“I’ve done nothing to her. Why? Is she ill?”
“She’s crying.” Marcus seemed almost ready to break into tears himself. Red patches adorned his cheeks and his eyes were unnaturally bright. “She’s huddled in the back of the storeroom, weeping, and nothing I say will make her stop.”
A pang of guilt stabbed Lucius, but it was a small prick compared to the horror he’d felt when Rhiannon had admitted being a witness to Aulus’s death. His mind was still reeling from the shock of it. Once his sense of betrayal had settled to a dull ache, a new thought had arisen. His brother had been murdered by Celts, not mangled by a boar. Who in the fort had concocted the false report? And why?
“Go to her, Father. Tell her you’re sorry.”
“Marcus—”
“She’s my friend.”
Lucius started for the stair with Aulus limping after him. “Go begin your studies, Marcus.”
Marcus drew a deep breath. “No.”
Lucius halted, staring at his son in disbelief. The boy had never dared to defy him so openly. “I’ll repeat my order only once,” he said slowly. “Go to the library and take up your Aristotle.”
“No. I’ll make you go to her.” Marcus launched himself forward, fists raised. Hercules, apparently sensing a romp, bounded forward at the same time. Lucius watched, stunned, as boy collided with dog and landed in a heap at his feet.
He caught Marcus by the arm and hauled him upright. His tunic was damp, his body shaking. When the boy looked up, his eyes were not quite focused.
“I … I thought you liked Rhiannon.”
Lucius ignored the tightness in his chest. “She’s but a slave, Marcus.”
“So was Magister Demetrius, long ago. He told me.”
“True, but—” He broke off to take a closer look at the boy. The crimson flush on his face was not entirely due to emotion. His anger at Marcus’s outburst quickly turned to fear. “Marcus, are you feeling quite well?”
“Well enough, but …” He frowned. “One moment it’s so hot I can’t bear it, the next so cold that I’m shaking.”
Lucius pressed his palm to his son’s cheek. By Pollux, he was burning up. Looking up, he met Aulus’s gaze and was chilled to the bone by the expression he saw there.
Marcus swayed and would have fallen if Lucius hadn’t caught him. “Where is Magister Demetrius?” he asked the boy.
“Hospital,” Marcus mumbled.
Lucius swept his son into his arms. He carried him to his own bedchamber and lowered him onto Aulus’s bed. Marcus gave a shuddering sigh and went limp.
Terror blacker than a storm-ridden sea churned in Lucius’s gut. He covered his son with a blanket and made for the fort hospital.
“More water. Hotter than before.”
Rhiannon heaved the bucket of water to the stove and filled the boiling pot. “Marcus is worse?”
Demetrius emptied the contents of a glass vial into the water, releasing the odor of spoiled eggs. “He grows delirious.”
“And the fever?”
“Increasing. There is a blockage of fluids in Marcus’s body. This purge should allow the humours to flow.” His hand shook so violently that the stopper missed the hole.
Rhiannon took the vial and plugged it herself. “You fear for his life.”
“This malady has claimed ten men since I arrived at Vindolanda. I could save none of them, neither with the medicines I brought from Rome nor the remedies you showed me in the hospital garden.” He rubbed his eyes. “Marcus is asking for you.”
“Truly?”
“Yes. Come with me above stairs. Perhaps your presence will sooth him.”
“But Lucius forbade …”
“Lucius left for headquarters an hour past.”
“Oh.” He’d left his son’s side while the lad was so ill?
She followed Demetrius to the upper level. Marcus lay in Lucius’s bedchamber, the shutters drawn tight against the day. The five braziers that had been set in a circle about his bed threw off waves of heat but little light. A thick, fetid odor hung in the air—a combination of herbs and vomit. A bucket of noxious fluids stood by the door.
Bronwyn sat on a stool, closer to the door than the bed, and the expression on her face clearly said she wished to be elsewhere. At Demetrius’s nod she took hold of the bucket’s handle and disappeared through the doorway.
“The chamber wants cooling,” Rhiannon said.
“Marcus’s constitution suffers from an excess of water,” Demetrius replied. “Heat aids its release.”
Rhiannon couldn’t fathom how anyone could hope to survive when already shut in a tomb. In her opinion, fresh air would be far more helpful. That and a potion brewed from mistletoe harvested from the branches of the sacred oaks near the Druid circle. She crossed the room swiftly and knelt at Marcus’s side. His face was dry and hot to the touch, his pulse far too rapid.