Part 16 (2/2)
They inched along the earthen foundation past the row of ovens built into the turf where a s.h.a.ggy black dog snuffled for sc.r.a.ps. Rhiannon threw a longing glance toward the stout timber gate. Just beyond, so close she could almost taste it, lay freedom.
Marcus halted in the long shadow of the gate tower and squared his shoulders. ”Follow me,” he whispered. ”Act as though we have the right to be here.”
He approached the guards-one a burly man with a bored expression and one a tall, slender youth whose beard had not yet fully grown. After some minutes of finagling, the burly man nodded and opened a door behind him. Marcus entered. Rhiannon followed, slapping away the guard's hand when it strayed too close to her breast.
The room within the tower was little more than a shaft with a wooden ladder propped up against the wall. Marcus placed his foot on the lower rung and began to climb. Rhiannon waited for the door's thud before she hiked up her skirt and followed him.
They emerged on an intermediary platform and, after negotiating a second ladder, gained the upper level. The high walkway ringed the fort in an unbroken path, with bridges spanning the towers flanking the gates. Rhiannon looked to the north and drank in the sight of her home for the first time since her capture.
Her breath caught. Towering crags stood like blue mist on the horizon. The rains would not come this day, for the clouds had fled in the night. The sky was a rare deep blue, tinged with rose where the sun had yet to rise. Birds dipped and soared, calling madly. One long-tailed swallow landed on the rail and blinked at her. Rhiannon sighed. If she had wings, she would lift herself from the battlements and fly home to Owein.
Below her, a man's voice shouted. Marcus nudged her excitedly. ”Look.”
Rhiannon blinked past the hills and the wide sweep of barley fields and focused on the trampled area just outside Vindolanda's wall. Neat rows of soldiers lined the clearing like sticks set in the mud. Off to one side stood the unmistakable form of Brennus. Rhiannon curled her fingers, fighting the urge to scratch the foul itch that crawled across her skin at the memory of his touch.
”Father and Quartermaster Brennus are to cross swords.”
Rhiannon's gaze snapped to Marcus. ”Indeed? For what cause?”
”Father wishes to show the troops how a Legionary soldier fights. The quartermaster is his second-in-command. The men will be in awe of Father when Brennus falls.”
”For that your father will risk his life?”
Marcus shot her a disbelieving look. ”Father had the command of the Thirtieth Legion. He's hardly at risk fighting an auxiliary quartermaster. Besides,” he added, ”I imagine they'll be using practice swords, not real ones.”
Rhiannon's gaze narrowed. ”And how is it that you know all about this?”
Marcus had the grace to look guilty. ”I went out yesterday while you and Magister Demetrius were at the hospital. I heard some soldiers laying wagers on the fight.”
”Demetrius wouldn't be pleased to know you've been sneaking about the fort.”
”You won't tell him, will you?”
Rhiannon laughed. ”No.”
”Good.” He turned his attention back to the a.s.sembly. ”Look. There's Father.”
Rhiannon leaned over the railing. Lucius paced the rows of men, sword drawn. ”Why is your father's uniform different from that of Brennus and the others?” she asked Marcus.
”Father wears the armor of a Legionary. The auxiliary soldiers wear only mail s.h.i.+rts and leather.”
Lucius stopped before one unfortunate wretch and flicked the tip of his blade at some imperfection on the soldier's chest. The man's spine stiffened. Lucius regarded him in silence for a long moment before moving down the line and repeating the scene.
A warm sensation flooded Rhiannon's belly as she watched him. I'll promise you tomorrow. I'll promise you tomorrow. Two nights had pa.s.sed. Why had he not come to fulfill his pledge? Two nights had pa.s.sed. Why had he not come to fulfill his pledge?
Lucius reached the end of the row directly below Rhiannon's perch on the battlement, glanced to the rear, and went very still. Then his gaze lifted, meeting hers as if she'd called out to him.
The ghost. When it fled, he knew she was near. Rhiannon raised a tentative hand in greeting. Beside her, Marcus blanched and sank to the plank floor.
”Do you think he saw me?”
”I'm sure of it,” Rhiannon replied, still watching Lucius. She thought she saw a hint of amus.e.m.e.nt in his expression, but because of the distance and the shadow of his face guard, she couldn't be sure. Pivoting, he started in on the next row of soldiers.
”He'll flay me alive,” Marcus said miserably.
Rhiannon chuckled. ”Then may I know why you are taking such a grave risk to be here?”
The lad slid the bra.s.s tube from his belt, where he'd secured it before scaling the ladders. Carefully, he removed the cap and slid out the contents: several sc.r.a.ps of papyrus, a pen, and a small pot of ink.
”You've climbed to the battlements to write?”
”Not write. Draw.” He gathered his equipment. ”I overheard Father telling Demetrius that Vindolanda houses the sorriest collection of auxiliary b.a.s.t.a.r.ds he's ever had the misfortune to command.” At Rhiannon's raised brows, he grinned. ”He said he'll drill them like dogs until he's satisfied they can distinguish their heads from their a.s.ses.”
”Is that so?”
Marcus nodded vigorously. ”Yes. I've always wanted to draw a real swordfight, not one copied from some Greek vase.”
”Ah,” said Rhiannon, understanding at last. ”But why did you need my company? It would have been much simpler to come on your own.”
The lad busied himself opening the inkwell and setting it with care on the ground. He rolled open a piece of papyrus and weighted it with several small stones. Then he straightened and peered over the battlements onto the parade grounds.
”I don't know exactly. I did think to come alone, but when I woke this morning I thought you might enjoy sharing the adventure.”
She smiled. ”I do. I also like to watch you draw.”
He grinned up at her shyly. ”Knowing that will make me draw all the better.”
She ruffled his hair, aware of a sweet tug in the vicinity of her heart. It would be so easy to love this lad. As easy as it would be to love his father. It would be so easy to love this lad. As easy as it would be to love his father.
The thought, so unexpected and yet so natural, set her heart pounding. She s.n.a.t.c.hed her hand from Marcus's dark curls. Fortunately, he'd already returned his attention to the soldiers and didn't seem to notice Rhiannon's sudden discomfort.
She steeled herself to look down at the a.s.sembly. As she watched, the men exchanged their battle swords for wooden blades and separated into sparring pairs. Grunts and shouts peppered the combat, which to Rhiannon looked as fierce as the battle in the fens, if not as b.l.o.o.d.y. If these men fell far short of Lucius's ideal, she shuddered to imagine the carnage his Legion in the East had wreaked.
After a time, Lucius barked an order, causing the men to cease their battle-play and fall into a wide arc. He retrieved a wooden practice sword from the ground and lifted its tip waist-high.
”Gaius Brennus, advance.”
A murmur rippled through the a.s.sembled garrison as Brennus swaggered into the circle. The slanting rays of the sun glinted off the twisted gold of his torc. ”Commander.”
”Take up a wooden blade,” Lucius said.
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