There were five hundred men in Marcus's cavalry, and they'd been turned out on foot for this moment, all wearing the helmets of Apollo and lining both sides of the village lane that led to the gate. Native Britons pressed at their back, anxious to see the beautiful bride of a commander whose fortune affected their own and jostling with each other for the best view. As the chariot passed, the soldiers' lances tilted inward slightly, forming an arbor of ash and iron. Then, as the butt of a decurion's lance came down on the paving stones to mark rhythm, the soldiers cried "Talassio!" in concert, the chant booming from mouths invisible behind their metal masks. The helmets gave the cry an echo, as if issuing from a cave.
Galba's turma of thirty-two cavalry clattered into the fort's central courtyard and again formed a ceremonial line, the chariot rolling up before them. The wedding guests streamed in behind like an exultant mob, torches bobbing. Valeria looked around curiously. The headquarters building was straight ahead, she saw, its grim facade pierced by an entry that led to an inner court and colonnade. To its left was the hospital; to its right her new home, two stories high and aglow with light, slaves dutifully waving colored streamers from its windows. Fir boughs garlanded its eaves, and flower petals were scattered on the paving. Still, there was no mistaking the utilitarian architecture of the military residence: stony, solid, practical, austere. She swallowed. Here was to be her new life.
Marcus jumped from the chariot and lifted his wife down, releasing her waist as if it were hot.
"Kiss the lips of our Venus, Marcus! Kiss so we can enjoy it!"
The fortress commander ignored them.
"He's waiting to kiss more than that inside!"
The couple walked past Galba's solemn patrol to their front door, where Savia waited with a bowl of oil. Valeria dipped her fingers as tradition demanded and anointed the entry, carefully drawing oil along its frame to ensure good fortune. The bride dribbled some drops on the threshold and then, after hesitating, brushed oil on the tip of the carved stone phallus that jutted to one side of the entrance. The crowd roared approval.
Marcus opened the door, revealing a shimmering aurora of candles and lamps, and moved to ceremonially block Valeria's entrance as tradition required. "Tell me your forename, stranger," he commanded, his voice carrying to the spectators beyond. It was the ritual request.
Women had no forename, and so in accord with the Roman wedding custom she used his. "Wherever you are Lucius, there shall I be Lucia," she replied clearly. And now at last he swept her up again and, arms strong, eyes proud, carried her over the threshold and into her new life.
Marcus set his bride down. Their new home had a Briton plank floor, but its interior walls were reassuringly plastered and painted in the intricate and colorful Roman geometric manner. Her new husband made no move to take her cloak, and so Valeria finally unhooked it and gave it to him, letting him drape it over a stool. Savia and the servants had disappeared, she saw. Marcus looked relieved at the privacy, the public ordeal over, but still he was uncertain what to do. "Would you like a tour of my quarters?" He was not accustomed to the pronoun our.
"Tomorrow, perhaps." She was trembling slightly. How handsome her husband looked! But also old and remote and formal, like a statue. He was a quiet man, she realized, and would never have the dramatic instincts of a Caesar or the eloquence of a Cicero. Yet didn't that make him deeper, more honest, and less vain?
"Of course," he said, as if to apologize. "Would you like some wine?"
"I'm already heady, and in danger of floating away."
"I need a cup." He led her up a short flight of steps to the dining room and poured himself one. Flowers had been scattered on the central table, and behind there was a mural of some epic Britannic battle, legionaries surmounting splintered chariots and Britons cowering at their feet. Shields, spears, and animal horns decorated the walls, jutting like the doorway's phallus. "It's a masculine kind of place," he said apologetically. "My most recent predecessors weren't married. It will change with your things." He pointed at some rusting weaponry. "Those are trophies the Petriana won in combat. My goal is to add my own."
"How long has this house been here?" It was something to say.
"Two hundred years, maybe longer. The ghosts of commander after commander must walk here, in a long scarlet line."
"Ghosts?"
He smiled. "A figure of speech. What I really mean is the tradition of the army. I've inherited that, and now you have, too. The cavalry is the best paid and most highly trained, and needs the quickest and bravest men. None from the softer trades, like weaving or fishing. We look for carpenters, stonecutters, wheelwrights, blacksmiths-"
"I'm tired, Marcus."
He looked concerned. "Would you like to sit?"
"We should go to bed." It was a gentle suggestion.
"Of course."
The wedding chamber was small, as in all Roman houses, to conserve the heat of its occupants. There was a single high window of colored glass, a chest, a small table, and a single chair. Spring apple blossoms had been scattered on their bed, and incense gave the room a sultry smell, but its military plainness couldn't be hidden.
"The slaves have done with it what they could," he said.
The two stood awkwardly. Could they teach each other, as Lucinda had promised? Valeria's expectations of marriage had never really extended beyond the ceremony. Now they had a whole lifetime together! She felt intoxicated and dizzy. Marcus was looking at her in a new, strange way, and she was thrilled and frightened to realize that he finally seemed to desire her. And still he seemed frozen.
The oil lamp sent their shadows dancing.
"You're a very pretty girl, Valeria."
She lifted her chin. "Will you kiss me, Marcus? I've come so far."
He nodded and gently reached out. They kissed more deeply this time, his beard exhilaratingly rough-so different from the furtive kisses of the boys she'd known in Rome-and his scent of wine and some deeper man-musk earthy and powerful. She shuddered slightly as his powerful arms went around her, drawing her closer, and kissed him ever more hotly, enveloped in the folds of his toga and dimly feeling his body beyond. Married! Everything was different now.
They broke, gasping.
"Ah, Valeria." He studied her face. "I remember when I saw you in your father's atrium in Rome, so young, so exquisite. You conquered me in an instant! Then so wild and ragged in the forest. And now here you are, so soft again, on this hard frontier."
"Now we're here together."
"Yes." He stroked her cheek. "You've given me a chance at glory."
"We'll share that glory, and together we'll make our name."
"You must warn me if I hurt you. You must tell me what you enjoy."
She nodded dumbly. She didn't know what she enjoyed.
He untied the ceremonial knot that held the waist of her gown, revealing the bridal linen shift that the barbarian had rudely fingered, its weave fine enough to reveal the swell of her breasts, the slight curve of her belly, the delta of her secret hair. Then he moved to the oil lamp, dousing it, and it was completely dark. Valeria felt brief panic. She wanted to cry for him to wait, that she wasn't ready, but it was too late for that, wasn't it? Could he hear the hammering of her heart?
"Take off your bridal tunic."
She nodded to indicate that she'd heard and then realized he couldn't see her. "Yes." She took out the last pins, and it fell to the floor. Her body prickled at the cool air.
She could hear the rustle of his own garments being discarded and the creak of the rope webbing of the bed. "Come, lie beside me."
She shuffled forward until her shins felt the edge of the woolen blankets and stooped, feeling the feather mattress until she touched his leg. Her hand jerked away.
"It's just me."
Venus, give me strength, she prayed. He already thinks me an idiot. She crawled forward to lie on the rich mattress and felt his heat as he came near, his strong hand reaching to touch her arm and stroke her side.
It helped calm her. "Please, kiss me again."
He did so, tenderly at first and then harder, more anxiously, and slowly moved atop her. He was heavy, and she could feel this real phallus against her thigh, hard and hot. She half wanted to touch it and half wanted to push him away. So she did neither, waiting to see what would happen. His hands moved over her breasts, and he kissed one of them too, and then his powerful leg levered apart her thighs.
"I'm frightened," she whispered.
"It will be over quickly."
He was breathing hard, pushing insistently. How could she ever accommodate such invasion? She wished they could kiss more first. She clung to his broad back, her fingernails unconsciously biting. Suddenly, there was sharp pain.
"Oh!" She realized she'd cried out.
Now he was impossibly deep, but instead of feeling worse it began to feel better, wet and full. She relaxed a bit. Marcus was moving again, breathing hard, and they rocked as he slid back and forth. She lay obediently, listening to the creak of the bed, trying to inventory what she was feeling. It was not so much good or bad as confusing…
Suddenly he stiffened. Had she done something wrong? He grunted, a half-cry. Then he collapsed on top of her, exhaling.
He lay like a dead man, sweaty.
"Marcus, are you all right?"
He hoisted his head. "Give me a son, Valeria."
Then he rolled off her.
She was shaking. "Will you hold me?"
He took her into his arms. So this was what all the fuss was about! Valeria felt amazed, and a little betrayed. The bed was wet, her husband keeping his own hips away from hers. She still wondered what he looked like.
"I love you, Marcus," she finally said. Her confidence was returning. She was a woman! She gripped him. "Now I want to learn all about you so I can be a good wife. All your thoughts, all your secrets. And everything about Britannia as well."
He breathed against her. "Why are women so inquisitive?"
"We care about our men."
He was quiet for a while. Then: "And I care for mine. No secrets tonight. Dawn comes early in a fortress, and I have to see to my troops."
"Your soldiers? Can't you give tomorrow to me?"
"There's much to do. That surprise in the forest, for one."
She cuddled closer. "What can you do? They're gone."
"Galba is investigating, and he won't rest. He's a raw provincial, rough as bark, but I'll give this to the man: he's a soldier." Marcus was quiet a moment. "What a near thing that was! What if I'd lost you less than a day from my fort!"
"You saved me! You and Galba together!" She curled deeper into his arms. "How did the barbarians set their trap?"
"They must have spies. But so do we."
She lay there thinking of the green, aqueous forest and the wild men who dropped from trees. So sudden, and yet so planned. She thought of their chieftain's good Latin and his cocky boldness. "Marcus?"
"Hmmm?" He was near sleep.
"I wonder how the painted man knew I wanted to ride a horse."
"Your gladiator, perhaps. He betrayed you."
She nestled even deeper. "Beware the one you trust," she recited.
XVI
The first thing Valeria decided about married life is that she didn't feel very married. She slept until noon, exhausted by the previous day's excitement and the night's apprehension and unsatisfactory fulfillment, and woke in a bed half empty and cold. As he'd warned, her new husband was gone. The house was quiet.
She swung her legs onto the floor of the sleeping chamber and felt its chill on the soles of her feet. The blossoms on their bed had browned and fallen to the floor, her wedding ribbons curled among them. The smell of incense had given way to the musty dampness of wet stone. The one tapestry, she saw now, was nothing but a woven replica of the red-and-yellow shields of the Petriana. She shivered. Perhaps summer would eventually come and bring some warmth to Britannia, but so far the lengthening days of spring carried a memory of winter and the dank breath of the northern sea. She'd have to learn to dress warmly, as the Britons did.
Valeria went to the chamber door and called for Savia. The older woman came eventually but without hurry, sleepy and cross. Hadn't Savia slept in as well? Pushing Valeria aside, the maidservant made a brisk and businesslike inspection of the bed, clucking approvingly at the blood.
"Now you're a woman. When you bear your first child, you'll have consummated your marriage. But you haven't started yet, I hope."
"You know I don't want a child in this fortress. I'll wait until we're home."
"Did you use the vinegar?"
She nodded, embarrassed. "Don't tell Marcus. He wants a son." She was anxious to change the subject. "I thought my husband would stay with me today."
"He's married to his fortress as well as to you."
"But the day after our wedding?" It was the only day in which Roman custom permitted daytime lovemaking. "He could at least spare a morning."
"You've wasted that morning asleep! And he has five hundred men to attend to. It's his duty to concentrate on the Petriana, and yours to concentrate on him."
"I was wondering how long it would take you to remind me of duty, Savia."
"Roman duty won you this house, this post, and this province. You've got an entire lifetime to see your husband, and if you're like any other wife, you'll get sick of him long before it's over. Now stop feeling sorry for yourself and come to the baths."
The house, Valeria saw, was built around a barren central atrium open to the sky, giving the domicile four wings. The courtyard drank in pale Briton sunlight but had no fountain or plantings to soften its stone. The baths at the rear were more encouraging: a privy above the burble of a piped underground stream with its sponge on a stick to wipe oneself, a fountain of clean washing water, a steam room, and hot and cold plunge baths. Mosaics of dolphins and waving kelp were laid with crude but colorful Briton craftsmanship. Valeria descended into the hot with a sigh and the cold with a gasp, climbing out with her pores shut and her skin goose-pimpled. The physical shock had washed away some of her strange gloom. She was married! It was both accomplishment and relief. Surely, now things would begin.
"You look as if you just awakened yourself, Savia," she observed as her maidservant dried her.
"Rather I was awakened at dawn by banging pots and splashing water," the slave replied. "Your new staff rose perversely early to impress you. I got up to scold the cook, Marta, and she said I was to answer to her. She's a Saxon by birth, as obstinate as any German, and as haughty as an Egyptian. I could barely understand her accent."
"I'll make clear the order of things," Valeria promised. "And you and I must learn to speak and understand Celtic, or they'll be chattering about us like magpies."
"It can be as difficult to command a household staff as a ship of pirates!"
They laughed, having heard a hundred stories to confirm the proverb. Valeria donned her linen underclothes, put on a long tunic, and then pulled over it her woolen stola and fastened it with brooches. How sad to have lost the sea-horse one, a present from her mother. She slipped on socks before her sandals and felt swaddled as a baby. What a sight she'd be in Rome!
"But before I organize the staff, I want to clear my head, perhaps with a tour of our fortress. Can you send for an escort?"
She nibbled on breakfast as she waited.
It did not entirely surprise her that Clodius was the one who eventually answered her summons. He bowed in the atrium. "It seems I've been sent again, my lady."
"Thank the gods," she joked. "My husband has already abandoned me!"
"No man abandons beauty like yours. Rather, he's been abducted by duty. We've received word that there may be news about the ambush. Galba is being sent to get it by helping a barbarian chieftain in a cattle dispute. He's riding with a hundred men."
The realization that Marcus had the power to send a hundred soldiers off into the wilderness gave Valeria a quiet thrill. Here was a tiny flexing of that va
st power that reached all the way to Rome. "My husband has been busy, hasn't he?"
"And sends me as poor substitute in his place. I confess I suggested the assignment myself. It's a way for making up for my boorish poetry at your wedding."
"Oh, that's entirely forgiven and forgotten!"
"It's the oaf who is last to forgive his own clumsiness, I'm afraid."
"You were brave to defy those barbarians!"
"Brave, but helpless." He touched his neck. "I allowed us to be surprised."
She didn't contradict him. "Does it hurt?"
"I'll have a scar."
"Which will soon be covered by a Celtic torque of valor!"
They went outside. The flower petals of the night before had been swept from the courtyard, and men and horses were gathering there for the expedition. The cavalry animals weren't fine-boned steeds but shorter, shaggier, more stolid beasts, obviously bred not just for speed but for endurance. They snorted and whinnied, nipping at each other. Each was loaded with equipment for a short expedition: water skin, food bag, holstered throwing lances, cooking utensils, and tarps. The prelude to attack was often a great rattle, as necessary baggage was set aside before a charge.
Soldier's heads swung to look curiously at the woman who was the reason for this expedition, their expressions not unfriendly. Valeria was novel, beautiful, aristocratic, and newlywed, and this foray was a welcome break from post routine.
Galba was waiting at their head. "Good hunting, senior tribune," Valeria greeted. "I understand you ride to help one of our allies."
"Rufus Braxus would swell like a toad to hear you call him that."
"He's a chieftain?"
"He'll tell you he's a prince of the Novantae tribe, sire of nine sons, keeper of three wives, lord of a timbered hill fort, commander of eighty spears, and blood-bound to five high families. I'll tell you he's farmer, merchant, shepherd, drover, smuggler, cheat, and thief, who uses Roman money to carve a bigger stink-hole than he could by himself. As a result he's loud, ignorant, blasphemous, boastful, vain, sly, and lazy."
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