“A fiend of that size can hardly be kept hidden,” Demetrius said, “but I suppose it may stay until Lucius removes it. The brute could hardly distract you from your lessons any more than usual.”
“Oh, thank you, Magister! Hercules won’t be any trouble, I promise!” Marcus jumped up and threw an impulsive hug about the old man’s waist. Hercules, sensing his young master’s excitement, bounded to his feet.
Demetrius made a strangled sound. “Have a care, boy! You are soaked through.”
“Oh!” Marcus sprang away. Rhiannon launched herself at Hercules and barely managed to hold him at bay while Demetrius beat a prudent retreat to the protection of the doorway.
“Marcus, change your tunic and go to the library at once,” he ordered. “I will await you there.”
After Marcus left, towing his new companion, Rhiannon wrung out the wet washrags. She was hanging them to dry when Cormac found her.
“The Roman slept alone last night,” he said. “Surely ye can do better than that.”
Rhiannon pushed past him. “Leave me be.”
He caught her arm. “I care not how distasteful ye be finding the task, Rhiannon. Ye are to go to his bed this eve.”
“I’ll nay lure a man to his death.”
“He’s a dead man already. Would ye let him be taking your kin to the grave with him?”
Rhiannon turned and looked down at her brother-in-law, wondering not for the first time how a man so grotesquely undersized could loom so large. “What dealings have ye with the fort quartermaster?” she asked.
His gaze narrowed. “Brennus? What ken ye of him?”
“He wears the torc.”
“Aye. Fashioned with the serpents of Kernunnos.”
“Is he your ally? The one who will turn the garrison against Rome?”
Cormac swore softly. “Keep yer voice down, lass. The less ye be speaking of it, the safer ye will be.” He peered into the kitchen before continuing. “Brennus is descended from the old chieftains of Gaul. He’s a fine warrior, trained by Rome.”
“All the same, Lucius bested him with ease this morn. How can ye be so sure the garrison will side with Brennus? If they are loyal to Lucius, the siege will be a bloodbath.”
“The Gauls call Brennus king. They willna be shifting their allegiance. Do yer part, Rhiannon, and this fort will fall quickly enough.” He waddled toward the door, then turned back. “Ye had me almost forgetting. I had a message yesterday.”
“From Edmyg?”
“Nay. From Madog.”
Rhiannon’s heart skipped a beat. “Owein.”
Cormac grunted. “Glynis died birthing Edmyg’s babe, as yer brother predicted. Owein collapsed when he learned of it. He calls for ye. He needs yer magick.”
“Madog knows far more of magick than I could ever hope to,” Rhiannon whispered.
“That may be, but he hasna yer touch, Rhiannon, especially with Owein.” A touch of impatience strengthened his voice. “Madog bids ye deliver the Roman to Edmyg and come as soon as ye can.”
When she didn’t answer right away, he shook his head. “Do what ye must and then put it from yer mind.”
“ ’Tis not possible.”
“Ye are far too softhearted,” Cormac replied, not unkindly. “Do ye remember when ye were a lass and ye mended a bird’s wing, only to have the wee creature die a moon later?”
Rhiannon nodded.
“Had ye been truly merciful, ye would have wrung its neck.”
Chapter Twelve
Aulus looked like Hades. Prometheus chained to the rock could hardly have looked worse.
The ghost had become so solid, Lucius could hardly credit the fact that no one but he perceived his brother’s presence. Aulus no longer glided through the air; he staggered through the mud as if weighted by the burden of Atlas. His toga was gone and his tunic hung in limp shreds, revealing a torso covered with angry bruises. A week’s worth of stubble clung to his chin. Blood oozed from a gash on his temple.
The ghost’s color approached that of a living man. The chill that had prevented Lucius’s approach had evaporated like mist burned away by the morning sun. But most disturbing of all was the specter’s scent, a sickening fusion of vomit, blood, and despair.
Aulus had reappeared the moment Rhiannon and Marcus had quit the battlement after Lucius’s bout with Brennus. The ghost’s lifelike demeanor had been so startling that Lucius had hardly heard the cheers of the men as they’d saluted his victory. He hadn’t, however, missed the savage glint in Brennus’s eyes as he’d pushed himself out of the mud. Lucius regretted the necessity of humiliating the man in front of the entire garrison, but he’d had little choice in the matter. The quartermaster had ignored his direct order to use practice swords. That was a challenge Lucius couldn’t afford to let pass. And in truth, if the defeat caused Brennus to train that much harder in anticipation of a rematch, so much the better. Vindolanda needed every one of its warriors in top form.