“Aye,” he said at last, his voice distant, as if speaking to those who had died on that dread day.
“That he did, lad. That he did.”
Chapter Eleven
“Hurry!”
A fragile thread of dawn hung over the fort as Marcus slipped into the alley between the barracks. Rhiannon hurried after him, wondering at the lad’s destination. He’d crept into her bedchamber as the night sky lightened, begging her to rise and follow quickly in silence. His dark eyes had flashed with the same mischievous light Rhiannon had seen so many times in Owein’s blue gaze.
She could not help acquiescing to his appeal. To her amazement, he’d commanded the slave at the front entrance in a tone so like his father’s that the porter had unlocked the door and allowed them to pass without question. Once in the street, Marcus had broken into a run.
She lifted her skirt and sprinted after him. “Marcus! Where are we going?”
He paused at the corner of a long, low building, his hand gripping the end of the brass tube he sheltered with one arm. “Over there,” he said, pointing. “The gate tower.”
The gate tower. Dear Briga! Could Marcus get them both through it? Her heart pounded in her throat. “Are we leaving the fort?”
He shook his head. “The guards would never let me pass! We’re going up onto the battlements.”
“Why?” Rhiannon asked, but Marcus had already grabbed her hand and was towing her across the wide gap between the edge of the barracks and the perimeter wall.
“You’ll see. Come on.”
They inched along the earthen foundation past the row of ovens built into the turf where a shaggy black dog snuffled for scraps. Rhiannon threw a longing glance toward the stout timber gate. Just beyond, so close she could almost taste it, lay freedom.
Marcus halted in the long shadow of the gate tower and squared his shoulders. “Follow me,” he whispered. “Act as though we have the right to be here.”
He approached the guards—one a burly man with a bored expression and one a tall, slender youth whose beard had not yet fully grown. After some minutes of finagling, the burly man nodded and opened a door behind him. Marcus entered. Rhiannon followed, slapping away the guard’s hand when it strayed too close to her breast.
The room within the tower was little more than a shaft with a wooden ladder propped up against the wall. Marcus placed his foot on the lower rung and began to climb. Rhiannon waited for the door’s thud before she hiked up her skirt and followed him.
They emerged on an intermediary platform and, after negotiating a second ladder, gained the upper level. The high walkway ringed the fort in an unbroken path, with bridges spanning the towers flanking the gates. Rhiannon looked to the north and drank in the sight of her home for the first time since her capture.
Her breath caught. Towering crags stood like blue mist on the horizon. The rains would not come this day, for the clouds had fled in the night. The sky was a rare deep blue, tinged with rose where the sun had yet to rise. Birds dipped and soared, calling madly. One long-tailed swallow landed on the rail and blinked at her. Rhiannon sighed. If she had wings, she would lift herself from the battlements and fly home to Owein.
Below her, a man’s voice shouted. Marcus nudged her excitedly. “Look.”
Rhiannon blinked past the hills and the wide sweep of barley fields and focused on the trampled area just outside Vindolanda’s wall. Neat rows of soldiers lined the clearing like sticks set in the mud. Off to one side stood the unmistakable form of Brennus. Rhiannon curled her fingers, fighting the urge to scratch the foul itch that crawled across her skin at the memory of his touch.
“Father and Quartermaster Brennus are to cross swords.”
Rhiannon’s gaze snapped to Marcus. “Indeed? For what cause?”
“Father wishes to show the troops how a Legionary soldier fights. The quartermaster is his second-in-command. The men will be in awe of Father when Brennus falls.”
“For that your father will risk his life?”
Marcus shot her a disbelieving look. “Father had the command of the Thirtieth Legion. He’s hardly at risk fighting an auxiliary quartermaster. Besides,” he added, “I imagine they’ll be using practice swords, not real ones.”
Rhiannon’s gaze narrowed. “And how is it that you know all about this?”
Marcus had the grace to look guilty. “I went out yesterday while you and Magister Demetrius were at the hospital. I heard some soldiers laying wagers on the fight.”
“Demetrius wouldn’t be pleased to know you’ve been sneaking about the fort.”
“You won’t tell him, will you?”