Celtic Fire(16)

“Salve, Marcus.”

He gave her a cautious smile. The hand at his throat loosened, revealing a gold ornament.

“Have you a name as well?” he asked in a rush. “Or are your people like beasts that have no need of them?”

She followed the rapid flow of his words with growing amusement. “I’m called Rhiannon.”

“Rhiannon.” Marcus rolled her name on his tongue as if testing its flavor. “Rhiannon.” He frowned. “That doesn’t sound like a girl’s name.”

She bit back a smile. Marcus’s expression was clear and guileless, much like Owein’s had been at that age. “It is, I assure you.” She let her gaze roam over the lad. His hands and feet were large, as if they had sprouted in advance of the rest of his frame. He would not grow to be so tall as Owein, she guessed, but one day his shoulders would be broader and his arms as strong.

The smooth skin of his forehead puckered over his eyebrows. “What do you eat?” he asked, his eyes bright with anticipation. “Do you tear the flesh from a man’s bones and boil it in your cauldron?”

Rhiannon did smile at that. “That’s a meal I’ve yet to try,” she said with mock gravity. “Do you suppose it tastes better than venison?”

Marcus paled, his fingers tightening once again on the charm at his neck. “I’ve heard tell your women eat their children if they’re not good, then birth fairer ones from their bones. Uncle Aulus sent such a story to me in Rome. Is it true?”

Rhiannon raised her brows. Marcus spoke of the crone Cerridwen, one of the many faces of the Great Mother. After eating one disobedient child, she birthed another of great beauty. Who was this lad’s uncle to have known such a story? “That story holds truth, but not in the way you mean,” she said. “My people love their children. We eat venison, boar, and grouse. Never babies.”

“Oh.” Marcus looked relieved and disappointed at the same time. “But your blue warriors are fierce,” he said as if to console her. He shifted his gaze to the window, but not before Rhiannon saw a flash of terror in his eyes.

All at once, she knew him. The Roman commander had fought like a madman to protect this lad during the battle, much as she had fought to protect Owein.

He turned back to her. “Even so, Father says the blue men lack discipline. They cannot stand against the Roman army.”

Of course. She should have known at once who he was. He looked so like his sire. And like another man, whose identity flitted about the corner of her memory like a swarm of midges, refusing to take form. A tendril of unease unfurled in her chest. She wished she could remember.

Marcus was clenching and unclenching his fingers on the gold charm so fiercely that Rhiannon thought its thong might snap.

“What do you wear about your neck?” she asked.

The lad looked down at the ornament as if he’d never seen it before. “Oh.” His hand dropped away, revealing a golden ball. “It’s a bulla. It protects me from evil.”

Rhiannon chuckled. “And you think you have need of it in my presence?”

The lad had the good grace to blush. “I’ve worn it always, since before I can remember.” He forged on with painful honesty. “But you’re right, I thought perhaps I might need it here.” He grinned, showing a deep dimple in one cheek. “You’re much nicer than I thought you would be.”

The hinges on the door groaned again, saving Rhiannon from a reply. Marcus gave a guilty start. An old man strode into the chamber with a sure step, a small wooden bowl nestled in his hands. Rhiannon recognized him as the healer, much improved in appearance, who had tended her wound the night before. His short gray beard had been washed and combed and his bloodied mantle replaced with a clean one. An ornate pin held the saffron fabric fast at one shoulder, drawing up the folds to reveal a floor-length striped tunic decorated with wide bands of embroidery at the neck, sleeves and hem. The incongruous scent of spring flowers clung to his wizened form.

Rhiannon looked at Marcus and resisted the urge to laugh. The lad looked as if he would rather sink into the tiled floor and fight the cat-beast than face the old man.

The healer turned a fierce eye on him. “Why are you here?”

Marcus swallowed. “I’m … I’m talking to Father’s new slave, Magister Demetrius.”

Slave. Rhiannon closed her eyes. Yesterday she’d been a queen.

The healer spoke again, this time in a language Rhiannon didn’t understand. After a slight hesitation, Marcus answered in the same tongue.

The old man snorted. “Your Greek is abysmal, young Marcus. Go to the library and take up your Aristotle. I will come to you when I am finished here.”