Page 8 of Taming the Eagle
Bricius’s face had gone the color of raw meat, and his gaze glinted dangerously. Fenella could tell he itched to strike her.
However, the chieftain’s expression was inscrutable. He merely watched Fenella, his gaze roaming over her face as if he was looking upon her properly for the first time.
A sickly sensation washed over Fenella then, as it occurred to her that he might like women with fire. Some men did—especially if they enjoyed breaking a woman’s spirit. Toutorix had buried two wives already. Perhaps he wanted his third wife to be feistier than his previous ones.
The Mother save her, she could see the iron bars of her cage slamming shut. She’d thought she’d evaded capture earlier, and had even felt a surge of vindication when she’d left Lorcan in that clearing. She wouldn’t remain the lover of a man who treated her as second-best. Her father, Lorcan, and Toutorix all wanted to control her.
Ironically, that Roman today had spared her, had given Fenella her freedom, but the chieftain of the Wolves of the North would not.
As if confirming her fears, Toutorix favored her with a slow smile, revealing teeth that were surprisingly strong and white for a man of his age. The expression caused fear to arrow through Fenella’s gut. Aye, her instincts hadn’t lied. “Whatyouwish for Fenella, daughter of Bricius, is of no consequence to me,” he replied. “I take what I want … and what I want is you.”
THREE YEARS LATER …
III. IN FLAMES
Ardunie Watchtower
Damnonii territory,
Caledonia
Autumn, 121 AD
THE MOMENT GENERAL Justinian Valerius Aquila spied the smoke staining the afternoon sky, he knew he was too late.
As he broke free of the line of trees, his gaze alighted upon his destination: the timber watchtower of Ardunie. It was ablaze, flames licking high into the air.
Smoke caught the back of Justin’s throat. Cursing, he drew his gladius. But it was a pointless gesture; whoever had done this had fled.
They hadn’t arrived in time to save the men guarding this tower.
His stallion, a spirited beast of Iberian stock, tossed its head, slowing its gait as it neared the gates. His mount skidded to a halt, rearing as the fire’s heat barreled into them.
The gates were open, the wooden perimeter around the signal station also burning. Peering through the smoke and flames, Justin made out the prone bodies of men scattered around the base of the tower. The charred stench of roasting flesh stung his nostrils.
Crimson settled over Justin’s vision, fury pounding in his ears like the rhythmic clash of swords against shields before battle.
Behind him, a member of the cavalry unit spat out a curse. Loud muttering followed from the other soldiers he’d brought with him from Ardoch.
The guards at Ardunie had signaled that they were in trouble, and so General Aquila had rallied his men and ridden out to assist. They hadn’t delayed, pushing their horses into a gallop as they covered the mile between the fort and the watchtower. Even so, they hadn’t arrived soon enough.
“Futuo!” Justin snarled.
The Wolves had been bold of late—had taken to harrying the outpost forts and watchtowers in the area—yet Justin hadn’t expected an attack so close to Ardoch.
This was Damnonii country, yet the local tribesmen weren’t troublemakers. Their neighbors were though. On the edge of Damnonii lands resided a Picti tribe who referred to themselves as theMadaidhean-allaidh a tuath: the Wolves of the North.
The Wolves had been a thorn in Justin’s arse for years now.
There were several Roman forts built along this spine of hills that stretched up the eastern coast of Caledonia—from Camelon in the south to Stracathro in the north—with watchtowers standing a mile apart between them; the towers were spaced close enough to alert each other of trouble.
After the disappearance of the Ninth legion, the northern forts had been abandoned, yet Ardoch still stood firm.
Justin’s jaw clenched. The loss of the Ninth had caused rot to set in. The garrisons stationed on the frontier were finding it increasingly difficult to keep the territory under control. Three winters earlier, a force of over five thousand men had marched into the wild reaches of Caledonia, never to be seen again—and since then, the Picti had grown increasingly restless and aggressive.
Now only the Twentieth legion—Valeria Victrix—commanded by Legatus Justinian Valerius Aquila, remained to watch over the frontier.
The responsibility weighed heavily on Justin these days. At thirty-three, he was still a few years off retirement. These were supposed to be the golden years of his career—yet instead, he was spending them on this cold, brutal frontier. He expected his next posting to be a comfortable one, in thanks for his service in Caledonia.