Celtic Fire(54)

Lucius had an uneasy suspicion that the reason was fear. He tidied the stack of wood tablets on his desk, checked the cap on the inkwell, then lined up his writing instruments in a neat row.

“—ready to continue, my lord?”

Lucius refocused on Candidus. The secretary had reinked his stylus and was holding the pen’s sharpened nib poised above the shaved wood tablet, waiting for Lucius’s reply.

“Where was I?” he asked.

“Your last words were, ‘In summary, I find the garrison at Vindolanda to be in a deplorable state.’ ”

“Yes. Continue with, ‘In light of the increased barbarian threat, I request immediate deployment of reinforcements from Eburacum, numbering no less than eighty men.’ ” Little good the request would do, for Lucius knew the commander at Eburacum did not have a full century’s worth of men to spare. Still, perhaps forty might be sent. Provided the messengers bearing the letter managed to reach the fortress.

A young foot soldier approached the doorway, requesting entrance.

“Come,” Lucius said. The man moved forward and placed a clay mug at Lucius’s elbow. “The refreshment you requested, sir.”

Lucius lifted the mug and without looking took a long draught. The next instant he choked, spewing a putrid yellow froth across the desktop.

“What swill is this?” he thundered.

The young foot soldier took several steps backward. “Cervesia, sir.”

“Tastes like piss,” Lucius muttered. “Looks like it, too. Have you no wine about?”

“No, sir.”

Lucius thrust the mug in the man’s direction. “Get this out of here.” He turned to Candidus, who was already mopping the desk with a rag. “Fetch meat and drink from the residence.”

The secretary straightened. “I’ll go at once, my lord, if you wish, but the correspondence is complete. Why not quit your office for the night?”

Why not indeed? He watched Aulus limp to the doorway, pivot, then start back across the room.

I’ll promise you tomorrow.

Lucius might as well have promised Rhiannon his soul, for he suspected that was what he would lose if he touched her again. She knew of Aulus. She’d seen Lucius frightened, nearly sobbing. That fact alone should have made him despise her, but just the opposite had happened. His uncharacteristic vulnerability had loosed something inside him that had long lain buried. He ached for Rhiannon even more than before.

He felt his control slip with every notch his desire rose. Once he gave in to his yearning and lost himself in her arms, he would be completely ensnared in her witch’s spell.

The thought terrified him.

“My lord? Shall I put away my pen?”

“No. I wish to dictate another letter, to the governor at Londinium. I’ll proceed once you return with our supper.”



The vision coalesced slowly, gaining form and depth by slow degrees until it claimed more solidity than the ground beneath Owein’s knees. It burned with fervor, like the heat that rolled in merciless waves from Madog’s fire. The scent of blood hung in the air as the flames leapt into the night sky. Hideous wails filled the Druid circle—wind in the trees, or the spirits of those long dead? Owein didn’t know, didn’t question.

Madog’s voice creaked like winter branches. “Look into the past this night, lad. See what horrors the Romans visited upon the sacred Isle of Mona fifty long years ago. See what must be avenged.”

Owein struggled against the harsh spear of pain in his head. He peered through the veils of time and he Saw.

The Romans came in the night.

Their Legions massed at the foot of the sacred mountains and rippled on the shore like a sinuous beast. The glare of a thousand torches stained the black waves. Shouts echoed against the stones.

The moon, a shivering crescent, cowered above the thin line of water that separated the isle from the mainland. A foul wind blew, sweeping the call of the night creatures into the arms of the sea.

The children of the Horned God gathered beneath the spreading branches of the oaks, erect and unafraid. The hand of Kernunnos shielded them; the invaders could not prevail. The Druid men took their places on the beach, aligned according to power. The women shook loose their braids and smeared mud on their flesh. Sacred fire, lit in the bowels of the forest, licked to the top of the Druidesses’ pitch-soaked branches and flashed against the sky. Their children hid in the shadows, silent.

The conquerors set flat-bottomed boats upon the restless waters. Horses swam alongside. Slowly, one by one, the Romans slid across the strait.

Unnoticed by his elders, a small lad crawled from the shelter of the forest and clawed his way to the rocky coastline. Trembling with fear and exhilaration, he huddled in the cleft between two stones and watched as the Romans emerged from the sea like some fearsome fiend of legend, armor glinting like scales, talon swords unsheathed.