Page 15 of Taming the Eagle
He’d never forget how the Wolf had smirked as he made his escape in that boat.
Toutorix could read people. It had only taken him a few instants—when he’d seen Justin glance his wife’s way in the meeting roundhouse—to understand the general wanted her.
And he’d wielded that knowledge like a weapon.
They’d left the crannog behind them a smoking ruin, but destroying it hadn’t eased the fury churning within Justin.
Rage at Toutorix. At himself.
What had come over him in that roundhouse? Perhaps the pressure of leading a legion on this forgotten edge of the empire was finally getting to him. Maybe he was cracking. Some soldiers did when the strain got too much.
Still scowling, Justin shifted his attention from his captive. Whatever the reason for his impulsive behavior back at Lake Taus, he was now sorely regretting it.
You were supposed to kill Toutorix,he reminded himself.Not take his wife and let him escape.
Dismounting, Justin led his horse toward the nearby enclosure his men had just erected. Toutorix’s wife followed in sullen silence.
Above, the last of the daylight was fading from the sky, turning it the shade of a purpled bruise, while around Justin, his men had swung into action. He’d brought three centuries—two hundred and forty men—from Ardoch, and the orders of two centurions commanding them drifted through the camp.
The third centurion led his company east, in pursuit of Toutorix.
Justin had instructed his men to track the chieftain and his warriors down and deal with them. However, Toutorix knew this land better than they did. Once he reached the far shore of the lake, he could easily lose himself in the mountains to the north. Justin’s men had to catch him before he did.
As always, the marching camp rose up now in the same plan as every Roman fort—no matter how big or small. Surveyors had ridden ahead and laid out the two streets—Via Praetoria and Via Principalis—and at the intersection where the streets crossed sat the general and primus pilus’s quarters. Crews of men erected neat rows of goat-skin tents, the makeshift barracks, while others got to work on a ditch and rampart on all four sides. It was a lot of work to go to for just one night, but it was their way. In the morning, everything would be removed, and even the ditch filled in. And in a few days, it would be as if they’d never camped there.
Leaving his stallion to be unsaddled and rubbed down, Justin untied Fenella and led her to his tent. He’d just shackled her to the center pole when Centurion Camillus strode inside.
Removing his crested helmet, Marcus Camillus raked a hand through his short black hair. His gaze then alighted upon the Picti woman who crouched against the tent pole, glaring at them both.
“You’ve got yourself a hellcat there,” Marcus observed.
Justin snorted.
Marcus caught his eye then, his expression grim. “What happened back at Lake Taus?”
Justin frowned. “You know what happened, Marcus,” he replied. “You were there too.”
Marcus was a senior officer and commanded the first cohort of the Twentieth. He was also Justin’s advisor and friend—and that was why he allowed him liberties. None of his other officers would dare speak to him like this, but at least Marcus had the wits to wait until they were alone to do so.
Even so, Justin wasn’t in the mood to be questioned. His gut now ached, and his temples throbbed.
“You had the Wolf cornered, and a dagger in your hand,” Marcus continued. “Why didn’t you end him?”
Dragging a hand down his face, Justin muttered an oath. “I don’t know.”
Marcus folded his arms across his chest, a groove forming between his dark brows. He then jerked his chin in Fenella’s direction. “It’s her, isn’t it?”
Justin scowled. He was just grateful that Marcus didn’t speak the native tongue, or he’d be in no doubt of how Toutorix had played him. Even so, he didn’t want to discuss Fenella. What was there to talk about? How he’d lost his wits over a woman he’d only ever met briefly once before? It didn’t make any sense—even to him.
“Careful, Marcus,” he growled. “You’re close to overstepping.”
Fenella crouched against the tent pole, watching the men talk. Her thigh muscles started to cramp, yet she didn’t relax.
The general and his companion—the centurion who’d dragged her from the roundhouse—were discussing her. She was sure of it, for both of them glanced her way more than once.
Things got heated. They were speaking in their own tongue, although Fenella didn’t require an interpreter to guess the soldier wanted to know why the general had let Toutorix slip through his fingers—and why he’d taken his wife.
Indeed, Fenella wondered the same thing.