Celtic Fire(35)

“Yes.”

He sighed. “Aristotle, however, can be read in any weather.”

“Are you shirking your studies again?”

Marcus shrugged. “Rain makes my mind wander.”

“As does the sun, I imagine.”

The lad grimaced. “Aristotle was an uncommonly dull man, and there’s a whole shelf of him in the library. In the original Greek. Magister Demetrius will probably make me translate every scroll.”

“You can read Greek runes?”

“Yes. Though I wish I didn’t have to.” He stared gloomily into the rain. “Will you come to the library? I’m sure my studies will go easier with you there.”

“I very much doubt that,” Rhiannon said, but she allowed Marcus to lead her to a small chamber near the entrance foyer.

She blinked at the fantastic scene that greeted her there. Shelves piled with slender brass tubes spanned the walls from floor to ceiling. A tall cupboard stood near the door. A large hanging lamp, sporting more flames than Rhiannon could count, threw its dancing light onto a long stone table. Ink pots and pens were scattered across its surface, along with a number of hinged wooden tablets.

Marcus sank down on a cushioned stool and scowled at an open scroll. Rhiannon had seen papyrus only once before, when a peddler had passed through her village. That had been just a tiny scrap compared to the wide roll that lay on the table, weighted with polished stones and scrawled with precise dark markings. So many more waited on the shelves. It was a treasure beyond imagining.

“Father will be terribly angry if I don’t finish my lessons,” Marcus said. He picked up a hinged wooden tablet and opened it. The inside surfaces were coated with wax.

“He wants the best for you, no doubt.”

“So Magister Demetrius says. But Father’s always angry with me for something, no matter what I do. What use is there in trying to please him?”

Rhiannon couldn’t think of a reply to that, so she nodded toward the tablet in Marcus’s hand. “May I see?”

Marcus handed it to her. Three scrawling lines of runes had been scratched into the wax.

“Are these Greek runes?”

“No,” Marcus said. “This is the Latin. The Greek is there.” He pointed to the scroll laid out on the table.

Rhiannon took the stool opposite Marcus and peered at the delicate papyrus. Black letters crawled across the creamy surface in neat rows like ants, offering their knowledge to any with the skill to decipher them. The concept amazed her—Celts carried their stories in their hearts. Madog had once told her that Romans and Greeks were possessed with brains softer than sand. Rather than exert the discipline needed to commit their sacred stories to memory, they scratched them in ink. Still, to Rhiannon’s mind, writing seemed a wondrous thing.

She touched the runes. “What does it say?”

Marcus made a face. “It’s Aristotle’s discourse on prior analytics.” His brow creased as he read. “ ‘If no beta is alpha, neither can any alpha be beta. For if some alpha were beta, it would not be true that no beta is alpha.’ And more of the same. I’m to copy each line of the Greek and translate it into Latin. As you can see, it’s an exceedingly dull work.”

Rhiannon was inclined to agree. “Are there no stories on the shelves?” she asked.

Marcus shot her a glum look. “Yes, but I’m forbidden to read them. Uncle Aulus collected tales from all over the Empire.” He slumped down on his stool, his eyes suddenly bleak. “I can’t believe he’s gone.”

Rhiannon stilled. “Your uncle?”

Marcus nodded. “His death didn’t seem real until we arrived at the fort. Before he came here, he served as a tribune in Egypt, but he visited Rome as often as he could and always brought me a new story. I used to wish he were my father.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do. I hardly know Father. He’s been on campaign for as long as I can remember.”

“Did you not travel with him?”

“No,” Marcus replied, pressing his fingernail into the wax at the edge of his tablet. “Mother would never have allowed it. But she’s dead now,” he added matter-of-factly. “That’s why I’m here in the North.”

Rhiannon touched his arm, not one bit fooled by the lad’s careless tone. “I’m sorry your mother is gone.”

“She died last summer, giving birth to my sister. Demetrius said the babe was turned the wrong way and Mama didn’t have the strength to endure the pain.” His voice trembled. “The baby came out dead anyway, so perhaps it was best that Mama never knew.”