over his command as well.”

“A temporary position. The governor’s permanent replacement will arrive before winter.” If Lucius couldn’t avenge Aulus’s death and send the ghost to its rest by then, he would surely go insane.

Vetus’s expression turned hooded. “You resemble your brother quite keenly, you know.”

“It was always so, though he was eight years my junior.”

Vetus’s gaze darted toward Aulus.

Lucius froze. Had the tribune sensed the specter’s presence? If so, it would be the first indication that another person shared Lucius’s vision. He searched for a glimmer of recognition in Vetus’s eyes.

But the tribune’s attention slid to the high window set in the outside wall. “Aulus’s death was a grievous waste.”

Lucius narrowed his gaze. Only close family members dared to call a man by his forename. Just what type of relationship had Aulus and Vetus shared during their brief association?

“Did you witness my brother’s death?”

Vetus twisted his goblet in his hands. “No. The First Centurion and two junior officers issued him an invitation to hunt. Your brother felt he could not refuse.”

Aulus moved more fully into Lucius’s line of vision and gave a swift shake of his head. Why? Because he had declined the invitation? Or because Vetus knew the outing had been a sham?

With an effort, Lucius tore his gaze from the ghost. “What happened?”

“The hounds flushed a boar from a thicket. Aulus took up his spear and pursued the beast. He never rejoined the group. By the time his body was located, it had been badly gored.” Vetus placed his goblet on the table, leaving it teetering dangerously close to the edge. “A waste.”

Lucius moved the cup to the center of the table, near his own. “I would speak with the First Centurion.”

“You’ll need to travel to Hades then, for he is also dead. Thrown from his mount while on patrol. As for the others …” Vetus shrugged, but it seemed to Lucius the gesture was forced. “I cannot recall. Speak with the quartermaster, Gaius Brennus. He is—was—acting commander.”

“Brennus? That’s a Gaulish name, is it not?”

“Yes. He’s of the Tungri tribe, from Belgica, as are most of the men stationed here. The unit has been in Britannia for several generations.”

Lucius nodded. Conscripted soldiers were routinely posted far from their homelands, lest they join with the local populace in revolt against their conquerors.

Vetus poured himself another cup of wine, then paced toward the door with the bowl of the goblet cradled in his palm. “The hour grows late. If we wish more than a brief rest before cockcrow, I suggest we seek our beds.”

“Of course.”

Vetus exited the receiving room and disappeared in the direction of the stairs. Lucius set out across the courtyard. At the moment, a bath appealed to him far more than sleep.

A slave boy started awake when the door to the bath’s anteroom opened. He ran to load the furnace. The fire had been stoked earlier, however, for fragrant steam already wafted from the hot room. A fresh tunic and sandals, along with a linen towel, lay in the changing cubicle, causing Lucius to bless Candidus’s unobtrusive efficiency.

He removed his sword, war belt, and armor and gave it to the boy for cleaning, along with additional instructions to replenish the coals in the nymph’s brazier.

The boy scampered from the room. Lucius retrieved his dagger from the changing alcove and set it at the edge of the pool. He would take no chances, even in his own residence.

He stripped off the remainder of his soiled clothing and plunged into the hot pool. Settling himself onto the seat, he heaved a resigned sigh as Aulus shed his own toga and tunic. The ghost sank into the water, taking the bench opposite.

Lucius grabbed a bottle of oil from a niche at the water’s edge and smoothed the fragrant balm over his battle-stained skin. Picking up the accompanying bronze strigil, he pointed the curved blade at his brother. “I’d offer to scrape your back, but I’m afraid I might run you through. Of course,” he added, “since you’re already dead, it hardly would matter.”