Blood dripped from the sword onto the centurion’s sandals, staining his naked toes and mingling with the spattered Breton mud. An unconscious shiver of disgust ran through Marius. He was not prejudiced; after all, he had spent sixteen years on this sodden island and was quite used to these people. But it did not stop the unwelcome flash of sentiment that the blood filtering down through his toes was somehow infected, impure. Marius knew better, but that did not help either. Twenty-five years of rigorous military training and a forty year lifetime of Roman indoctrination was difficult to avoid. He wanted nothing more than to wash his feet.
“Merda!” he swore under his breath.
Marius stood above the body of a Breton warrior sinking into the mud and a kind of pity moved him. Although he knew this was part of a centurion’s duty, an integral part of being a Roman soldier, he hated killing, avoided it as often as he could. This man had given him no choice. The Breton, large even by native standards, had bellowed when the Roman soldiers came out of the woods and ran straight for him with what Marius thought was a sword. It was not, of course. By the time he realized it, it was too late—his trained reflexes had responded on their own. The man was dead before he hit the ground, the old rusted javelin askew in his limp fingers. After twenty-five years and close to three hundred kills, Marius still hated it. Compassion made him a good centurion; compassion had also landed him on this wretched island. The irony was not lost on him.
He looked down at the crumpled, blood-soaked body as he wiped his blade on the dead man’s tunic.
Sheathing the sword, Marius shot a glance at the woods lining the open field and caught the fleeting wisp of a woman with golden-red hair standing inside the shadow of a tree. When he blinked, the wisp was gone, but he knew she was watching and had been for quite some time. Marius was certain she was not going anywhere. The woman was probably part of a contingent representing the small king of this area, the one that owed the empire repayment of loans, the one they had come here to investigate, ultimately to obligate. They did not need the tribute. What they needed was the alliance. Conall? The name flashed through his mind along with a hundred other details he cataloged with a single hard glance. He would handle it, as he always did, in due time.
The angry glares of the remaining four Bretons, quickly pushed to their knees by Marius’ men, reminded him sharply of the aggravations he and his soldiers faced on a daily basis. Even though they had contributed countless improvements to these people, made their lives more productive, richer and safer, the legions had never been exactly welcomed in Britannia; but neither had they been aggressively repelled either. The truce was abundantly frail. His thoughts turned, as they often did these days, to the unverified news of impending Breton revolts. Whether real or imagined, the echoing gossip that recently filtered from camp to camp could not be stopped—or ignored. Marius knew the next few weeks would either verify or disprove the rumors. Again, he would handle it in due time. He was a very patient man.
“Aelius,” he called in a quiet, commanding voice.
“Sir?” The young man was dark, short and although Roman-trim and very neat, there was always a look of rumple about him, as if he and those deep blue eyes had just tumbled out of his bedroll. A roguish half smile sometimes charmed his face, as it did now, and it was difficult not to return the expression, even though Marius usually managed it.
Before the centurion could turn to his aide, he felt an overwhelming urge to scan the forest again. He found himself distracted by the startling loveliness that peered at him from the coarse pines, and had to constrain his moment of weakness. Forcing down the unexpected stirring, he straightened his shoulders and took a short breath.
“Tell them they are under arrest for cultivating Roman land and we are taking them to our camp for interrogation.”
Marius had never learned their language. He always meant to, but the strange guttural consonants and awful combined vowels made his throat hurt. The language, like the people who spoke it, was peculiar and alien, and he could not get used to it.
Aelius, on the other hand, spoke three languages fluently and several others with nearly as much skill, always lisping in that strange Greek/Roman accent, making him an excellent aide. Aelius had a Greek mother, a Roman father, and an unacknowledged Breton grandmother who taught him her native tongue.
In perfect Gaelic, Aelius repeated the order to the four Bretons. They merely stared up at him, their knees soaking in the sopping clay. The foreign eyes sparked with a mixture of fear, anger, or outright loathing. They had their hands tied behind their backs as a murky drizzle intensified the misery and displeasure on their weather worn faces. Each man had long dark or reddish hair with his calves wrapped in tightly hitched furred leggings. Around the shoulders of each was a colorful tunic in blues and yellows that was striking even when wet and dirty. The bright fabric seemed strangely out of place in this grey-drenched world. Their clothes were sharp contrast to the highly meticulous Roman soldiers with their polished metal adornments and crisp, segmented silver armor. The red of their wool tunics looked bright and bloody against the half-plowed field.
Marius ordered the Bretons tied together and the dead one wrapped and strapped to one of the spare plow horses. The other animals were unshackled and tied behind the men as Marius mounted his own. The Breton horses seemed small and squat next to the tall Roman breeds. As dusk sifted in through the leaves, the rest of the fifteen soldiers marched into the forest to return to their camp and dinner, slowly pulling the Bretons behind them. Marius’ mind wandered involuntarily to the woman hiding just inside the woods, and was keen to have her follow.
Well behind his scrupulous self-control, held deeply away from the light where no one else could see, was the first ardent thought he had in very, very long time. He would make it a point to see the woman again with her flash of golden-red hair. Marius wistfully hoped she would do something wrong, even a minor infraction, so he could find leverage to get her into his bed. It was extremely doubtful, but it did not stop the desire. He could feel his body respond again, which surprised him; it had been a long time since a woman could move him with a glance. He smiled at Aelius who frowned suspiciously, but said nothing. Marius leaned over to whisper to him and his second, Leonius. They nodded obediently, taking up positions on the outside of the men. He whistled to his beast and picked up the pace, making the soldiers lunge to catch up.
Fifteen minutes into the march, Marius silently gestured to the two men. It was such a subtle thing even the other soldiers did not catch it. As softly as a breeze, they peeled away from the outside of the advancing Romans and disappeared like smoke into the woods as Marius and the remaining soldiers continued forward. He knew he would not see them again until they reached camp only a few miles away, with any luck, an additional Breton in tow.
“A bhides!” Delia cursed. She watched from a dark break in the woods, praying it would conceal her.
The Roman leader, a tall, handsome man with salted-midnight hair, suddenly looked directly at her. For an instant, their eyes locked and Delia felt an unexpected flush of excitement course through her. She gasped and tucked herself behind the tree, surprised by the intensity and suddenness of the feeling. She took a deep breath, motioning the small woman behind her to silence, then stillness. Neither one moved for several heartbeats. When Delia dared to look again, the men were intent on their charges, their leader apparently not interested in the presence of women.
“Your Majesty…what are you doing?” the young woman whispered to her.
Delia jerked a silencing hand to her mouth. “Quiet, Glenys,” she hissed.
Tying her long mane of wayward hair into a knot and securing it with a silver Roman brooch, she raised her tunic out of the mud. Without looking to see if Glenys was following, Delia quickly backed into the woods without taking her eyes off the Romans.
Delia had warned the villagers about going into the field, knowing there were Roman patrols all over the Corieltauvi lands. The men had not listened. She did not blame them. After all, their families were hungry.
Conall cares nothing for his people, even if he is their king.
She scowled at the trees. Delia had taken it upon herself to warn them since her brother would not send out couriers.
Some king!
Four of the families had been working the field, trying to coax stunted tubers out of the rocky, untilled ground when the soldiers appeared. The Romans had thundered down the road, the sound of the hooves echoing across the open field. The farmers wasted no time in throwing the children into their mothers’ arms and ordering them into the trees to hide. Delia and Glenys had rushed from the village to stop them, but it was too late. All Delia could do was order the women and children to return to the village. Reluctantly, the wives and their charges scurried through the woods, shooting frightened glances at the men, with only Delia’s assurances she would do...something. She just wished she knew what that was.
Perhaps if she could talk to the Romans, she could make them understand. The thought sent a bemused smile across her lips. Make a Roman understand about starving wives and children? Not likely, but she was not going to watch as her men were pressed into slavery. They had lost too many over the last seventeen years of occupation. Her brother paid tribute to them—one of the few kings who did—and she prayed that would be worth something.
Delia had waited in the woods to see what the Romans would do, assuming they would give the men a warning and send them on their way. However, the Roman leader had killed one of the farmers when the Breton had stupidly run screaming at them, ruining any chance they had. Delia chided herself for not having more compassion toward the dead. Like so many other Breton men, his heart and his loins had ruled him. How many oafs died on Roman swords thinking it was brave to run blindly into them, screeching their defiance? The only mark the act left on the world was a starving family. The numbers were staggering. Delia had seen it too many times in her twenty-nine winters. If the men had stood quietly and answered the Romans’ questions, more than likely they would have been let go.
She watched from the shadows for a long time, not really having any clear idea what she was going to do. When they finally left the clearing, she impulsively motioned to Glenys and followed. Glenys gaped at her mistress as if she had lost her mind, but nodded with a barely stifled sigh and a nervous curl of her lip.
As she and Glenys ran behind them, they stayed well back, unable to see the advancing Romans. The beat of walking horses suddenly turned to trotting and the soldiers put distance between them. Delia was not concerned about falling behind; she had a notion where they would be camping and their trail was easy to follow.
Horses would have made Delia’s journey faster, of course, and there were several in the village, but she had declined. She detested the creatures, much to the shame of her dead father who had never understood how his daughter, one of the fiercest warriors he ever trained, would not take a horse. It should have been as natural as breathing. Delia could not help it. From the time she could hold a sword, every animal she tried to mount seemed bent on biting her no matter what she did. She hated having to ride behind one of the dusty ancient warriors, so had become a runner, a talent that was rare in a tribe that practically lived on horseback.
It felt good to be running again, something she had not done in a long time. When Delia ran, the world became a flurry of wind and green, caressing her face like a new lover and tantalizing her skin with a rush of bliss. When she ran, she felt invincible and alive. In an increasingly harsh life, it was one of her only pleasures.
But she still hated horses.
The air suffused her skin with blood, and a pleasant warmth spread throughout her body. Delia’s thoughts inadvertently turned to the man who had affected so strangely. For some reason she could not get him out of her head. The Roman officer was dark, deeply muscled, commanding, and so different from the men she was accustomed to. More importantly, with a single glimpse he had torn through her well-established emotional defenses, making the heat rise in her cheeks. Most men would have found that exceedingly difficult. The thought made her uncomfortable, sparking a sensual response she could not suppress.
Delia suddenly stopped and Glenys almost ran into her. “My lady, what is it?”
“Nothing,” she said. “I…we need to rest.”
Glenys looked at her suspiciously, but did not press, and Delia was grateful. She did not want to explain that she suddenly dreaded the thought of speaking with the Romans. Unreasonably, she thought a few more minutes and a dark night would make the task easier. Doubtful, but the truth was she was all at once afraid of meeting a man who could make her blush with a glance.
As Delia scanned the trees around them, Glenys took off her heavy belt and set it on a stump, smiling back at her mistress. “Well, since we are stopping…” Without waiting for a reply, she scurried off into the forest to relieve herself.
“Not too far,” Delia called distractedly, but Glenys had disappeared. Delia was irritated at first, but then shook her head. The girl had always been impetuous and reminded Delia so much of herself as a young woman, she had to smile.
Glenys was only eighteen winters, with rich brown wavy hair, deep olive skin, and black Mediterranean eyes that made her appear several years older. Her father had been a Roman soldier and her mother a Breton from a neighboring tribe. When her father died, the village had shunned her poor mother, and Delia had taken them in, much to Conall’s displeasure. Delia shivered at the memory. She never understood how people could be so cruel. Glenys could not help that a Roman had fathered her. However, Delia herself often had to shake off the disgust the thought would bring. Just imagining a Roman soldier touching her sent her skin crawling.
She realized the man in the field had been Roman. With an effort, Delia shook the unwanted image from her mind and forced herself to focus on the task at hand. They would have to hurry if they wanted to make camp before it turned dark—or she completely lost her nerve.
When she spotted Glenys’ knife, she picked it up and frowned. “Glenys?” Delia called, but the only reply was the crickets breek-reeking from the wall of darkening trees. A cold terror shifted through her shoulder blades sending a flash of heat into her cheeks. Something was wrong.
*****
A grim thought flashed through his mind. He may never hold Delia again. Marius’ throat tightened. He dug his heels into Brutus and forced him to move faster. He would make it up to the horse later, if he survived.
The forest blurred around him. Brown, green, branches growing like twisted mirages charging at him out of the foggy morning. He dodged them, sometimes successfully–sometimes not. His head and good shoulder ached where they sliced him. The movement of the horse’s massive leg muscles deadened his thighs, making it difficult to manipulate the beast. Despite the speed, Brutus knew his master well and needed little guidance. Marius missed the Roman armor he had worn for twenty-five years, but the Celtic clothes gave him more freedom to manage the animal. He was slowly adjusting to being a citizen—very slowly.
Risking another glimpse over his shoulder, Marius saw nothing but the trees receding. The sound of jangling Roman horse tack, the shouts of Latin curses, and the frustrated bellows of General Suetonius had also faded. If he was lucky, the soldiers followed him into the woods, giving the refugees a chance to escape the blades or manacles of the governor’s revenge. A wave of satisfaction sent a bemused smile across his face knowing they had once again out maneuvered the general. Except for the unexpected pila that grazed his arm, he had done well. If they did not catch him, he would count this a success.
When it was safe, Marius stopped and examined the wound, wincing when the gap opened a little wider beneath his
fingers. It would need a surgeon’s needle to close it properly. Delia was going to be furious. He could almost hear her voice; Not
ONLY have your ruined the shirt I made for you, but they could have killed you. You have to be more careful! I will not raise this
child on my own. Do you understand me?
Even seven months pregnant, Delia was still a fortune of fire, a passion of untamed spirit.
Marius sighed. This would not improve her mood and another fight was inevitable. He sometimes forgot Delia was a Briton queen and
leader of the Corieltauvi tribe. This always made their relationship interesting.
“You are going to have to be faster than that, liberatio.”
Marius drew his sword, forcing Brutus to rear onto his back legs when the voice bounced against the trees to his right. The armored figure emerged from the forest with seven Roman soldiers at his back. Marius swore.
“Aelius, that is a damn good way to get yourself killed.” He slammed his sword into the scabbard, pulling the red mask from his head. He patted the horse’s neck to calm him. “Report.”
The young man’s dark blue eyes sparkled from underneath a crown of rumpled black hair. Aelius threw him a half-crooked smile. The innocence Marius used to associate with his ward was gone now, burned out of his eyes on the battlefield the year before, and replaced by the grim countenance of a veteran. He had seen it too many times and in too many men. It was disturbing to see it in the young man he had raised.
With a silent hand signal, Aelius ordered his men to take up their positions. “Forgive me—sir—but you should learn to pay more attention. Had this been a patrol...”
“You would be dead,” Marius snorted and urged Brutus forward. “Report, soldier.”
“Yes, sir.” Aelius suppressed the grin that edged its way around his mouth. “The general’s men abandoned the chase about two miles back. They were confounded by the woods and by the fact that there were four different trails to follow and four different masked men. The centurion had us lead the bulk of Suetonius’ men north. The road should be clear for the refugees. The queen’s warriors are leading them to Hillfort. They will probably beat us there. The queen sent word that you should...” Aelius pursed his lips and tightened his fists on the reins. “Well, that you should get home soon, sir.”
“Very good.” Marius carefully tucked the red mask into an inside pocket of his heavy tartan cloak.
“Careful they do not catch you with that. It would be worth your head. The bounty has quadrupled in the last five days.” The mischievous glint in his eyes made them twitch in the muted early morning sunlight sifting through the boughs. “Almost high enough for me to collect it myself.”
Marius grunted and increased his pace when they hit the main road. “The higher it goes, the better we are doing our job. How many this time?”
Aelius shrugged and examined his men. “Two hundred, maybe a few more; mostly women and children. I think that is the last of them here. Do you want us to search for more this week?”
“No. You need to get the century to your patrol area before command gets suspicious. We will start again next week. Is Kuna coming back tonight?”
“No, sir.” Aelius fell into step. “The centurion has gone to Londinium to fetch Aunt Antonia, and then he has been ordered to command camp by Tribune Quintius. Kuna says to tell you he would prefer to ignore the order again, but that they are getting insistent. He cannot disregard it. He will see us at Hillfort in the morning.”
Marius nodded and watched the fog dissipate.
They were out of danger for the time being but it was getting more difficult every day. Marius’ time was running out. His guise as the liberatio mysticus would soon do nothing for Delia’s people. The Romans were forcing their advantage and more Britons were dying every day.
* * * *
“... do you have any idea what would happen to us without you?” Delia tried without success to remove Marius’ arms from around her swollen belly.
They stood naked next to the balcony in their bedroom. The late moon was the only light in the room. It streamed through the intricate balustrade.
He ignored her outburst and kissed her behind the ear. “Do you really want to argue, my love?”
“No. Yes!” She gave him a frustrated huff. “I could not bear it without you, you must understand that.” Tears saturated her dark lashes, making the green eyes shine in the soft light. “Please be more careful.”
“I promise,” he whispered, breathing in her scent and luxuriating in her presence.
“Do you remember the day we were married?” he asked.
“Of course, I do.”
“I had never been anywhere that held such power of spirit than that small clearing in the woods with its pillar of stone. I began to think your gods might hold sway over even Mars.”
Delia smiled in his arms. “I remember.”
“You told me the goddess had blessed the standing stone… that the sanctuary was a sacred place.”
“It is. My ancestors have been crowned and married there for generations.”
“You also told me something I will never forget.”
“Which is?”
Marius ran long fingers through her hair. It was warm and soft in his hand. “That you would trust me. You promised me.”
“Yes, well…”
“I will hold you to that promise, my queen. Trust me now. I will always come home to you.” The passion of the words whispered into her ear surprised him.
Marius leaned down, touched his lips very softly to the side of her neck, and a gratifying shiver run through her body. Encouraged, he cupped her breasts in his hands and gently touched the nipples with his thumbs, one after the other, making her take a deep inward breath. The sound set off a twinge deep in his loins and he tightened his buttocks to increase it.
Marius shifted his weight so that his hardness rubbed against her naked back. “I missed you.”
Delia chuckled and put her hands behind her to encircle his neck, allowing him full access to her body. “Obviously.”
Marius ran his hands down her belly where the moonlight shimmered against the taut skin. Strands of hair lay softly against it, golden in the light. He could feel the bulge of her distended belly and allowed his fingers to linger. The stretched skin was silky under his rough fingertips. He loved touching the softness. A quick movement responded to his caress and Delia let out a gasp.
“Oh, he moved,” she said. She took Marius’ hand and guided his fingers a little lower, making him push in. His fingers brushed the hard outline of something, a leg, or an arm, but then it shifted on its own. “There, feel?”
A kind of satisfaction sent waves of warmth through him when a little kick of life blossomed in her belly.
A sudden deep revelation struck him, chasing away
the warmth.
The stern, self-assured centurion he had once been was gone. He could not stop the wash of fear sending shivers up his spine. The loss constricted his abdomen. Marius would never again feel the power of command coursing through his blood, never again hear the tromp of hundreds of marching horses, the jingle of armor, or the clash of blade against shield in battle. He would never again be a centurion. The notion sent regret through every corner of his mind. The hero was gone.
Only a man, like other men. The thought thundered through his head.
Marius pulled his hands away and stared at the back of Delia’s head.
“What is the matter?” Delia turned to examine his face.
Marius forced a smile onto his lips and took her in his arms. “Nothing. A little pain. Your healer is less skilled with the needle than my medico.” Marius bent down to kiss her, but she pushed him back.
“No, there is something wrong.”
He rubbed his face with one hand, scrambling for a response.
“It is nothing. Now, come here.” He coerced the smile more successfully, swept her up into a long kiss, and then lifted her into his arms. Delia softened against his body and the moment of doubt melted under the heat of her skin. When he looked into her eyes, he knew he had made the right decision a year ago.
Marius carried her to a thick mat on the floor and laid her down. He kissed her eyelids, her nose and then tenderly brushed her lips with his own. She sighed deeply and ran her hands through his hair, bringing fire to the kiss. Marius pulled away and moved a lock of hair from her face.
“Are you certain? I can wait,” he said.
The radiating smile shining back at him gripped his heart. “But I cannot. I know you will be gentle.” Delia pulled him back to her lips and he basked in her warmth.
Marius ran his lips over her face, neck, and shoulders slowly, until he came to the delicate breasts. The soft flesh yielded to his rough hands and a jolt of passion sparked every nerve in his body. He took each nipple into his mouth, one at a time, biting gently until they hardened against his tongue. A satisfying gasp escaped Delia’s lips. She reached down to take his erection into her hot hand and caressed it lightly, sending another surge of lust through his body. He bit down firmly and Delia let out a playful ouch.
Careful not to move too quickly, Marius ran his hand over her swollen belly and then along her thighs, until her back arched at his touch. He brought his fingers up slowly and then cupped them between her open legs, pushing with a measured caress that made her gasp again. Running his tongue mercilessly over her nipple, he slid his middle finger to open her so slowly her whispered please let him know the rhythm was right. Using her moisture, he ran his finger up and down until the swollen lips were completely open to his advance. He lingered at the top, rubbing her until the silky wetness covered his fingers. He pulled his erection out of her reluctant hand.
Kneeling between her legs, Marius opened them wide and ran his tongue along the crevice, up and then down, prolonging the motion until Delia moaned in need. Taking the button between his lips and sucking lightly, he watched as her belly quivered in short, panting breaths. When she drew close, he withdrew his mouth and stopped, causing her to whimper and swear. He laughed at her.
Repositioning himself on his side next to her, he lifted Delia’s leg over his waist and ran his hand up her inner thigh, positioning himself to enter her torrid body. In a measured stroke, he pushed inside her, feeling her heat as it slowly engulfed him, inch by inch, concentrating to keep the sensation from overwhelming him, careful not to enter too quickly. The incredibly hot folds of silky skin and tight muscle bore down on him, craving the extent of his firmness. Marius kept it slow, even, allowing Delia to set the depth, the pace. In and out, again and again, gradually increasing the speed, he sank into her, watching her hair fly from side to side like wind-blown rushes.
Delia reached down to touch both herself and him, her wet fingers sliding against the engorged muscle as he thrust it forward and then back. The touch nearly sent him over the edge, but he held it back. Again, he took her nipple into his mouth and bit on it, increasing the pace of his thrusts until neither of them could take anymore. The screams of release resounded through the house when they gave into the intensity and let the spasms consume them. Lost in their passion, the trembling contortions knocked them off the mat.
Laughing from the floor, Marius inspected her thoroughly, making certain she and the baby were all right.
“Maybe we should stop…”
“Not on your life, sir.” Delia wrapped her arms around him. “You are not getting away that easily.”
Marius touched her golden hair and took in a breath of air when her jade eyes sparkled in the moonlight. His doubt slipped into a memory.
* * * *
The next day, Marius and Delia interviewed a parade of poor Briton mothers, daughters, sons, uncles, and other relatives. The fortitude of these displaced people impressed Marius; they were all gaunt and dark with exhaustion, yet they held themselves with a quiet dignity he had seldom seen in a defeated people. Every day his respect for the Celts deepened. He was ashamed he had not taken the time before now to explore it.
“Mother,” he said to the older woman staring up at him now. Attached to her hands were two small children dressed in tatters with dirty faces and awe-filled eyes. “You are welcome to take refuge with us as long as you need. We will do what we can to find the children’s mother.” He glanced at his wife who smiled back at him proudly. “Perhaps she will be in the next group we find. Just give her name to one of my warriors and they will…”
A loud murmur rose from the milling crowd and Marius looked up sharply. Making his way through the few people remaining, Delia’s commander, Evyn, firmly gripped the elbow of a hooded figure, who stumbled next to him. The figure struggled, but Evyn had a good grip.
“We caught this one trying to sneak in through the back gate.” He yanked the hood off her head.
The woman was beautiful, tall, a tangle of deep auburn hair surrounding light blue eyes, with an aristocratic sulk lining an otherwise striking face.
“Rheydyn!” Delia cried.
Evyn drew his sword.
Standing before them was a ghost; the woman who had enslaved Delia, fought with the warriors to challenge the Romans almost a year ago, the proud princess of a dead kingdom. Boudiga’s daughter frowned at them and the room went silent.
