CELTIC FIRE
by Joy Nash
ISBN: 0505526395

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THE QUEEN

In the wilds of Britannia, a fierce battle rages.  Rhiannon, rightful ruler of the Celts, longs to see the invading Romans driven from her land.  But when she is taken by the enemy, she can’t deny her reaction to their compelling leader.  His dark eyes promise endless nights of wicked delight, yet Rhiannon is haunted by an eerie feeling of recognition…

THE CONQUEROR 

Looking upon the ghost of his murdered brother is torture for Commander Lucius Aquila, but the woman he'd captured in battle has the power to make the visions disappear.  Lucius knows Rhiannon can help him solve the mystery of Aulus's death.  He doesn't know she guards a terrible secret—the killers are her kinsmen, and the Druid curse that binds the dead man's soul will not be easily broken. 

Note: Celtic Fire is set in the same world as the Druids of Avalon series.

AWARDS & REVIEWS

Celtic Fire Awards:

Lories Best Published Award "Best Paranormal Romance"

Readers and Bookbuyers Best Laurie Award. "Best Paranormal Romance"

CataRomance Reviewers Choice Award "Best Single Title Historical"

Celtic Fire Reviews:

“Nash creates suspenseful, haunting and high-tension romance...a top-notch read.” —RT BOOKreviews

 “Joy Nash has created a lush world for senses of all kinds....This is a wonderfully fast-paced read full of romance, love and fantasy that will continue to burn in the hearts of readers after the last page is turned.” —Fresh Fiction

“Joy Nash is definitely one to be watched. She has great world-building skills, and her own personal magic with the pen is guaranteed to make hers a very strong name on the market in the not too distant future.” —Love Romances

“Wonderful! [Celtic Fire] contains everything one could want in a romance and even a touch of the paranormal.” —A Romance Review

“Brimming with sexual tension and enhanced by a touch of humor, Celtic Fire is a good book.” —Affaire de Coeur

"Celtic Fire is a fascinating mixture of intrigue and love."   -- Ann Lawrence, USA Today Bestselling Author

PROLOGUE

Northern Britannia, 116 A.D.

The Roman refused to die.

His screams spiked through the clearing, but any who might have come to his aid were beyond the echoes of his cries.  He spun, staggering, his fingers clenched on the iron blade jutting from his belly.  The sword's hilt protruded from his back.

He reeled toward Rhiannon, then away, his bare feet slap- ping the ground.  His naked torso jerked and shuddered.  Blood trickled down his chin.  Gurgled words followed. 

Curse or prayer? 

Rhiannon drew her cloak tightly about her shoulders.  She understood the harsh language of the conquerors, but could make no sense of the man's garbled speech.  Whatever his entreaty, it went unanswered.  Jupiter, mightiest of the Roman gods, had forgotten his son this day.    

The doomed man tottered forward, one hand extended.  Rhiannon wrenched her gaze away and sought peace in the cool mist of the forest.  Soft tufts of mistletoe clung to the autumn branches of the sacred oaks, but by the light of the setting sun, the crimson foliage reminded her of nothing so much as blood.

If only the prisoner did not have to die...

A futile wish.  The man was a Roman wolf--his life was forfeit to Kernunnos, the Horned God.  She'd come with the whole of her clan to witness her enemy's death.  Yet if the choice had been hers to make, she would have set him free. 

As if sensing her compassion, his soul tangled with hers, desperate, pleading.  Her heart cleaved in two.  Because Rhiannon had a healer's skill, her spirit often intertwined with those in pain.  This Roman's touch was something more.  Something she couldn't name.

Her heart broke as he loosed another keening cry.  The wail shriveled to a groan, then a whisper.  His body swayed.  Shouts rose as Rhiannon's kin pressed forward, eager to wit- ness death's victory. Would the enemy die looking at the sky, calling vengeance down upon his tormentors?  Or would his mouth fill with dirt, foretelling the triumph of the clan?

Madog stepped to the fore, his pale cloak washed red in the glow of the sunset.  Rhiannon had begged the Druid master to excuse her from the Rite of the Old Ones, but he'd refused.  The freedom of the Brigantes hinged on his interpretation of the Roman commander's death dance.  Rhiannon was the tribe's rightful queen.  Her presence lent power to the augury. 

The Roman sank to his knees.   Madog  circled behind, his gaze intent.  The doomed man pitched forward and clutched Rhiannon's hem.  She gasped and yanked at her skirt, but the Roman's fingers entwined in the wool and would not be dislodged.   

"Tell him," he whispered on a groan; then his body went limp and he spoke no more.

Madog grasped the hilt of the killing sword with both hands.  With a strength that belied his age, he heaved it overhead.  Blood trickled down his bare arms. 

"Kernunnos, the Horned One, is well pleased with his prize."

CHAPTER ONE

Assyria, Kalends of Januarius, 117 A.D.

"A real ghost wouldn't have to piss."

Lucius Ulpius Aquila skimmed a glance over the apparition hovering near his left elbow.  The specter dropped the hem of its tunic, an apologetic smile playing about its pallid lips.  Executing a graceful turn, it glided to a nearby boulder where an ethereal white mantle lay neatly folded.  The transparent linen rippled in the desert air, passing under the figure's right arm and over its left shoulder.  Pale fingers adjusted the garment's creases with utmost delicacy.

"And a real ghost certainly would not concern itself with the drape of its toga," Lucius observed.

The specter's shoulders lifted in a familiar, self-deprecating shrug.  Lucius' chest tightened.  The halluci-nation had been a faceless phantom when it first appeared two months before, but with each passing day its features and mannerisms grew more recognizable.  Yet even if Lucius believed souls could drift out of Hades, Aulus could hardly come to haunt him. 

Aulus was alive.

"You are a product of the desert sun," Lucius said, forc-ing a conversational tone.  "Or perhaps the result of some Assyrian spice.  A few more days and you'll be gone."

The apparition shook its head.  It waved one hand toward Lucius, then gestured to the northwest.  Aulus commanded a small frontier fort countless miles away, in that precise direction. 

"You wish me to journey north?"  

The ghost nodded vigorously.

Lucius steeled himself.  "To Britannia?"  

The specter extended its right arm, fist clenched, thumb raised. 

A chill raced up Lucius's spine.  He closed his eyes and willed the apparition to vanish, but when he dared another look, it remained, regarding him with an expectant expression. 

By Pollux.  Was he losing his mind?   

He wheeled about and strode toward the camp.  Twilight assaulted the Assyrian desert with merciless swiftness, bringing blessed relief from the blistering heat.  But far away, winter ice encased the forests of Britannia.  When the ghost drifted closer, the chill of the northlands seeped into Lucius' bones.

He nodded to the sentry as he entered the encampment.    Off-duty soldiers fell silent at his approach, resuming the throw of dice only after he'd passed.  One man spiked two fingers in his direction--a sign against evil.  Lucius scowled at the ghost.  By the gods!  Why could he not control the compulsion to converse with his damned hallucination? 

"Move aside," he told it, and ducked into his tent. 

An oil lamp flickered on the center table.  Lucius took a steadying breath and lifted a bronze pitcher from the edge of a map detailing Emperor Trajan's invasion of the East.  The papyrus curled back on itself.  

He poured wine into a goblet and drank, his parched tongue barely tasting the fragrant liquid.  He made a short circuit of his empty cell.  No doubt his secretary would soon return from the cooking fires bearing a meal that would go uneaten.    

The ghost lounged on a cot, inspecting its fingernails. 

Lucius gripped the cup until his knuckles turned white.  "There is no case in which the soul can act without involving the body," he quoted, but the words gave scant comfort.  Aristotle, it was to be assumed, had not been prone to delirium.

The tent flap lifted, admitting Candidus and the aroma of roasted meat.  The stone-faced, balding secretary set the tray on the table midway between the curled map and the pitcher.  He nodded at a flat wooden box partially hidden by a round loaf.

"The post courier brought a message, my lord."

The ghost rose and drifted toward the table.  

Lucius frowned and set his cup aside.  "From Rome?" 

"No, my lord."  Candidus peered at the label on the sealbox.  "From Britannia."

Every muscle in Lucius's body tensed. 

Candidus lifted the sealbox lid, revealing a shallow compartment flooded with wax.  The ghost bent its head over the impression left by the seal of the sender and went very still. 

"From Tribune Quintus Vetus," Candidus said.

Lucius's breathing ran shallow.  He slid his dagger from its sheath, sliced the wax from the edges of the box, and extracted the thin wooden tablet beneath.  Tilting it into the lamplight, he read the concise message once, twice, then a third time.

"Distressing news, my lord?" 

He looked up, disoriented. 

"My lord?"  In an unprecedented display of familiarity, the older man touched Lucius' arm. Lucius dropped the tablet onto the tray. He gripped the edge of the table, fighting nau- sea more fiercely than he had ever fought a barbarian sword.  

When at last he spoke, his voice held steady.  "A report from the frontier fort Vindolanda.  Aulus has been..."  

He broke off, inhaled, and began again.  

"Tribune Vetus sends notice.  My brother is dead."

Full Moon of Cutios, 117 A.D.

"Does the pain bother ye still?" 

Rhiannon pressed her palm to her brother's chest.  Owein's cheeks were no longer flushed.  His breath came steady, with no hint of the rasp that had struck terror into   her heart the night before.  She searched for the pulse at his neck.  It was slow, steady, and his skin was cool.  That was good. 

He shook off her hand.  "The sickness be gone, little mama.  Dinna worry so.  I drank the potion ye brewed and your magick worked, as it always does."

"The magick is nay my own.  It belongs to Briga."

"The Great Mother smiles on ye then, for when I woke, my breath came easily."  He leaned forward and kissed her cheek.

Rhiannon's heart melted, as it had when she'd first held Owein in her arms fifteen winters past.  She'd been a girl of nine, and grieving for her mother, but the tiny babe had sparked a flame of joy.  Russet curls so like her own clung to her brother's neck, but his eyes were his own.  Bluer than the sky and sparkling with mischief. 

She ruffled his hair.

"Nay, stop," he protested, but his lips curved in a grin. 

Rhiannon smiled back.  Owein may have grown tall and muscular, with a man's beard sprouting on his chin, but the lad who had hidden his face in her skirts was not yet completely gone.  "How is the ache in that thick head of yours?"

Owein's expression sobered.  His gaze roamed the roundhouse, touching the center hearth and the high peak of the sloping roof timbers before he returned his attention to Rhiannon.  "Tolerable enough," he said with a shrug.

His seeming lack of concern did nothing to allay Rhian-non's anxiety.  "The night vision returned, despite my spell," she said.  It was not a question. 

"Aye.  The same. Pain, then the dream.  A raven in flight.  Blood."

A chill hand gripped Rhiannon's heart.  "An omen of death."

"Perhaps not.  It might just as easily be a prophecy of power."

"Ye must tell Madog."

"I'm afeared to," Owein said.  "He's not been..."

"Not been what?"

"Not... right, somehow.  He schools me in the wisdom of the Old Ones as always, but I sense...I dinna know.  A wrongness."  He shoved his blanket aside.  "Surely ye have felt it." 

"Aye," she said.  "I have."  For near two seasons, since the Roman commander's death.  She shivered, though the fire was warm.  "I hoped the chill would fade with time."

"It grows stronger."  Owein lowered his voice.  "Madog visits the stones day and night.  He talks to the skull."

An icy finger clawed Rhiannon's heart.  She'd not been to the sacred circle since Samhain, when the Druid master had set the Roman's dripping skull atop a spike within the ring of stones. 

"'Tis not right," she said, gripping Owein's arm.  "No soul should be imprisoned.  Not even a Roman's."

"'Twill be worth my own soul if the Rite of the Old Ones brings Kernunnos to aid our warriors,"  Owein replied grimly.

"Nay, do not speak so!  Kernunnos is a dangerous ally.  We are the Brigantes, the children of Briga.  Madog would do better to seek the favor of the Great Mother.  Not the dark powers of the Horned God."

As if summoned by her words, Madog's voice, strident but unintelligible, sounded from the yard beyond the hut's doorway. 

Edmyg's booming speech answered.  "--'tis nay my fault."

Owein scowled.  "Nay, it never is.  How can ye think to join with that hulking animal, Rhiannon?  The entire clan knows Glynis is about to birth his bastard."

Rhiannon's hand stole to her flat stomach.  "He seeks a son.  I will not give him one."

"If Edmyg wants a son, he shouldna take ye as his mate.  But he will, because his lust to be king is far greater than his honor."

"Madog blessed the match.  Edmyg is the Brigantes' greatest warrior."

"Aye, and the tribe's greatest brute as well."  The flash of a man's anger showed in Owein's young eyes.  "You are queen, Rhiannon.  He is nay fit to carry your cloak." 

"The clan chieftains have put aside their differences to follow him."

"They'll follow another just as well."

"Nay.  Niall has been dead less than a twelvemonth, but his memory is far from cold.  If I do not accept my husband's brother as my new consort, the chieftains will be at each other's throats within a fortnight."  She shook her head. "'Twould be the greatest service to Rome I could perform.  I canna risk it."

Owein opened his mouth to reply, then fell silent as the hut's wooden door scraped a path over the dirt floor.  The spring wind sent a swirl of dust into the air.

Madog entered with Edmyg dogging his heels.  "The clans must gather today, not on the morrow," the Druid muttered.

"Kynan's dun alone answers my call, and reluctantly at that," Edmyg replied, scowling.  "The other chieftains will nay come while the moon of Cutios shines.  They await the fires of Beltane."

"They be fools, then," replied Madog.  "Cormac's message was clear.  The new Roman commander arrives on the morrow, afore the sun sets.  Once he disappears behind the high walls of Vindolanda, we'll not be easily drawing him out again."

"He'll nay reach the fort," said Edmyg.  "We'll attack on the road with the Horned God at our backs."

Madog stroked his white beard.  "Kernunnos or no, we'll have need of every man in Kynan's dun, and our own."

"We will have them."  Edmyg's gaze lit on Owein.  "The lad will come as well.  'Tis past time for his weaning."

Rhiannon sprang to her feet and drew herself up to her full height, which, to her misfortune, barely reached Edmyg's shoulder.  "Owein cannot join ye.  He's weak still."

"He'll ne'er be strong if ye persist in coddling him," Edmyg retorted.  He took a step toward her. 

Owein jerked to his feet and stepped between them, the sudden movement causing him to sway.  Rhiannon put out her hand to steady him, but he brushed it off and looked to Edmyg.  "My sister is forgetting I am a man grown.  I'll accompany ye."

"Ye serve her well in this, lad," Madog said.  "We'll be driving the Romans south afore the next snow."  He lowered himself to a stool by the fire and nodded for Edmyg to do the same.  Owein took a third seat.

"Rhiannon will sit the throne of her grandmother," the Druid continued.  "Ye'll erase the memory of her shame, lass, once the Romans are gone."

"Aye," Rhiannon said.  She'd been weaned on tales of redeeming Cartimandua's folly.  Two generations past, the great queen of the Brigantes had spurned one king in favor of a less popular consort, plunging the clans into civil war.  In the end, only the Romans had benefited.  Another reason why Rhiannon could not part with Edmyg, despite his perfidy.  She would not repeat her grandmother's selfish mistake.

Now a new war approached, one in which the clans would unite against the conquerors.  Bloodshed was as certain as the sun's rising.  The thought of the Brigantes crossing swords with the formidable Roman army left Rhiannon sick with dread.  How many of her kin would perish?

"Now then, have ye food and cervesia for an old man?"

Rhiannon nodded, not trusting herself to speak.  She took the flask of barley beer from its hook and filled three mugs.  She set them on the low table, then moved to the cauldron and ladled the remains of past evening's stew into wooden bowls.  Taking up her own portion, she joined the men by the fire.  

Edmyg used a barley bannock to retrieve a hunk of meat from his bowl.  "We'll take the Romans where the road crosses the fens," he said, chewing around a large mouthful.  He washed the stew down with a swig of cervesia, straining the liquid through his blond moustache.  A portion dribbled onto the braids in his beard.  "The forest is dark there, even at midday."

Rhiannon put her meal aside, her meager appetite now completely gone.  The fens were a day's journey to the south.  If Edmyg meant to be in the marshes tomorrow, he would have to travel through the night.  Owein's breathing had eased, but his strength was still fragile.  The journey, coupled with a battle, would surely bring on a relapse. 

But Edmyg's will was set, as was Owein's, who was determined to prove himself more than a lad.  And the Great Mother knew a woman had little hope of shoveling sense into a man's head when it was filled with thoughts of war.  

As the sun rose into a line of clouds, the clan gathered in the muddy yard to prepare for the raid.  The honing wheel turned, scattering sparks from iron blades.  Above, the pointed roofs of the roundhouses scratched the gray sky.  A wall of logs ringed the huts, capping the crest of a steep hill.  The palisade would protect the women while their men fought.

A raven sailed into view overhead, then disappeared just as quickly.  Rhiannon shivered.  The creature of Owein's vision.  Did it foretell victory or death? 

She plunged her frayed willow twig into a wooden bowl and mixed the woad and water with savage strokes.  Her hand painted blue swirls on Edmyg's face and chest.  When his protection was complete, she turned to Owein, murmuring a fervent prayer with each pass of her brush.  She rubbed a mixture of lime and clay in his hair and drew the curls into spikes.   

The warriors gathered outside the palisade, spears and shields ready.  Edmyg slung his battle horn onto his saddle and mounted his war pony.  Though the men numbered  no more than twenty, they were fierce, and--with the exception of Owein and one or two other lads--well-honed for battle. 

Edmyg raised his sword.  "Death to Rome!" 

He kicked his pony into the forest.  Madog, Owein and a handful of others followed on their own mounts, but the greater number ran afoot.  They vanished in a heartbeat, leaving only a spatter of mud and the stale reek of hatred.  Rhiannon hugged her arms to her chest as  she walked back to the village with the women.  The men of Kynan's dun would more than double the band.  Would it be enough?

She bit back the taste of bile.  Madog wanted the new Roman commander taken alive.  If her kinsmen managed that feat, the Druid master would repeat the Rite of the Old Ones.  A second Roman skull would overlook the ancient stone circle.

And Rhiannon's nightmares would begin anew.

***

Lucius pulled back on his stallion's reins and allowed his escort to advance on the road.  The tattoo beat of the soldiers' footfalls didn't falter.  The auxiliary unit marched in two columns, eight deep, with their centurion at the fore.  An equal number brought up the rear.  In the center, the remaining soldiers flanked a boy and an old man on horseback.

The road threaded a narrow valley crowded on either side by dense woods.  An idyllic scene, but Lucius would have gladly traded it for the wind-scoured moorland he'd traversed the day before.  Far better to freeze his ass in the open than to present an easy target in comfort.   

He shot a glance to his left, where his younger brother rode in ghostly majesty, the hem of his toga trailing over the flank of an invisible mount.   The specter had dogged Lucius's every step for near half a year, driving his well-ordered life into chaos. 

Aulus hadn't been this annoying since childhood. 

"Britannia leaves much to be desired," Lucius said.  "I cannot fathom why you preferred this wild country to Rome."

Aulus looked away, into the shadowed forest.  Lucius' gaze followed.  He detected no hint of movement, but he was not yet delusional enough to believe his passage went unnoticed.  It was said the Brittunculi sprang as if from the earth.  The half-naked, blue-painted wildmen struck like lightning, spewed death, then vanished into the mists like wraiths bound for Hades.  Aulus had written of Britannia's beauty, but gazing into the depths of the ancient forest, Lucius sensed only malevolence. 

His fingers tightened on the reins.  The official report stated that A. Ulpius Aquila, commanding officer of the frontier fort Vindolanda, had died in a hunting accident.  A plausible scenario, but Lucius was certain it was a lie.  His younger brother had been no huntsman.  His eyesight lacked a proper perception of depth, a handicap he'd kept secret since boyhood.  Indeed, Aulus would have eschewed military service entirely, if such an option had been possible for a senator's son.  A strong suspicion of foul play, coupled with insistent prodding from his brother's ghost, had propelled Lucius north to investigate.

Aulus floated closer until he rode less than an arm's length away.  A frigid aura rode with him. 

"At the least, you could put on your uniform," Lucius said irritably.  "Who in their right mind would ride all this way wearing a toga?"

Aulus shrugged.

"I suppose I should be grateful I haven't conjured a voice for you.  I--"

"Father!  Who are you talking to?"

Lucius turned to the small stranger who was his son.  At ten years of age, Marcus sat his horse well and had been allowed to ride in the fore rather than with the wagons.  He should have stayed in Rome, of course, but the boy had begged to come north, and with Julia so recently dead, Lucius hadn't had the heart to refuse.  To Marcus' credit,   he'd offered few complaints during the six weeks of hard travel. 

Just endless questions. 

"Who--"

"No one, Marcus." 

"But I heard you."

"To myself, then."  By the gods, the boy never released an inquiry without an answer.  Lucius sent an annoyed glance past his son to Demetrius, but the old Greek physician      who had been Lucius' own tutor merely raised his gaze to   the sky. 

"How much longer to the fort?" Marcus asked. 

"We'll reach Vindolanda by nightfall." 

Demetrius gathered his saffron mantle about his rigid shoulders.  "Not a moment too soon, if you request my counsel on the matter." 

"I don't remember asking for it," Lucius said.

"You should not have split the century," Demetrius continued, unperturbed.  "We will be fortunate to escape with our hides when the barbarians fall on us."

"Forty men is a sufficient escort, my friend.  The Celts rarely travel in large numbers.  Besides, the repairs to the supply wagon will take only a few hours.  The rear company will soon catch up with us."

"Let us hope they find us alive when they do." 

Marcus stirred, his eyes shining with excitement.  "What will we do if the blue warriors attack?"

"If Mars sends a battle, we will fight," Lucius replied.

"Even against the women?"

Lucius shook his head.  To be sure, he'd heard tales of Britannia's females running the battlefield with their men, but he could hardly believe such an arrangement was common.  Did the wretched Celts not protect their women?  He tried to imagine Julia fighting at his side, but the vision was too ludicrous to contemplate.  A woman would be a deadly burden in battle.  

"Be prepared for anything, Marcus," he said.  "A Roman meets his fate with strength and fights with honor."

Marcus gripped the hilt of his small sword.  "I'm ready."

Lucius hoped it would not come to that.  The boy was a miserable swordsman.

The road dipped into mist-shrouded marshlands.  Vapor rose from the black water to grasp the booted feet of the soldiers.  The scent of decay clung to Lucius' nostrils.  Willows nudged the oaks aside as the forest drew close to   the road.

Too close.  Unease clawed at his nape and his hand drifted to his sword hilt.  Behind, the road curved to the right and disappeared.  The damaged axle was taking longer to repair than anticipated.  Could barbarians have attacked the rear company? 

Lucius let his mount drift closer to Marcus and Demetrius.  The road curved, bringing the Tyne into view.  The swollen river overflowed its bank and crept onto the paving stones.

When the spear sliced out of the shadows, it came so silently Lucius thought at first he had imagined it.  Then a soldier lurched to one side, blood spurting from his neck.  Aulus gestured like a madman toward the forest.

The blast of a battle horn rent the air, loosing a flood of shrieking barbarians.  Lucius wrenched his sword from its sheath as the enemy poured from the trees like a raging river.  One blue-faced demon lunged for Lucius' reins.  He skewered the apparition and it fell, howling. 

"Orbis!" he shouted.

The soldiers fell into a circle around the horses, shields raised in a tight wall.  Leaning, Lucius caught Marcus by the arm and hauled him off his mount.  He dropped the boy on the road beside Demetrius, who had already flung himself to the ground.  "Keep the beasts steady," he commanded. 

Marcus clung to his mare's reins, for once without question. 

Demetrius glowered his outrage.  "I told you--"

"Later," Lucius replied, dodging a spear.  Mounted, he made a fine target, but he took a moment to gauge the enemy force before snatching his shield from its saddle hook and swinging from his stallion's back.  The Celts numbered, incredibly, more than fifty men.  His best tactic was to stand firm and hack them to pieces, one body at a time.

He muscled into the orb formation between the centurion and one of the footsoldiers.  The officer shot him a startled look.  "Commander!  You cannot risk yourself on  the line."

"I don't mean to cower with an old man and a boy," Lucius replied, thrusting his sword at a spike-haired wildman.  Behind him, Demetrius rattled off supplications to an impressive list of gods and goddesses, both Greek and Roman. 

Aulus floated above the melee, wringing his hands.

Barbarian shrieks mingled with curses and grunts as the battle wore on.  Another Roman fell and the orb tightened.  By Pollux!  What the Celts lacked in armor, they made up for in fury.  Lucius' men were holding, but it was clear they couldn't stand against the barbarians much longer. 

The horses shied, causing Marcus and Demetrius to struggle with the reins.  Worse, the orb was being forced toward a thatch of willows.  The circle would break.  Lucius swore under his breath and fought with renewed energy, the scent of blood in his nostrils and the sting of sweat in his eyes.

He ignored the ghost hovering above his left shoulder. 

A Roman shout went up.  Lucius swiveled his head and was greeted by the sight of Roman helmets at the bend in the road.  Swords raised, the rear company charged into the fray. 

"Break!" Lucius shouted.  His men separated.  Half joined the reinforcements in surrounding the main force of the barbarians, while the rest rushed the remaining wildmen into the swamp.  Lucius angled Marcus and Demetrius into a tight copse. 

"It will soon be over," he told the terrified boy. 

Marcus looked up at him and nodded.  Then his shoulders stiffened and his eyes grew wide, fixed on a point above Lucius's head.  A choking sound emerged from his throat.  Too late, Lucius looked up to see a barbarian poised on the branch above.

He managed to deflect the Celt's sword, though he staggered under the impact of the attacker's leap.  He tossed the man on his back in the mud.  He was a mere youth, with wild red hair and a beard not yet fully grown.  Lucius lifted his sword, preparing to dispatch the young warrior to whatever barbarian god he held sacred. 

Pain erupted in his hand, causing the sword to spin out of his grasp.  By Pollux!  An arrow had bitten the flesh between his thumb and forefinger.  Where in Hades had it come from?

He had no time to speculate, for the young Celt had used the distraction to regain his feet.  The Celt's sword glanced off the edge of Lucius' curved shield.  Lucius slammed the shield down on the barbarian, groping for his battle dagger with his free hand.   

A second arrow whizzed by his right ear.  He stumbled.  The Celt youth danced away.  The unseen archer's third projectile struck Lucius on the back and glanced off his armor.  The next grazed his forearm, drawing blood.  Lucius uttered an oath as his dagger slipped from his grasp.  The youth leveled his sword at Lucius' bare legs.  Lucius par-  ried the blade with his shield and lunged for his fallen  sword. 

A dart hit his right buttock, sending him face-first into the mud.  Merda!  He recovered quickly, jerking the arrow from his flesh.  At the corner of his vision, a flash of color disappeared behind the silver-green curtain of a willow frond. 

The barbarian war horn shrilled.  The signal must have been a retreat, for after a moment's hesitation, the Celt warrior raced for cover.  Lucius barely noticed the youth's departure.  Sparing a glance toward Marcus and Demetrius, he snatched up his sword and plunged into the forest, vowing to take down the hidden archer.   

He paused in the shadows, listening.  Long moments passed, measured by the angry rush of blood in his ears.  At last the archer showed himself, scrambling toward a tree to his right.  Lucius lunged toward the movement and swung.  His blade glanced off the tree's trunk, jerked, and hit flesh.  The archer went down with a cry.  Lucius raised his weapon for the killing blow. 

The barbarian twisted to one side and stared up at him, eyes wide.  Lucius' arm wavered.  This enemy was even younger than the last, not yet old enough for battle paint.  Dirt smeared his face and checkered tunic.  His hands clutched his wounded leg.

The boy's soft cries brought to mind a kitten, not a warrior.

Lucius sheathed his sword and propped his shield against a gnarled trunk.  The young Celt had showed courage and a steady hand on the bow.  If the gash on his leg was not deep, he could be sold as a slave, perhaps to be trained as a gladiator.  He dragged the boy into a shaft of sunlight and knelt to inspect the wound. 

His gaze caught instead on the archer's face.  Thick, coppery lashes fringed golden eyes, flecked with blue.  Wisps of russet hair framed a delicate sweep of cheekbones and a perfectly formed nose.  Lucius' gaze drifted lower, taking in moist red lips and a firm pointed chin.

The boy's chest heaved.

He drew in a sharp breath.  By Jupiter's mighty rod...

Lucius grasped the neckline of the barbarian's tunic.  He ripped the garment apart, exposing bare flesh.  His hand closed on one small, pink-tipped breast. 

He swore.   

A girl.  He'd been shot in the ass by a girl.

She barked a word and bucked, knocking his arm away.  In the brief moment before he gathered his wits, she scrambled backward, clutching the edges of her torn tunic with one hand.

Lucius sat back on his heels, stunned.  The girl snarled another imprecation, and this time the words she hurled at him were in his own language. 

"Roman dog!  Pig!  Defiler!"  She jumped to her feet, golden eyes savage, a doe facing the wolf's jaw.  A thick, coppery braid fell over one shoulder. 

Lucius rose slowly, his gaze never wavering from the incredible vision before him. Had he believed in such creatures, he would have thought the Celt girl a forest nymph. 

His loins tightened. 

He moved closer.  The nymph sprang back, her full weight coming down on her wounded leg.  She cried out as she crumpled to the ground.

Lucius darted forward.  Never before had he lifted a sword against a woman, but now a dark trail of the barbarian archer's blood stained the forest floor.  The wound needed tending, and quickly.  He scooped her into his arms.  Her small fists pummeled his breastplate. 

"Quies," he said.  "Quiet, little one.  I'm not going to hurt you."  She struck one more time; then her eyes rolled upward and she went limp.  

He emerged from the forest into a scene of carnage punctuated by soft moans and angry curses.  Too many Ro-mans lay sprawled in the dirt.  Others crouched by the road, cradling their wounds.  Demetrius knelt beside one soldier, binding his arm.  Marcus hunkered at the physician's side, pale but steady, assisting as well as he could.  The supply wagons, which had avoided the worst of the battle, creaked to a halt on the road. 

Out of habit, Lucius's gaze sought Aulus, but his ghostly brother was nowhere to be seen.  He came to an abrupt halt, wrenched his head around, and looked to the rear.  Nothing.  By the gods!  The specter had haunted Lucius night and day for more than half a year. 

Now, inexplicably, it was gone.

He frowned.  At what point in the battle had the ghost disappeared?  Lucius couldn't say.

The centurion, bloodied but unhurt, hailed him.  Lucius strode toward the officer.  The man dropped a startled glance at the woman in his commander's arms. 

"Losses?" Lucius asked.

The centurion recovered his composure quickly.  "Fifteen dead, sir, or nearly so.  Twenty-two injured."

"Unload the foodstuffs on the road and gather the wounded into the wagons.  The slave price of any Celt you salvage is yours."   His gaze dropped.  Even unconscious, the barbarian archer looked more alive than Lucius had felt in a very long while.  His arms tightened on his prize. 

"This one is mine."

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