Celtic Fire (12 page)

He half turned and when he spoke again, it was as if to himself. “Another man would have taken you so often he would have tired of you by now.” He laughed again, and the brittle sound echoed off the walls. “Perhaps it is the final proof of my insanity that I intend to leave you untouched.”

She dared not risk a response to that.

He strode to the door. “No doubt I’ll see you in a dream again tonight.” Another chilling burst of laughter. “By Pollux, it is sure to be a nightmare.”

The following morning, Rhiannon entered the kitchen shortly after dawn, intent on tracking down her brother-in-law.

“Is Cormac about, Alara?” she asked the stout Celt woman who had tried to coax her appetite the day before.

Alara looked up from the bread she was kneading and blinked in surprise. “Have ye discovered the man’s talents already then?”

Rhiannon gave her a sharp glance. Did the woman suspect Cormac was more than he seemed? “Talents?”

Alara chuckled. “Yer a coy one, aren’t ye? There’s only one reason a lass as fair as ye would be seeking that misshapen lout. His cock’s near as long as his legs.”

Rhiannon’s faced flamed scarlet, but she bit back the protest that sprang to her lips. Pretending a tryst with Cormac was perhaps the safest way to speak privately with him. “Aye,” she said. “Bronwyn twittered so when she spoke of him. I mean to see for myself if her tales are true.”

“Take a care, lass, lest the new master find ye out. He doesna look to be a man to share his woman.”

Rhiannon’s face reddened even more. Was the entire household aware of Lucius’s pursuit? No doubt they were casting lots as to the hour of his success. “The Roman’s nay here,” she informed the woman. “Do ye know where Cormac is?”

Alara upended a wooden bowl over her dough. “Gone with Claudia to the fort village,” she said, nodding to the cook’s empty place by the main oven. “ ’Tis his job to haul her selections from the market.”

The market. Cormac would be meeting his contact there, who surely would have word from Edmyg by now. Rhiannon lifted a winter apple from a basket on the floor and examined it thoughtfully. “When will he return?”

“Nay afore midday.”

Rhiannon took a bite of the tart fruit and watched as Alara assaulted a second mound of dough with the energy of a dog attacking a bone. It was hardly past dawn, but already the kitchen women were abuzz with preparations for the evening meal. She shook her head in amazement. The Roman kitchen contained easily as much space as an entire Celt roundhouse. Long worktables marched down the center of the room, bundles of herbs hung from the rafters, and a row of stone ovens lined the outside wall.

She dropped her apple core in the garbage trough. “Will ye tell Cormac to seek me out?”

Alara gave her a disapproving look. “Aye, I’ll tell him, but ’tis a dangerous game ye be playing, lass.”

It was indeed, Rhiannon reflected, but not for the reason Alara suspected. She wandered through the door to the courtyard and stared into a shroud of rain. No garden work would distract her this day. With her hands idle, her thoughts should have been consumed with the prospect of her imminent escape, but to her great shame they were not. Instead images of Lucius filled her mind.

Lucius, who had aroused her with dark whispers. Lucius, who had kindled forbidden fire in her loins. Lucius, who had left her untouched despite his obvious desire to share her bed.

A small part of Rhiannon wished he had ignored her protests. Dear Briga! She shook her head as if to shake the notion from her brain. She should be nothing but relieved that she had escaped his lust for another night. If all went well, Cormac would smuggle her out of the fort today and by dark she would be lying on her own pallet.

Soon after, Edmyg would take Niall’s place and lie there with her. A knot of dread tightened in her stomach. Edmyg wouldn’t be pleased that she’d followed the raiders and put herself in danger. Her duty had been to remain in the dun, awaiting the injured. How many of her wounded kinsmen had died because she hadn’t been there to heal them? And what of Owein? Edmyg would surely blame him for Rhiannon’s capture. She stared into the rain. If she found he’d laid a hand on the lad …

“What are you looking at?”

With an effort, Rhiannon pulled herself from her dark broodings. Marcus stood a few paces away, fingering his gold talisman.

“Am I to be feared this day?” she asked him.

He dropped the charm and flushed. “No. It’s just—the expression on your face a moment ago. I might have thought you were staring into the jaws of a lion.”

“A lion?”

“A great beast from the lands across the southern sea. Like a cat, only much larger. There’s one done in mosaic on your bedchamber floor.”

Rhiannon shivered, imagining such a creature sprung to life. She glanced behind her, as if half expecting the animal to be lying in wait. Marcus chuckled.

She narrowed her gaze at him, biting off a laugh at the mischief flashing in his eyes. “Where is your tutor, miscreant?”

“Magister Demetrius went again to the hospital. Did you know there is no fort physician here? The last one choked on a boar’s knuckle.” He snickered.

“That hardly seems like a cause for mirth,” Rhiannon pointed out.

The lad sobered. “I know. But I can’t help laughing when I think of it. One of the slaves told me the physician was a great, fat man, with a red face and jowls that waved when he walked.” He looked to the courtyard. “It’s too wet for you to work in the garden today.”

“Yes.”

He sighed. “Aristotle, however, can be read in any weather.”

“Are you shirking your studies again?”

Marcus shrugged. “Rain makes my mind wander.”

“As does the sun, I imagine.”

The lad grimaced. “Aristotle was an uncommonly dull man, and there’s a whole shelf of him in the library. In the original Greek. Magister Demetrius will probably make me translate every scroll.”

“You can read Greek runes?”

“Yes. Though I wish I didn’t have to.” He stared gloomily into the rain. “Will you come to the library? I’m sure my studies will go easier with you there.”

“I very much doubt that,” Rhiannon said, but she allowed Marcus to lead her to a small chamber near the entrance foyer.

She blinked at the fantastic scene that greeted her there. Shelves piled with slender brass tubes spanned the walls from floor to ceiling. A tall cupboard stood near the door. A large hanging lamp, sporting more flames than Rhiannon could count, threw its dancing light onto a long stone table. Ink pots and pens were scattered across its surface, along with a number of hinged wooden tablets.

Marcus sank down on a cushioned stool and scowled at an open scroll. Rhiannon had seen papyrus only once before, when a peddler had passed through her village. That had been just a tiny scrap compared to the wide roll that lay on the table, weighted with polished stones and scrawled with precise dark markings. So many more waited on the shelves. It was a treasure beyond imagining.

“Father will be terribly angry if I don’t finish my lessons,” Marcus said. He picked up a hinged wooden tablet and opened it. The inside surfaces were coated with wax.

“He wants the best for you, no doubt.”

“So Magister Demetrius says. But Father’s always angry with me for something, no matter what I do. What use is there in trying to please him?”

Rhiannon couldn’t think of a reply to that, so she nodded toward the tablet in Marcus’s hand. “May I see?”

Marcus handed it to her. Three scrawling lines of runes had been scratched into the wax.

“Are these Greek runes?”

“No,” Marcus said. “This is the Latin. The Greek is there.” He pointed to the scroll laid out on the table.

Rhiannon took the stool opposite Marcus and peered at the delicate papyrus. Black letters crawled across the creamy surface in neat rows like ants, offering their knowledge to any with the skill to decipher them. The concept amazed her—Celts carried their stories in their hearts. Madog had once told her that Romans and Greeks were possessed with brains softer than sand. Rather than exert the discipline needed to commit their sacred stories to memory, they scratched them in ink. Still, to Rhiannon’s mind, writing seemed a wondrous thing.

She touched the runes. “What does it say?”

Marcus made a face. “It’s Aristotle’s discourse on prior analytics.” His brow creased as he read. “ ‘If no beta is alpha, neither can any alpha be beta. For if some alpha were beta, it would not be true that no beta is alpha.’ And more of the same. I’m to copy each line of the Greek and translate it into Latin. As you can see, it’s an exceedingly dull work.”

Rhiannon was inclined to agree. “Are there no stories on the shelves?” she asked.

Marcus shot her a glum look. “Yes, but I’m forbidden to read them. Uncle Aulus collected tales from all over the Empire.” He slumped down on his stool, his eyes suddenly bleak. “I can’t believe he’s gone.”

Rhiannon stilled. “Your uncle?”

Marcus nodded. “His death didn’t seem real until we arrived at the fort. Before he came here, he served as a tribune in Egypt, but he visited Rome as often as he could and always brought me a new story. I used to wish he were my father.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do. I hardly know Father. He’s been on campaign for as long as I can remember.”

“Did you not travel with him?”

“No,” Marcus replied, pressing his fingernail into the wax at the edge of his tablet. “Mother would never have allowed it. But she’s dead now,” he added matter-of-factly. “That’s why I’m here in the North.”

Rhiannon touched his arm, not one bit fooled by the lad’s careless tone. “I’m sorry your mother is gone.”

“She died last summer, giving birth to my sister. Demetrius said the babe was turned the wrong way and Mama didn’t have the strength to endure the pain.” His voice trembled. “The baby came out dead anyway, so perhaps it was best that Mama never knew.”

Without pausing to think, Rhiannon left her stool and knelt at Marcus’s side, pulling him into her arms and ruffling his hair as she had done with Owein so many times. “And your father?” she heard herself ask. “Was he distraught?”

“Father wasn’t there. He was in Assyria with the emperor. Magister Demetrius wrote to him when Mama got sick, but he didn’t get home until a month after her burial.”

“How awful!”

Marcus sniffed. “Father was so angry when he arrived home that I wished he had stayed in Assyria. He’d been there a year and a half already—why bother to come at all?”

Rhiannon drew back. “Your father had been in the East for a year?”

“Longer. He’d been gone for two turns of the New Year.”

“And your mother went to visit him during that time?”

Marcus gave her an odd look. “Mama? No. She would never have gone to the frontier. She didn’t even like the countryside. She preferred Rome.”

Rhiannon rose from her stool and paced a few steps away, not wanting Marcus to see the surprise she knew must show on her face. Dear Briga. Lucius’s wife had died birthing another man’s child. No wonder he’d been angry.

Marcus picked up a smooth stick with a metal nib and made some random marks on his tablet. “But then Father said he’d had word that Uncle Aulus was dead. He was to leave for Britannia and I didn’t want him to go. At least not without me. He didn’t want to bring me, but I begged until he gave in.” He sighed. “I thought I could make him proud of me.”

Rhiannon came up behind Marcus and laid a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sure that he is.”

“No.” Marcus studied the tip of his stylus with exaggerated care. “He’s not. I’m a disappointment.”

“Surely he didn’t tell you such a thing.”

“He doesn’t have to. I can tell.”

Rhiannon took hold of his shoulders and turned him toward her. “You’re mistaken.”

“No, I’m not. I can ride a horse, but I hate history and logic and I’m terrible with a sword. I’ll make a poor soldier.”

“It matters not. You’ll be a fine man.”

Marcus dragged the back of his hand across his eyes and blinked up at her. “Do you think so?”

“I know it,” Rhiannon said firmly, rising. “You have a great curiosity. That’s the mark of the wise.”

He gave her a small smile, though the expression in his eyes told her he was unconvinced. Turning back to the table, he picked up his stylus and tablet. Rhiannon scrutinized Aristotle’s indecipherable writings. When she raised her head, she found Marcus watching her, the mischievous light restored to his eyes.

He broke into a wide grin, complete with Lucius’s dimple. Rhiannon’s breath caught.

“Here,” he said, turning his tablet around. “Look.”

He’d smoothed out the Roman runes and replaced them with the image of a woman’s face. Though the rendition was only a few quick strokes, his hand had been so skillful that the drawing seemed almost to breathe. Rhiannon stared at it in amazement. Such skill was powerful magick indeed.

“Do you like it?”

“Very much.” Then, hesitantly, “Is it your mother?”

Marcus’s face fell. “No. It’s you. Can you not tell?”

Rhiannon’s eyes widened. She had never seen an image of her own face, save in a wavering pool of water. Was this truly her likeness?

Marcus turned the tablet around and regarded it with a critical air. Then he made a sound of exasperation and passed the flat edge of his stylus over the wax, obliterating his work. “You’re right. I did the eyes all wrong.”

“I didn’t mean—” Rhiannon began.

“But it’s hardly my fault.” Marcus tilted his head to one side and gave her a shy smile. “You’re far too beautiful to draw.”

The innocent compliment made Rhiannon blush. “Thank you, Marcus.”

“My father thinks so too, you know.” He affected a nonchalant tone, but his gaze wandered the room as if afraid to rest. “I saw the way he looked at you in the courtyard yesterday. As if you were Venus herself.”

“Venus?”

“A goddess,” Marcus clarified. “Of love.”

Rhiannon’s face flamed even hotter. She turned back to the scroll. “Aristotle grows weary with waiting.”

Marcus rolled his eyes. “Aristotle is dead.” He dropped his tablet and stylus onto the table. “Though I suspect he’s not buried deeply enough.”