“Why don’t you ask Larsendt? He seems to know everything that goes on around here.”
“Let’s leave your bodyguard out of this. I just want you to know that I am posting that boy as a runaway slave, with a full description and a reward offered for his return.”
“You won’t find him on your own, and the Iceni won’t turn him in no matter what you offer. Honor is more important to them than any amount of money.”
“Quite the defender of the natives, aren’t you? Do you know how many Roman lives they have cost us?”
“They’re fighting for their own country, as you would do if an outside invader conquered Rome.”
Scipio held up his hand. “I am not going to debate politics with a lovesick teenager besotted with the rippling muscles of a hulking, wild haired Celt. I should have known better than to take him on, none of those people are to be trusted.”
“What about Ariovistus? You trust him.”
“He’s a Trinovante! They have always been our allies.”
“They’re Celts first.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Scipio demanded.
“None of the Britons are happy that we are here, Father. Don’t you feel that? Doesn’t it bother you?”
Scipio shrugged. “I’m used to it. I’ve been a senior officer with an occupying power all of my adult life. The strongest are often not the best loved.”
“Is that what you tell yourself?” Lucia said disgustedly, turning her head away from him.
“Now you listen to me,” Scipio said, his temper rising. “Your mother may be taken in by your histrionics but I am not. I don’t know where that runaway has gone, but you probably do, and if you think that you are going to sneak off and meet him someplace you are sadly mistaken. You are confined to this house, you will go nowhere. And if I find him, I will see that he is charged with stuprum.”
“You can‘t do that! He hasn’t done anything!”
“He has offended ME!” Scipio shouted. “He put his hands on my daughter, a woman engaged to be married to a respectable husband! And when I get MY hands on that sicarius he will wish that he never met you. Crucifixion, I assure you, is not an easy way to die.”
Lucia gripped the top of the sheet, her knuckles going white with tension.
“I hate you,” she whispered.
“Then join the group,” Scipio said, making a sweeping gesture. “According to you, everyone else hates me too, so it will not damage my reputation to tie that boy to a cross and make an example of him for the whole native population.”
“And have everyone know that your little girl was playing around with a drooling barbarian?” Lucia said challengingly, trying a new tactic.
She knew she had scored a hit when her father’s face turned purple and he was too furious to speak.
The door to the hall opened and Drucilla swept in, her eyes darting between her daughter and her husband.
“What is going on in here?” she demanded of Scipio. “I could hear you from the kitchen.”
Scipio rose from the chair abruptly and stalked to the window, ignoring the question.
“Do you imagine that all this yelling is helping her?” Drucilla asked, speaking to her husband’s back.
After a long pause Scipio turned around to face both them. He had almost regained his usual composure.
“I think that Lucia and I understand one another,” he said in a strained voice, and walked out of the bedroom.
Lucia punctuated his departure with another grab for the basin, and her mother took the place her father had vacated in the chair.
Bronwen was folding clothes into a chest in her bedroom when Claudius appeared in the doorway. He swept his cloak from his shoulders and tossed it onto the bed, pulling her into his arms.
“Oh, you smell wonderful,” he said, nuzzling her neck. “All morning I was thinking about last night, until I just couldn’t stand it any more.” He kicked the door closed behind him and kissed her cheek, then her nose, then her mouth.
“What did you say to get away?” Bronwen asked, as the midday sun streamed through the window, casting a shaft of pale wintry light across the floor.
“I told Ardus I had something to do at home,” he said. He grinned. “I just didn’t tell him what it was.”
“I think Ardus knows,” Bronwen said, as he undressed her, kissing each part of her body that he uncovered, dropping her garments on the floor. Then he stripped quickly, his clothes following hers in a scarlet shower. When he was naked she reached for him and they dropped back together onto the bed, his body enveloping hers.
He kissed her again, and she responded so ardently that he raised his head, looking down at her. He saw the coppery hair fanned out like strands of silk on the sheet, the lips moist from his kisses, the light eyes already half closed with passion.
She reacted to his slightest caress like a pile of kindling touched with fire.
“What?” she said, puzzled by his hesitation.
“Nothing. I like to look at you when you’re...” He stopped.
“Hungry?” she suggested, and he laughed softly.
“Yes, hungry,” he said, his smile fading as she traced with a slender finger the angry ridge of tissue that covered his recent shoulder wound. It was still slightly swollen and would gradually fade to a pink-white scar, like the others. She lifted up suddenly and kissed it. He held her head against him, his hand lost in the mass of her red gold hair, until he could no longer endure the delicate feathering of her lips on her skin and pushed her down to the bed.
She whimpered with pleasure as he slid his hands beneath her and pulled her up against him; she wrapped her legs around his hips, sighing as he made love to her, straining restlessly under him.
“What do you want?” he finally said thickly. “Tell me.”
She moaned in response, digging her fingers into his shoulders.
“Say it,” he gasped urgently, barely able to speak.
Bronwen whispered into his ear and he drove into her wildly. They raced to a headlong conclusion that left them both drained and drowsy, half asleep before the bedroom fire, which burned all day long. They lay together in dreamy lassitude until a trumpet sounded distantly and Claudius stirred, moving to the edge of the bed.
“That’s the apparitor marking the noon hour,” he said, reaching for his tunic on the floor. “I have to get back.”
“Don’t go just yet,” Bronwen murmured, sitting up and clutching his arm.
He shrugged into the garment and then bent over the bed to kiss the tip of her nose.
“Duty calls,” he said.
“I wish you weren’t in the army,” she said, pulling the sheet up to her chin and watching as he donned the rest of his clothes.
“If I weren’t in the army we would never have met,” he said logically, buckling on his weapons belt. “I wouldn’t have sailed to Britain on a pleasure cruise.”
“Why not? We have such a bracing winter climate.”
He chuckled.
“You were supposed to leave for Londinium today,” Bronwen said suddenly, remembering. “What did you tell Scipio?”
“I didn’t have to tell him anything. He received word last night that the southern pass is blocked with snow, but the delay shouldn’t be long. They’re sending a team out to clear it today.” He favored her with a sidelong smile. “But I did put in a request for joint domestic housing for the two of us in Londinium.”
“What did the general say?’”
“He hasn’t seen it yet. I gave it to Ardus.”
“I can imagine what he said,” Bronwen observed gloomily.
“Never mind what he said, mea voluptas. You just worry about keeping me happy.”
“I think I know how to do that,” she replied, favoring him with a catlike smile.
“Hold that thought,” he said, swinging his cloak over his shoulder and blowing her a kiss with his free hand. “I will see you tonight.”
Bronwen watched him go through the bedroo
m door, then sighed with disappointment and rolled over in the bed.
The table in Borrus’ home was littered with the remains of a meal. The king, his son, and Parex sat forward in their wooden chairs, elbows on the table, drinking corma and staring morosely into their cups.
“I told you working in the general’s stable would come to no good,” Borrus said to Brettix.
“I didn’t have much choice about it, did I? He bought me at a slave auction.”
“You chose to stay!” Borrus said, pointing his finger. “You could have taken off at the beginning and he would have cut his losses, but you couldn’t wait to lurk in the shadows and listen at doors.”
“And I learned some valuable information. That first quaestor is dead, and we have fifty new shields and some helmets and stolen uniforms from the raid the other night, and...”
“And your description is already posted in Latin and Greek on every tree in the garrison, along with a sketch for the Celts who can’t read either!” Borrus exploded. “And all the gods of Britain won’t help us if the Romans find out who you REALLY are. Right now Scipio is just angry that he wasn’t able to resell you to somebody else who wanted a horseman. He’s out some money and some pride, but if he ever finds out that you’re my son...” The king threw up his hands.
“You always make it sound like they’re gods,” Brettix said in annoyance, toying with his cup.
“I am older than you, I have seen what the Romans can do. I’ve seen hundreds of crosses lining the roadway, I’ve seen villages burned to the ground in a single morning, bodies piled so deep you can’t even find the grass.”
“I saw it too,” Brettix said shortly. “I was young, but I remember what it was like when mother was killed.”
“Then you’d better take care!” Borrus said, finishing his drink and rising. He eyed Brettix narrowly. “Why did you have to get out of there now?”
“The girl had learned everything I had to teach her, and I was afraid if I pressed to stay longer they would get suspicious,” Brettix said, exchanging glances with Parex.
Borrus did not know about his son’s involvement with Lucia, and Brettix wanted to keep it that way.
The door of the house opened and all three looked up as Parex’ sister Cartia came through it, pulling her shawl from her head and stomping snow from her shoes. The men watched as she shed her outer garments and went over to the fire, warming her hands before it.
“How did it go at the market?” Parex asked. “Did you sell a lot of little native trinkets to the Italians?”
Cartia smiled. “I saw Maeve. She said that Bronwen has some information for Brettix.”
Brettix looked at the other two men, who said in unison, “You’re not going back there.”
“What are you talking about?” Brettix countered. “You put Bronwen in that house, marry her off to that snot of an officer, just so she can spy for you, and now you don’t want to know what she’s learned?”
“We’ll find out some other way,” Borrus said.
“How? She can’t come out here for a visit, and they see everybody who goes there.”
“But they won’t see you?” Borrus asked sarcastically.
“I know a secret way to get inside the security walls.”
Parex rolled his eyes.
“It must be important or Bronwen wouldn’t have sent Maeve with the message,” Brettix said.
“They’re looking for you,” Borrus said, speaking each word clearly, as if his son were deaf. “You are a wanted man. A drawing of your face is hanging on every woodshed in the garrison.”
“I won’t look like me when I go there,” Brettix said simply.
Cartia shook her head and bent over to stir the fire’s embers with a poker.
“Parex, you have those Roman uniforms you stole the other night?” Brettix asked.
Parex nodded wearily.
“Do you think if we looked hard we could find one to fit me?” he asked, grinning.
“Brettix, it’s too dangerous,” Borrus said warningly, as he realized what his son was planning.
“Why? With a close shave and short hair I could look just like one of them.”
“There aren’t too many blonds in the Roman army,” Cartia pointed out dryly.
“How can you say that, woman? The colonial legions are filled with Germans from Gaul and towering Swiss from Helvetia,” Brettix replied reasonably.
“The soldiers deployed to this fort are from the home legions, they all look like Bronwen’s husband,” Parex said flatly.
“So I’ll coat my hair with soot. It will be dark and I’ll wear a helmet. I can do it.”
“Let me go instead,” Parex suggested. “Bronwen knows me, she will talk to me.”
“You don’t know the fort half as well as I do, you’ll be caught the instant you get inside the walls, if you even make it that far,” Brettix replied.
“The penalty for impersonating a Roman soldier is death,” Borrus said to his son.
“The penalty for breathing is death, as far as the Romans are concerned,” Brettix said, thinking that if he got caught he was facing the same penalty either way.
“Let him go,” Cartia said suddenly, causing all three men to turn and look at her.
She shrugged. “Can’t you see that he’s going to do it no matter what you say? You might as well help him.”
Brettix shot her a grateful glance.
“Where are the uniforms?” Brettix asked Parex.
“In the storage space under the roof at my house,” Parex said.
“Let’s go take a look,” Brettix said.
As they were dressing to go out Borrus looked at Cartia and made a gesture of despair.
Brettix would never change.
“The tunic and the cloak are both too short,” Parex said, stepping back to view his friend, who was now dressed in the untrimmed uniform of a centurion.
“I’ll be on horseback,” Brettix replied, turning to look at Parex. “Nobody will be able to tell.”
Parex shook his head doubtfully. “You’re the biggest Roman I’ve ever seen.”
“Bronwen’s husband is tall.”
“It’s not just height. You’re...” Parex gestured upward with his arms to indicate a bulkier silhouette.
“It’s dark, Parex. I’ll be riding through at a good clip, these details aren’t important.”
“We don’t have the right weapons,” Parex said, looking around the front room of his house, which was littered with the detritus of their attempt to outfit Brettix. “You’ve got the sword but anyone who looks closely will see that’s a scutum, not the legionary shield.”
“Hopefully, no one will notice, and I won’t have to use either one of them.” Brettix took off the helmet and examined himself in Cartia’s mirror. His face was now clean shaven and his hair, darkened with soot, was close cropped to his scalp.
“Except for size, you do look very different from the description that’s circulating,” Parex admitted.
Brettix shot him a triumphant glance.
“But the first thing any runaway slave does is change his appearance,” Parex added.
“Don’t worry,” Brettix said. “There’s so much activity around those garrison gates they won’t be examining my fingernails.”
“And how are you going to get through the inner wall?”
“I told you. I know a way.”
“Something the girl said to you?”
Brettix nodded.
“Are you sure she’s not leading you into a trap?”
“We wouldn’t be talking right now if she hadn’t warned me to get away,” Brettix replied, strapping on the Roman sword and setting the clasps on the shoulder of the cloak.
Parex pulled a sheepskin sagum, or Gallic cloak, over his head and looked around for his boots.
“What are you doing?” Brettix asked.
“I’m coming with you.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Just as far as the gates.”
Brettix stared at him.
“Look at yourself,” Parex said. “If you run into some of our people what kind of a reception do you think you’ll get dressed like that? I know you think that everyone knows you, but there are a lot of renegades from other tribes running about at night. At least if I’m with you we can explain what you’re doing.”
“All right,” Brettix said, anxious to get started and in no mood to argue the point.
“You’re going to see her tonight too, aren’t you?” Parex asked him suddenly.
Brettix hesitated, then nodded. “I’m going to try.”
“I didn’t think you were doing all of this just to meet Bronwen,” Parex said dryly.
Brettix smiled slightly.
“I don’t suppose I could talk you out of it.”
“No.”
Parex sighed and shook his head. “I don’t know what’s happening to us. From what you’ve told me your sister has fallen for that tribune she married, and now you’re mixed up with Scipio’s daughter.”
“She’s not like the rest of them.”
“That’s what duped lovers always say.”
Brettix secured brass armlets to his wrists and said, “Parex, you’ve known me since we were both nurslings rolling around in the same pen. Do you think I would jeopardize what we’ve worked for all this time for a few kisses from an Italian strumpet?”
Parex gazed at Brettix measuringly and then looked away.
“No,” he said reluctantly.
“Then give me a little credit for knowing what I’m doing, Parex. Lucia is a good girl, they do exist in Roman families too, and she is very fair minded.”
“She’s Scipio’s daughter!”
“You may find this hard to believe, Parex, but she’s not much fonder of her father than we are,” Brettix said, donning the helmet again.
“What do you mean?”
“He betrothed her to some old coot with money back in Rome, and she hates her father’s career. She’s against Roman imperialism and doesn’t think their troops should even be here.”
“She must be unusual. From what I’ve seen of their women they all seem to be preoccupied with nothing more substantial than the latest hair fashions.”
The Lion and the Lark Page 18