Celtic Fire(98)

Why? Because his attention had been consumed by a wretched ghost and a woman whose beauty was surpassed only by her deceit. He would pay for his weakness with his life, for he didn’t doubt that these faithless soldiers of Rome would tear him apart.

He braced for the assault. It didn’t come. Instead, the crowd parted. Brennus strolled through them, fingers stroking the wolf’s-head hilt of Lucius’s sword.

“The mighty warrior approaches,” Lucius spit out. “Tales of his prowess abound.”

Brennus flushed red. “I hold your life in my hands, Aquila.”

“Then kill me and be done with it.”

Brennus’s fingers tightened on Lucius’s sword, then relaxed. “I think not, my dear commander. Much as it would give me pleasure to disembowel a Roman senator’s son, I regret to inform you I promised that joy to another.” He walked between Lucius’s spread legs and looked down, his lips curved in a cruel smile. “However, I am loath to disappoint you entirely.” He flicked his gaze to the soldiers restraining Lucius’s arms. An instant later Lucius found himself on his feet, arms spread taut.

He gritted his teeth. “I’ll kill you for this, Brennus.” The threat sounded hollow even to his own ears.

Brennus massaged his knuckles. “Ah, Aquila, the first debt is mine. And I always repay my obligations.”

The traitor’s hard fist collided with Lucius’s jaw, whipping his head to the side. Pain exploded in his skull. The second punch landed in his gut, bending him double. The third assault cracked a rib.

Eventually, Lucius lost count of the blows.



The wind died at midday, but it was near sunset before Rhiannon rode to Vindolanda.

She’d passed the long hours of the battle sequestered in Madog’s hut with Owein for her guard. He sat by the door, not meeting her gaze, his shoulders rigid and his hand on the hilt of Madog’s sword. He didn’t answer when she tried to speak to him. If the lad she’d raised lived within him, he was well hidden.

Madog had stayed in the stone circle to pray. Her last glimpse of Owein’s mentor showed the Druid standing between the smoldering fires, hands clasped about his staff, the skull of Lucius’s brother swaying in the dying light. The shredded whisper of Aulus’s soul called to her: Tell him. If only she had listened.

Edmyg came at midday. He stooped before the door, ignoring Owein, and barked an order at Rhiannon to rise. He’d brought Derwa, saddled and decked with flowers. He lifted her onto the pony’s back but didn’t relinquish the lead, even after he had swung onto his own mount. They set out on the trail, Owein following.

The walls of Vindolanda loomed high against a blazing sunset. The gates were flung wide, but the siege had not been bloodless. A pile of headless corpses lay outside the eastern gate. Their severed heads were mounted on spikes flanking the gates. Crows already picked at the eyes of one unfortunate man. Rhiannon’s stomach lurched when she recognized Vetus. She quickly scanned the others but found no sign of Lucius, nor of Marcus or Demetrius.

They traversed the main avenue past the charred ruin of the fort hospital. Apparently, fear of illness had caused the Celts to torch the building. Warriors, many staggering with drink, cheered Edmyg and Rhiannon’s progress and crowded behind as they passed. Edmyg steered Derwa into the gates of the fort headquarters and into the barren yard. Rhiannon felt Owein’s presence at her back, but it brought no comfort.

Men filled the space. Some had scaled the columns supporting the roof of the perimeter walkway to perch on the eaves. A lone form sat higher, near the peak of the roof.

The throng on the ground parted before them, opening a path to the center of the yard where a thick stake of newly cut wood had been sunk. A man hung bound at its base.

Lucius.

His head was bowed and his hands stretched overhead, tied with rough rope to an iron spike hammered into the wood. His legs were spread and tied at the ankles to shorter stakes set several paces to the fore. The position didn’t allow him to lie flat or to sit upright. He’d been beaten and stripped of all but his ragged tunic. Flies were already buzzing around the worst of his wounds. His chest heaved with the exertion of drawing air into his lungs.

He lived yet. But for how long? If Rhiannon could somehow contrive to free him, were his injuries too great to allow his escape?

Cormac and Brennus stood nearby, watching Rhiannon’s advance. Her gaze tangled briefly with the dwarf’s. He gave her a smug salute. His glance toward Lucius told her he’d noticed her horror before she’d carefully wiped it from her face.

Edmyg maneuvered their mounts to within a few paces of Lucius and addressed the crowd. “I give you Rhiannon, queen of the Brigantes!”