Celtic Fire(9)

Demetrius caught the movement and snickered. “The mighty warrior grows faint?”

Lucius glared at him. “I’ve seen far worse.”

“No doubt.” Demetrius threaded a thin strand of sinew through the eye of a bronze needle. “Be of some use to me, boy. Bring that hand lamp closer.”

Lucius obeyed without hesitation. He’d been taking orders from the ancient scholar since childhood. Old habits died hard.

Demetrius pulled the edges of the wound together and made one careful stitch, then another. “I’m glad you sharpened your sword before hacking at her,” he said in a conversational tone. “A ragged edge would have been much harder to close.”

Lucius gripped the lamp and refused to take the bait.

“She spoke in the Roman tongue,” Demetrius continued.

“That’s not surprising. Many Brittunculi do. Her clan must have dealings in the fort village.”

“The barbarians provide grain one day, a spear in the back the next.”

“It’s the way of things on the frontier. Assyria was no different.”

Demetrius finished stitching the wound. He put the needle aside and took up a strip of linen. “Raise her leg, Luc, so I may bind it.”

Lucius set the hand lamp near the basin of water and slid his hands under the nymph’s leg. Her ankle nestled in his left palm, his right hand caressed her thigh. Carefully, so as not to disturb the new stitches, he lifted the wounded limb.

The movement parted her legs, giving him a glimpse of the dark mystery hidden by the triangle of curls guarding her sex. His breath caught and he leaned closer.

“Enough time for drooling once the girl awakens,” Demetrius said with a cackle.

Lucius jerked his head back. The old man’s mirth far outweighed his wit, he thought darkly. Then the barbarian woman sighed and he leaned forward again, his gaze fixed on her face.

Her eyelids fluttered and opened. She stared for a moment, dazed. Then comprehension dawned in her golden eyes and she bucked. Her arm shot forward.

Lucius jumped back, the nymph’s fist missing his jaw by a hairsbreadth. No gentle goddess here. He grabbed her wrist in time to prevent a second attack. “Quiet, little wild thing. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Demetrius chuckled. “She’ll make a lively bed-slave, if you can tame her.”

“Canis!” she hissed. “Roman dog!” She wrenched her head to the side and sank her teeth into his forearm.

Lucius swore. He inserted the fingers of his free hand into her mouth and pressed deep, forcing her to gag. Leaning forward, he pinned her shoulders to the bed and gave her a slight shake.

“Cease, or I will have you bound.”

She stilled. Demetrius shook his gray head. “I suggest you brand her now. She will run when she is able.”

The nymph’s eyes blazed and her head gave a violent shake. The dark flame of her hair had fallen from its braid. It shimmered in waves about her shoulders, obscuring his hands. Her breasts, firm and pink-tipped, heaved with fury.

By the gods, she was magnificent.

He shot a quelling look in Demetrius’s direction. “Your jest lacks humor, old man. You know I never mark my slaves.”

“You’ve marked this one already, boy. That scar won’t fade.” The physician gathered his tools, wiping them carefully with a clean cloth.

Lucius removed his hands from the woman’s shoulders. He straightened but kept his gaze locked with hers, daring her to move. “She brought that wound upon herself.”

Demetrius snorted. “As you say.”

A knock sounded at the door.

“Come,” Lucius called.

Two women entered, carrying clean water and bed linens. The pair, along with more than a dozen others, had been Aulus’s slaves. Now the entire household belonged to Lucius and with them the contents of a richly furnished residence. His brother might have embraced the wilds of Britannia, but he’d been loath to discard the luxuries of Rome.

Lucius watched the slaves set out the bathwater. The Celt nymph scowled at him, then reddened as the older slave woman peeled away the remnants of the checkered tunic. Lucius turned away so as to afford her some semblance of privacy.

The chamber’s single window looked out onto a starless night. From his vantage point on the upper story of the fort commander’s house, he could distinguish the shadowed roofs of the barracks, the northern gate, and the torch-studded rim of the fort’s perimeter wall. A night sentry passed on the high battlement, his helmet catching the glare of torchlight. Beyond, silent hills rose on the horizon.

He rested a hand on the window frame. By rights, he should have installed his new slave on a mean cot in the slaves’ quarters. Instead, he had carried the barbarian woman up the narrow stairs and into the room adjoining Aulus’s former bedchamber, now Lucius’s own. Demetrius had raised his eyebrows but had made no comment.