Aulus opened one eye and shot Lucius a disgruntled look. Lucius laughed, the sound echoing off the tiles of the bath chamber. By Pollux, if he had to go insane, at least he could take some small pleasure in it. He drew the blade over his skin, scraping away the odor of death along with the oil.
The blood and grime of the skirmish dissolved into the scented water. Lucius’s tense muscles relaxed, leaving him free to pursue his thoughts. Vetus’s mantle of innocence covered him like the whitest candidate’s toga, and yet …
He looked at Aulus. “I’m certain he was lying. You would sooner scour a latrine with a toothpick than charge a wild boar with a spear.”
The Horned God’s favor was capricious.
The thought weighed heavily on Owein as he leaned on the sturdy branch he’d chosen as a walking stick. His breath was short and his chest ached, but he had no choice but to go on foot. His pony carried one of the wounded warriors rescued from the scavenging Romans.
A reluctant dawn cast gray light over the fens. The Romans had resumed their march toward Vindolanda just before sunset. The Celts had hunkered in the forest most of the night, tending their wounded. Some warriors had slept, but Owein hadn’t been among them. His head had ached with the dull pain that preceded a vision. He’d had no desire to close his eyes and look upon yet more blood.
“How many?” Owein heard Madog ask.
“Eight of our clan is missing,” Edmyg replied grimly, striding to the Druid’s side. “Though only six that I am sure died in battle. The others will have fallen on their swords rather than be taken.”
Madog spit on the ground. “Yet the Roman commander walks free.” His pale blue eyes flashed with annoyance. “Could ye nay have taken him yourself, Edmyg, rather than let Owein be attempting the task? The lad is lucky to be among the living. Rhiannon will flay ye alive when she hears of it.”
Edmyg’s expression, already set in stone, grew even harder. “I killed more than any, old man.”
Owein caught his breath. No one dared insult a Druid, not even a king. Did Edmyg wish a curse on his head?
An older warrior, scarred by more years of battle than Owein wished to count, chose that moment to approach the duo. Kynan stood as tall as Edmyg, but his frame was much leaner, as if time had burned away his bulk along with the impetuousness of his youth. Owein repressed a shudder. The man’s nose had been severed in some long-ago battle, leaving him with a visage few could dwell on for long.
“Near half my warriors be lost, Edmyg,” Kynan said. “Had ye sent a competent scout to verify the enemy’s strength, no doubt my kin would walk still.”
Owein gripped his walking stick and edged closer, his heart pounding. How would his arrogant brother-in-law react to Kynan’s challenge? Owein half hoped the older warrior would strike Edmyg down.
“The Romans ne’er march with so many,” Edmyg retorted, his face flushing dangerously. “The commander’s escort was to number no more than twenty men.”
“An’ who was it telling ye this?”
“Cormac.”
Kynan let out a bark of disgust. “The misbegotten gnome?”
Edmyg bristled. “My brother is inside the Roman fort.”
“A poor spy he is, then. His blunder killed twelve of my kinsmen. The rest will be loath to join ye in warring again.” With that, Kynan spun about, barking orders to his warriors. The band vanished into the clouded depths of the forest.
Edmyg uttered a curse, his fist clenched at his side. “If Kynan turns the other chieftains against us, ’tis little hope of taking the fort we’ll be having, even with the alliance Cormac has gained us.”
Madog stroked his beard. To Owein’s surprise, the Druid didn’t seem perturbed at this revelation. “The clans will come,” he said. “They willna turn away from Rhiannon.”
Edmyg snorted. “Rhiannon is a woman, not a warrior.”
“Aye,” Madog replied. “A woman who represents all that the Brigantes have lost. All they can regain. Our people look to her and see their freedom. When the time is right, they willna look away, no matter what path Kynan urges.”
“I hope ye have the right of it,” Edmyg said. He retrieved a Roman sword from his saddle and ran a thumb along the edge of its blade. “At least we’ve increased our store of arms.”
The bedraggled company started along a path skirting the ridge above the fens. Owein set his eyes to the north, where two peaks formed what looked like twin thrones. There, according to the Old Ones, Briga, the Great Mother, once sat with her consort, Kernunnos, the Horned God. The Druid circle lay in the shadow of the crags, sheltered by the sacred oaks and guarded by the skull of the Roman slaughtered at Samhain.