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do a rain dance in reverse—anything to stop this horrid weather. It was on a lunch hour when, daydreaming about the work being done in other sites, I started browsing the local archaeological web sites. One from the Isle of Lewis jumped out at me.
    Brad Teller, known for his overseas work, was working on the site alone when he allegedly raped a local woman and was killed by her irate husband.
    It was dated three weeks after he accosted me and left Marc’s site last summer. As I read the article, I became nauseous. I’d lived with that man for fifteen years. How could I’ve been so stupid? I didn’t mourn him; I mourned the lost years I had spent with him and the loss of my personal goals. For several weeks after I read the article, I dreamed about walking the Highlands. Snippets of a hill overlooked by a mountain and three smaller hills floated in my mind when I woke up after these dreams. After all the construction had finally started, I decided to take a few days off and hike. I needed the time outdoors.
    I trod along the rocky paths of the Scottish Highland and camped in the rain, heading somewhere, but nowhere in particular. Then, rounding a small rolling hill, I saw it. The clouds lay heavy just above its summit but one ray of sunlight was peeking through, creating a halo effect. I knew, I just knew I was supposed to be there. The feeling of recognition, similar to the one I had on Marc’s site, was strong.
    I got to its summit and the ever-present rain stopped for just a few moments. I criss-crossed the even ground and saw the hill-fort in my mind’s eye. It was in a perfect position. Visibility was good in three directions. The oak trees in the distance were far enough away to allow a warning if anyone tried to come up to the fort. The meandering stream that ran through the oak grove proved water was available. The strong, squat mountain behind was close enough to provide a protective wall for the back of the fortress. The meadows were clear, and there were the farmer’s long-haired cattle foraging in a bog-like depression. I turned around several times to take in the whole view. Something was missing. Several things seemed out of place. Suddenly a flock of sheep pictured itself in my mind.
    “There should be sheep on this land,” I said to myself. “They should be right over there.” But they weren’t there. I was confused. The sheep should have been there. But why would I wonder where the sheep were? I’d never been here before. I didn’t even know if the farmer who owned this land had sheep. Well, most farmers raised sheep in this part of Scotland. I made a mental note to ask him when I came back. I knew at that moment I would.
    As I wandered over the grounds, I stopped on a slight depression that would’ve been close to the fort’s walls. I stopped to eat my lunch there. As I sat, a warm, hand-like weight rested welcomingly on my shoulder.
    I planned my return while I worked the rest of the winter in London.
    I longed to work on that hill, the hill in my picture. I’d completed all the necessary steps. I’d found money, just enough to support a few others and myself for about two weeks. With a few people and rudimentary equipment, we could begin a dig. After we found what I knew was there, money and other resources would come pouring in.
    Now I just had to convince Marc to come with me. I needed his team. My instincts told me he was the one to call. I said a small prayer to the gods and asked for his understanding.
    Oh gosh, why was this so hard? After hesitating and stalling until the morning was almost gone, I dialed.
    “Hello, Marc? This is Aine. I’ve a proposition for your students and a favor to ask of you.”

C HAPTER 3
    LOVERN
    72 AD November
    The fascinating young woman, Jahna, who danced in front of me last night, left me reeling in confusion. It was my first night in the company of men in the many nights of my journey, and I was exhausted. While I lay on the floor, she came close