Celtic Fire(23)

“What are you doing?” Lucius asked.

“Sir?”

Lucius clenched his jaw and sucked in an angry breath between his teeth. If he couldn’t control his babbling, the fort would soon be as rife with rumors about his sanity as his Legion had been. With effort, he refocused on Brennus. “What is the report from the hospital?”

“Two of the men wounded in yesterday’s attack died in the night. A third will most likely lose a leg. Fully half your escort from Eburacum is either dead or injured.” Brennus’s palm connected with the desk, causing the inkwell to lurch dangerously close to the edge. “Those men were the first reinforcements Vindolanda has seen in nearly a year. Every spare soldier in Britannia has been seconded to Gaul or Germania as replacements for the Legions bound for the East.”

Lucius nodded. He was one of the few officers who had recently traveled the route in reverse. “I would examine the current duty roster.”

After much shuffling, Brennus extracted a tablet from the clutter on his desk. “This is the status as of the Kalends of Aprilis,” he said, frowning down at the sprawling list. “Since then, seven or eight men have been taken ill with fever. The medics have had little success treating it.”

“Is there no physician?”

“He died last winter, sir.”

Lucius suppressed a sigh of frustration as he scanned the roster. Of the 437 soldiers who had been attached to Vindolanda the past autumn, fifty-six were dead, as many killed in accidents as in skirmishes with the Celts. Were Aulus’s men so poorly trained as that? The discipline of Rome’s auxiliary troops was notably less strict than that of the citizen soldiers in the Legions, but even so Lucius expected at least a semblance of competence. Apparently, Aulus had spent his three years in Britannia scribbling stories and puttering in his garden, to the detriment of his duty as a commanding officer. He shot his brother a dark look, barely managing to bite back the reproof that sprang to his lips. Aulus blinked back at him, unperturbed.

The miserable report continued: ten men on leave, thirty-six seconded to Maia to assist in the construction of a seawall. Twenty-seven were in Londinium at the governor’s command; fifteen were sick or wounded; eleven suffered from inflamed eyes. Twelve were listed simply as “unfit.” Even with the addition of the surviving reinforcements, Vindolanda stood at barely more than half its optimal strength.

“Less than an ideal situation,” Lucius told Brennus, not bothering to conceal his disgust.

“Yes, sir.”

“Especially as the recent attack on my party certainly signifies an increase in hostilities with the local tribes.”

“I’m not convinced that’s the case, sir. A few spring raids are only to be expected.”

Lucius kept one eye on Aulus, who had drifted toward Brennus and was regarding him with a distinctly disgruntled expression. “Nonetheless, caution is warranted. The gates will remain closed and the intercourse with the fort village must be closely monitored. Post a double guard on all shifts.”

Brennus looked for a moment as if he would argue. Then he saluted. “As you say, sir.”

Lucius paced a few steps to the wall map. A bold black square indicated the fort. The crooked line nearby traced the course of the small river that provided the garrison with water for drinking and bathing. Neat barley fields, tended by the relatively friendly locals who inhabited the fort village, ringed the fort walls. Beyond the fields lay the forest, thick and nearly impenetrable.

Aulus had been studying the northern portion of the map. There, rocky crags and deep ravines—most likely blanketed with Britannia’s infernal fog—provided enough cover to hide several Legions’ worth of barbarian warriors. Quite unlike the bleak Assyrian desert, in which the enemy had precious few places to hide.

By Pollux, he wished his brother had never come to this place. He turned back to Brennus. “What can you tell me of my brother’s death?”

Brennus shifted his weight. “It was an unfortunate accident, sir.”

“This garrison seems prone to accidents. Were you in the commander’s hunting party that day?”

“No, sir. Commander Aquila rode out with the First Centurion and two junior officers. Sextus Gallus and Petronius Rufus.”

“I understand the First Centurion was killed last autumn.”

“Yes, sir. An accident.”

“I would speak with the others, then,” he said, his gaze drifting back to the map. Perhaps Aulus was trying to tell him something about that fateful day.

Brennus cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, sir, that won’t be possible. Both men were injured in training during the winter. Their wounds proved fatal.”