“Have the Celts become shiftless since my brother’s death?”
“No, my lord, they seem industrious enough. Tribune Vetus has kept them active, I would imagine. But they do like their beer.” He shuddered. “A noxious liquid fermented from barley, if you can imagine such a thing.”
Lucius’s lips twitched. “I assure you, I cannot. I trust there’s wine in the storerooms for the rest of us.”
Candidus inclined his head. “Yes, my lord. Master Aulus had nothing but the best vintages and I thank Bacchus for it. Otherwise, we would be forced to drink water.”
“A grim thought indeed,” Lucius said dryly. He fell silent for a moment, considering. “What do the slaves say of my brother’s death?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary, my lord, at least not yet. It may be they are reluctant to confide in me so soon.”
“Keep me apprised, then.” Lucius dismissed the man. As his footsteps faded, Aulus, who had been hovering at the edge of the courtyard, drifted toward an alcove near the door.
Lucius followed, halting at his brother’s side before the house altar. There, on a polished stone slab, tiny gods and goddesses clustered about an offering bowl like soldiers drawn to a game of chance. Lucius gritted his teeth. The lares were charged with the guardianship of all who lived in the household. They had failed miserably in their duties toward Aulus.
Aulus lifted one hand and touched a goddess fashioned from a fragment of alabaster. Lucius sent a sharp glance toward his brother. He recognized the figurine and what she represented.
“Justice,” he said. “I’ll find it, brother. Without the aid of fickle spirits.”
He backed away from the altar and strode to the door, nodding to the porter as he stepped into a day of miserable weather. Ponderous clouds spat moisture but couldn’t seem to commit themselves to rain.
The passage onto which his residence fronted cut a wide, straight line from the east gate to the west. Six long barracks faced him, obscuring the towers of the northern gate. Even without prior exploration, Lucius knew the headquarters and hospital lay to the left, the stables and granaries to the south. Every fort in which he’d served had shared essentially the same arrangement.
Vindolanda was a frontier outpost. As such, it didn’t approach the dignity of the great stone fortress at Londinium or even the smaller fortress at Eburacum. Its walls were thick turf topped by a sturdy wooden palisade and battlement that provided a clear view of the surrounding countryside.
Though modest in size, the post’s strategic importance could not be underestimated—Vindolanda commanded the center of the road linking the eastern waters to the Hibernian Sea, at the narrowest point in Britannia’s core—a mere seventy-five miles. With the surrounding lands secure, Rome controlled the intercourse of the docile southern tribes and their more warlike northern neighbors. In return for the taxes Rome exacted from the local Celts, the army provided secure trade routes and the chance for profit by all.
The sentry at the headquarters’ gate saluted as Lucius passed into the unroofed center yard. In contrast to the fort commander’s residence, no graceful plantings graced the wide space. Lucius gave the fort commander’s office a cursory glance, wondering if Aulus had spent much time there. If he were to cast lots on the question, he would wager against it.
He approached a second, smaller cubicle, where a guard snapped to attention. Lucius looked past the footsoldier at Vindolanda’s interim commander, the man who was now his second-in-command.
Gaius Brennus sat behind a battered desk far too small for his bulk, marking notes on one of the thin wooden tablets used for military records and correspondence. A number of identical tablets were scattered haphazardly before him. An open inkwell perched dangerously close to his right elbow. Smudges of ink and dirt showed on his fingers.
At Lucius’s approach, Brennus set his stylus aside, got to his feet, and raised a hand in salute. The Gaulish officer was tall, even taller than Lucius, who was considered almost a giant among his Roman companions. His eyes were a watery gray, his face ruddy and pitted with scars.
A Celtic torc of twisted gold glinted behind his short, red-blond beard. The terminals had been fashioned in the shape of horned serpents with rubies for eyes. The neck ornament appeared old and in need of cleaning, Lucius noted. In that last detail, it matched the officer’s tunic and mail overshirt.
“At ease,” Lucius said.
“Commander Aquila. I await your orders.”
Aulus brushed past Lucius and drifted to the far wall, where a large map of the fort and its surroundings had been affixed. Leaning forward, the ghost peered at the papyrus as if he were searching for some hidden path.