Celtic Fire(97)

He adjusted the straps on his helmet and returned his attention to his son. “You’ll be safe here. The barbarians won’t breach the fort walls.” Then, to Demetrius, “Be sure the boy stays inside the residence.”

He strode to the stairwell. At the bottom step, he paused and looked for Aulus. He wasn’t there. Lucius was alone. No ghost, no Celtic nymph.

For the first time in six months, he faced only himself.

A downdraft blew through the courtyard, causing the night torches to flare. Lucius strode into the foyer and nudged the sleeping porter with one foot. The man opened his eyes and shot to his feet.

“My lord!”

“Rouse the household. There may be an attack.”

Scant moments later, Lucius was on the battlement, looking to the north. Fierce winds buffeted his face, and the night had gone even blacker than before, if that were possible. He could make out little of the land beyond the barley fields, neither the east-west ridge to the north nor the hills beyond. The unearthly howling continued, a chill blade turning in his gut.

The night sentry seemed equally affected. The man’s face was drawn, his eyes two dark pools of fear. His hands shook as they made a sign against evil.

“Sound the alert,” Lucius ordered.

The soldier ran toward the gate tower. A moment later, the horn sounded the call to battle. Men spilled out of the barracks, buckling war belts about mail tunics and hefting shields as they raced to their siege posts. Footsteps punctuated by curses thudded on the battlement.

Lucius turned back to the night and fixed his gaze on the tree line at the edge of the parade grounds. There he saw it—an amorphous black form lurking against the darker mass of the forest. The first line of the attack appeared to be as many as fifty men. How many more waited among the trees? How many had circled the clearing to attack from behind?

No easy skirmish, then, but an army that had to encompass hundreds of men. Still, he’d faced worse and lived to tell of it. Vindolanda’s wall might be rammed turf instead of solid stone, but the fort’s defenses were strong. Even with scaling ladders, the barbarians would not find entrance easy. He wondered how the Celts would deal with the village. Would they put the civilians to the sword, or would the farmers who had sold vegetables for Lucius’s table yesterday take up arms against him tonight?

The wind whipped harder as a line of bowmen took their positions on the battlement. Quartermaster Brennus appeared on the wall walk beside Lucius. Two centurions flanked him. A cluster of foot soldiers hung a few paces behind.

Brennus held a torch aloft and leaned forward to get a better view of the enemy. “Quite a horde,” he murmured. “Impressive.”

Lucius gave him a measured look. “The archers will thin their ranks.”

“In this wind?”

Brennus lifted his torch higher, moving the flame in a circular motion, causing sparks to scatter in the gale. As if on his signal, the Celt army broke ranks and hurtled, screaming, across the parade grounds.

“Loose arrows!” Lucius shouted.

The archer beside him shifted but didn’t shoot. The officer farther down the battlement refrained from relaying the order.

As if on Brennus’s signal …

Lucius’s hand flew to his sword. Too late. Hands grasped his arms from behind and twisted them behind his back. In less time than it took to utter a curse, he’d been relieved of his sword and dagger.

He glared at Brennus. “Traitorous dog.”

Brennus grinned as if he’d been handed a compliment. He nodded to the soldier at his right elbow. The man stepped forward and removed Lucius’s war belt, then began unfastening his armor.

Lucius bucked and twisted to no avail against the centurions who restrained him. Brennus gave a short laugh. Then, as if disenchanted with the show, he strolled to the hatch in the tower and shouted down to the guard, instructing the man to open the gates.

The creak of the hinges sounded, prompting a shout from the barbarians. Roman curses flew, followed by the clang of swords. Apparently not all the soldiers of Vindolanda had turned traitor.

Yet it seemed none of those loyal to Rome had made it to the top of the wall. Rough hands, too many to fight, stripped the last of Lucius’s armor from his body, leaving him clad only in his tunic. The archers, giving up their pretense of defense, crowded the narrow walkway, jostling for a view of Lucius’s humiliation.

Lucius was thrown to the boards. He landed on his back, each arm and leg secured by the weight of a man sworn to obey his command. How had he missed the signs that they were not the loyal soldiers they’d seemed to be? They were Celts themselves, of Gaulish ancestry. Brennus wore the torc. Lucius had wondered at that, but hadn’t bothered to reflect on its significance.