Celtic Fire(39)

He was silent for a time. Rhiannon’s breath grew shallow, though she tried to tell herself that his answer was of no matter to her.

“I loved her once,” he replied finally. “Or thought I did. Long ago, when I was young and blind with lust. Before I discovered she was a gilded box that didn’t contain the treasure I’d hoped for.” He shook his head, as if clearing the memory from his mind. “Julia was a good mother; I cannot fault her on that score. I know Marcus feels her loss.”

“That’s all the more reason for you to be gentle with him.”

“And encourage his weakness?” Lucius replied. “No. I think not. He’s better served by putting sentiment aside and applying his mind to Aristotle’s logic. I fear for his future if he does not. Every day he grows more like …”

“His mother?” Rhiannon ventured when Lucius fell silent.

“No,” he replied sharply. “Not like Julia. Like Aulus. My brother. Marcus cares more for tales of fancy than for the world before his eyes. Like the story of a Celt woman who ate a bad child and birthed a beautiful one from his bones.”

Rhiannon’s eyes widened. “Marcus told you that story?”

Lucius snorted. “He babbled incessantly of it on the road.”

“The story of the crone mother teaches that good is birthed from the bones of evil, even as day rises from night.”

“Evil brings only more of the same,” Lucius replied. “Marcus must learn that.”

“He’s yet a lad, and seeking his purpose. His sensitivity is a strength, not a failing. It will lead him to wisdom.”

“Or to disaster. My brother’s death proves it.”

A vivid image of Aulus’s death flashed through Rhiannon’s mind. “How so?” she asked, struggling to keep her voice steady.

Lucius drew his dagger and tested its edge with his thumb, an unconscious gesture that raised the hairs on Rhiannon’s nape. “There’s a man residing in this house. Tribune Vetus. Perhaps you have seen him?”

“The officer who frequents the baths?”

Lucius gave a short, mirthless laugh. “None other. I came north believing Vetus had murdered my brother.” His fingers flexed on the dagger’s hilt.

“Why would you think such a thing?”

Lucius swiped his blade into the air and then to the side in one sleek motion, fighting an unseen enemy. “Vetus penned the report of my brother’s death. Aulus supposedly died while hunting for boar. A sport he abhorred. I suspected Tribune Vetus invented the story. I came north to discover why.” He pressed the tip of his dagger to his thumb, piercing his flesh. A single drop of crimson blood welled from the cut and dropped to the earth.

Rhiannon sucked in a breath. Could it be that Lucius was unaware of the true circumstances surrounding his brother’s death? But why would the tribune invent such a fiction? “What have you found out?” she asked. Her voice sounded strange to her ears.

“So far, little.” Lucius resheathed his blade with a brutal motion and began to pace the gravel path. Stones crunched under his boots. “Aulus’s bones lie in the fort cemetery, yet all witnesses to his death have conveniently disappeared. Vetus is an indolent fool. If he betrayed my brother, I have yet to discover his motive. But the fact remains that someone is lying.” His dark eyes glittered. “If there is a man in this fort who knows the truth, I will find him.”

And if the truth is known only by a woman? Rhiannon withdrew her finger from the pool and crossed her arms over her middle, feeling suddenly ill.

He stopped pacing, pausing in front of Rhiannon’s bench and meeting her gaze. “Justice will be served. When it is, I will leave this wretched island and return to Rome as a civilian. A seat in the Senate awaits me. I can no longer avoid the duty of occupying it.” His expression softened. “I’ll take you with me when I go, of course. I think I would enjoy showing you my homeland.”

Rome. If the luxury of this house was any measure, the capital must hold wonders far beyond her dreams. Part of her longed to see such glory, but she knew such a thing would never come to pass. She refrained from saying as much to Lucius. It mattered little.

She would soon be gone.



At midday, Rhiannon renewed her search for Cormac. Surely he’d returned from the fort village by now. She would corner him in the storeroom and hear a plan of escape from his thick lips, even if it meant the entire household believed they coupled between the shelves.

She found him outside the rear entrance to the kitchens, maneuvering a heavily laden cart. It was the first time Rhiannon had seen the door unbarred. She looked past her brother-in-law’s stubby frame to the unfettered daylight beyond. Even the narrow alley between the house and the stables glowed with freedom.