Rhiannon laughed. “No.”
“Good.” He turned his attention back to the assembly. “Look. There’s Father.”
Rhiannon leaned over the railing. Lucius paced the rows of men, sword drawn. “Why is your father’s uniform different from that of Brennus and the others?” she asked Marcus.
“Father wears the armor of a Legionary. The auxiliary soldiers wear only mail shirts and leather.”
Lucius stopped before one unfortunate wretch and flicked the tip of his blade at some imperfection on the soldier’s chest. The man’s spine stiffened. Lucius regarded him in silence for a long moment before moving down the line and repeating the scene.
A warm sensation flooded Rhiannon’s belly as she watched him. I’ll promise you tomorrow. Two nights had passed. Why had he not come to fulfill his pledge?
Lucius reached the end of the row directly below Rhiannon’s perch on the battlement, glanced to the rear, and went very still. Then his gaze lifted, meeting hers as if she’d called out to him.
The ghost. When it fled, he knew she was near. Rhiannon raised a tentative hand in greeting. Beside her, Marcus blanched and sank to the plank floor.
“Do you think he saw me?”
“I’m sure of it,” Rhiannon replied, still watching Lucius. She thought she saw a hint of amusement in his expression, but because of the distance and the shadow of his face guard, she couldn’t be sure. Pivoting, he started in on the next row of soldiers.
“He’ll flay me alive,” Marcus said miserably.
Rhiannon chuckled. “Then may I know why you are taking such a grave risk to be here?”
The lad slid the brass tube from his belt, where he’d secured it before scaling the ladders. Carefully, he removed the cap and slid out the contents: several scraps of papyrus, a pen, and a small pot of ink.
“You’ve climbed to the battlements to write?”
“Not write. Draw.” He gathered his equipment. “I overheard Father telling Demetrius that Vindolanda houses the sorriest collection of auxiliary bastards he’s ever had the misfortune to command.” At Rhiannon’s raised brows, he grinned. “He said he’ll drill them like dogs until he’s satisfied they can distinguish their heads from their asses.”
“Is that so?”
Marcus nodded vigorously. “Yes. I’ve always wanted to draw a real swordfight, not one copied from some Greek vase.”
“Ah,” said Rhiannon, understanding at last. “But why did you need my company? It would have been much simpler to come on your own.”
The lad busied himself opening the inkwell and setting it with care on the ground. He rolled open a piece of papyrus and weighted it with several small stones. Then he straightened and peered over the battlements onto the parade grounds.
“I don’t know exactly. I did think to come alone, but when I woke this morning I thought you might enjoy sharing the adventure.”
She smiled. “I do. I also like to watch you draw.”
He grinned up at her shyly. “Knowing that will make me draw all the better.”
She ruffled his hair, aware of a sweet tug in the vicinity of her heart. It would be so easy to love this lad. As easy as it would be to love his father.
The thought, so unexpected and yet so natural, set her heart pounding. She snatched her hand from Marcus’s dark curls. Fortunately, he’d already returned his attention to the soldiers and didn’t seem to notice Rhiannon’s sudden discomfort.
She steeled herself to look down at the assembly. As she watched, the men exchanged their battle swords for wooden blades and separated into sparring pairs. Grunts and shouts peppered the combat, which to Rhiannon looked as fierce as the battle in the fens, if not as bloody. If these men fell far short of Lucius’s ideal, she shuddered to imagine the carnage his Legion in the East had wreaked.
After a time, Lucius barked an order, causing the men to cease their battle-play and fall into a wide arc. He retrieved a wooden practice sword from the ground and lifted its tip waist-high.
“Gaius Brennus, advance.”
A murmur rippled through the assembled garrison as Brennus swaggered into the circle. The slanting rays of the sun glinted off the twisted gold of his torc. “Commander.”
“Take up a wooden blade,” Lucius said.
“I’ll not spar with a child’s toy.” Brennus spat into the dirt, then slid his battle sword from its hilt and set it at the ready. The men at his back shifted forward, a current of anticipation rippling through them.
“Very well.” Lucius flung the practice sword away and drew his own blade.
Beside her, Marcus’s breath caught. “Father will carve that Gaul’s heart out!”