At the end of the ten, the old man called for silence to an already quiet crowd. “Incipio exercitium!”
Marius stood in front of Quintius, his sword at his side, staring into those strange pale blue eyes. At the same time, both men brought up their gladius, crashing them together until the metal chimed across the arena. Deliberately slow at first, and then building momentum, the men struck their swords together again and again; clang, beat, beat, beat, clang; clang, beat, beat, clang; clang, beat, clang; faster and faster, until the sound became a staccato of ringing violence.
After years of precision drilling, this was as natural to Marius as breathing. Every Roman soldier began this formation on his first day and continued it until it incorporated itself into his awareness. As the single beat of the music increased, so did the voice of the crowd; the arena swelled with it.
When the clatter of the swords stopped, so did the growing cheer and silence crashed against the night, the sound lingering only in the forest. The two men moved.
The rhythm changed into a deadly dance. Marius and Quintius shifted with the beating of their swords. Still precise, still perfect, their feet shuffled in time, their sandals breaking the smooth sand, each watching nothing but the eyes of the other as they brought the swords together.
The blades became a blur in the exquisite percussion of the music. The slightest flick of moonlight reflected off a sword, and Marius let out a cry when iron pierced his left arm. He pulled back immediately and examined his shoulder. A wide line of red opened, and tendrils of blood dripped down his arm. The drillmaster rushed to join them.
Quintius looked at him, breathing hard. He bent at the waist and a thin smile curled his lips. “Forgive me, Marius.” He lifted the sword and gave him a feeble shrug. “I slipped.”
The old man examined Marius’ arm and called the surgeon. “We will take a break.”
“No.” Marius flexed his arms and rearranged the grip on the sword, knowing shock would set in soon, taking away some of his edge. “We will continue.”
With a hand signal, the drillmaster motioned the medico away. “As you wish.” He turned on his heels and headed back over the sand. “Move to the exhibition,” he shouted.
Without waiting for a signal, Quintius advanced with deliberate, pacing footwork, closing the distance. They both held their gladii at the hip. Marius could see Quintius’ knuckles whitening in the torchlight.
Quintius stepped forward, moving his sword above his head, and then came in for a diagonal strike. He was very fast. Marius crossed to his right, his gladius moving to a hanging position. He stepped forward, countering with a diagonal of his own. Quintius stepped back.
Marius recognized the opening moves. Quintius was working the crowd, mocking him with standard beginner’s tactics, trying to convince him there was less skill than expected. Marius had to admire the brilliance of the maneuver.
Marius pressed the attack. He brought his gladius up in a reverse diagonal, using the false edge of the sword. He maneuvered to his right to bring the blade down with a vertical cut aimed at Quintius’ head. It would not connect, Marius knew, but it would get the tribune’s attention.
Quintius did not bother to parry, but passed out of range again. He pressed forward into a lunge, extending his gladius, and Marius cursed himself for not being ready. Reacting more on his muscle memory, Marius moved back, almost jumping. The point of Quintius’ gladius sank into his forearm before he could pull away. The sharp sting of the weapon sent a painful quake through his body.
He did not let the wound stop him. In fact, he slid so quickly into the return lunge that Quintius could not react fast enough to move out the way. Marius’ gladius pierced the skin in his right thigh as if it were soft mud then quickly pulled back out of range.
“Forgive me, Quintius.” Marius lifted the sword and gave him a feeble shrug. “I slipped.”
Quintius brought his gladius down on Marius. He barely caught it. Metal sliding against metal eked across the arena making men grimace at the sound. Marius locked his elbow and knees to support his blade. With a burst of strength, he pushed Quintius away from him. Wasting no time, Marius went into immediate ready stance for the next blow. From across the arena, he could hear the shrill shouts of both the drillmaster and Suetonius. He ignored them and moved his feet, circling the tribune. He studied Quintius closely as he moved.
“Are you ready to fight me, boy?”
“My pleasure.”
Marius blew out a breath, allowing the brief interlude to slow his heartbeat, to shore up the muscles in his arms, to push down the double pain in his arm, to prepare for whatever it was Quintius had in mind. Exhibition fighting would only get him killed. He would have to disarm the tribune, or run him through. The face looking back at him was flush with exertion; the pale eyes a thin line of blue around dilated black sapphires. His breathing was much steadier, youth working to his advantage. The blond hair peeking out around his helmet was almost black with sweat.
The tribune moved quickly, giving Marius barely enough time to meet the blade in mid-air. The clang of the swords glancing off each other repeatedly echoed across the murmuring crowd.
Quintius pressed Marius hard, not letting up on the speed or strength of the attacks. Marius knew he was waiting for him to falter or weaken. Quintius lunged frequently, keeping Marius on the defense. Twice a blade skimmed against Marius’ skin to leave a trickle of blood.
Quintius gave another thrust. As he pushed the sword forward with his right hand, Marius shifted and turned his gladius so the edge of the weapon struck against the flat of Quintius’ blade. Marius shifted passed the weapon and stood next to him. He grabbed Quintius’ wrist and brought his right elbow down onto the tribune’s upper arm with his full force. Quintius roared in pain, but would not drop his sword. The blows would have brought down any other man Marius had fought.
After losing count of the number of strikes, Marius took a chance. He wrapped his left arm around Quintius’ sword arm simultaneously hooking his right foot around his leg. Sweeping the leg out from under him, Quintius fell to the ground and Marius landed on top of him. Quintius’ helmet popped off his head with the impact and rolled across the sand.
Noting the tribune’s gladius was on the ground Marius shifted his weight and brought his knee into Quintius’ windpipe. With a perfect flip in the air, he turned his own blade until it was resting on the tribune’s forehead.
Marius yanked the suffocating helmet from his head with one pull, and looked into the angry eyes. He had to admire the man’s courage. Quintius did not flinch.
“Yield and I will let you live.”
“I yield.” The sound was faint from the collapsing throat.
Withdrawing his gladius, Marius rose from the sand and kicked the tribune’s sword across the arena. Quintius fought to catch his breath, rolled to his side groaning, and then threw up in the sand, a violent cough shaking him as he got to his knees. When the worst was over, Quintius struggled to his feet. He pushed the centurion who tried to help him and stomped from the arena. Disappointed hisses from the crowd followed him. Without stopping, he disappeared into the throng of men.
“He cut you.” The voice startled Marius. He whirled around to see the twisted face of Kuna angled in a mirthful grin. “I never see someone cut you before.”
Marius snatched the rag from Kuna’s hands and began mopping his face. “He is good. Another ten years and he will be the best.”
“Humph.” Kuna glared at him.
A crisp, clear order rang over their heads, shouted by one of the centurions. The men immediately broke into their ranks and headed for camp.
“You lost me a lot of money tonight,” Suetonius called as he crossed the sand.
A chuckle sounded in Marius’ throat as he staunched the blood on his arm, wincing in pain. “You bet against me?”
“Against you? Of course not. I bet you would take him down without a scratch.” The general stared after the young tribune and shook his he
ad. “You have made a dangerous enemy tonight, Marius. Be careful of a dagger in the dark.”
Marius wrapped the rag around his neck, hanging his hands from the ends. “I have made many enemies, General. I am still here.”
Suetonius brought his brows together, placed a hand on the side Marius’ neck, and pulled him forward until their foreheads touched. “Yes, you have. Be mindful of your enemies, my friend. One day, you will not be this good.”
Suetonius pulled away from him and turned, calling for his men to follow. Marius stared after him, knowing it was not his enemies he needed to fear, just one old friend.
The Edge of Honor
Chapter VII
The diversion worked. Suetonius camped that night and ordered his men to begin the census the next morning. They spread quickly through the countryside. Scant moments before, every refugee was placed with the farmers and villages. The effectiveness of Kuna’s century and Delia’s skillful command of the populace proved effective, but the effort had been strenuous on everyone.
Marius was up all night fielding reports as they came in and keeping an eye on the Roman army camped barely a thousand yards from his front door. Staying at Hillfort as a continued diversionary tactic made sense at the time, but idling in the refuge brooded heavily on the seasoned warrior. Marius was unaccustomed to waiting while the battle raged around him. Delia and Antonia had not returned and since there was nothing else he could do, he escaped into his personal chamber to wait.
Taking a long sip of wine, he threw his sore neck against the supple leather of the chair that had served him for many years in his Roman command tent. Flickers of those memories danced against the inside of his ears. Shifting his narrowed gaze from left to right and then back again, he took time to slosh the sweet Briton wine through his mouth. Trinkets covered the walls and ceiling; artifacts he had brought back from his Egyptian and Syrian campaigns. Bright blue, red, and golden tapestries looked strangely out of place next to the coarse waddle and thatch that peeked from behind them.
The statues of Anubis, the golden Horus figurines, and other mid-eastern gods and goddesses littered the room. A sigh of wistfulness shot through him. Even the splayed blood red cape and bright silver of his lorica armor against one wall reminded him of his discomfort. He was foreign in this rustic, primitive world and missed his century. That was until he remembered his wife’s smile.
Marius set down the goblet and placed the heels of his hands against his eyes to rub the weariness from them. It had been nearly two days since he had any sleep and he blamed the weakness on fatigue. When he pulled his hands down with a growl escaping the back of his throat, what greeted him was a pair of radiant blue eyes.
“What the hell do you want?”
The volume of his voice was unintentional, but Marius was distinctly uncomfortable in Rheydyn’s presence after the previous night’s temptation. He shifted uneasily against the aged leather of the chair and rubbed the sides of his mouth with his thumb and finger.
“I did not come here by choice,” Rheydyn uttered and then bit her lip. “Evyn insisted I retrieve my scarf and apologize. He is outside waiting for me.”
Marius pursed his lips and sat back in his chair. There was a gratifying tremble in her voice that made him feel magnanimous. He could imagine the upbraiding she must have received from his commander after her brazen behavior the night before. Something brewed behind those superior gleaming eyes. It was obvious the attempt at seduction had been part of a larger plan.
He could not keep the smirk off his face. “Apology accepted.”
“Bastard,” she hissed. Rheydyn clenched one fist and offered the other hand, seeking the missing scarf. He tipped his goblet to his lips and ignored the request.
“Sit,” Marius said, nodding to the chair across from him.
“No… thank you.” She threw her arms together and planted them under her breasts, deepening the cleavage. Her face was as red as his centurion tunic.
Marius sipped his wine and examined her carefully. This woman was a roiling mass of contradiction, deceit, and intrigue, highly dangerous and unpredictable. He had seen that the first day they met. Yet something happened last night that he could not account for. There had been a pleading in her seduction, a distinct cry for help in that sad face, a moment of authentic sorrow.
The gaunt woman scanned the room to avoid his eyes.
“Why did you come here to Hillfort… the real reason?”
The question sent her skittering across the room to examine an ancient artifact without interest. “I… I told you.”
Marius folded his hands under his chin and studied her. “You came here for refuge?”
Her eyes glanced from behind the auburn curtain of hair, but they did not make it all the way to his face. She looked at another piece instead. “Yes.”
“You are lying.”
“No.”
Marius curled the side of his mouth. “The Corieltauvi lands are a good seven days journey on foot from any tribes that would shelter you. A hundred other of your kinsmen would have taken you in, had you asked. Which was difficult to believe, but it is what my wife tells me. Many kingdoms were steadfast allies to your mother and father. You could have found refuge in any one of them, arms open. You still could. Yet, you come to the one place where you know the queen or her husband might very well put you to the axe.”
He saw her bare shoulders shift beneath the oversized tunic as her fingers touched a dusty lamp. “Why?”
“I told you that, as well,” she said without turning. “I came to make peace with Delia, to tell her how sorry I was for everything I had to do.”
Marius heard a mite of truth in her words and it confused him. “Why would you need her forgiveness?”
This time, she turned her face to his and brought her brows together. “I do not expect you to understand, but I love my cousin. When I needed her, Delia was there for me, saved me from…” She stopped and let out a frustrated huff of air. “Please,” she said more softly, “give me my scarf so I may tell Evyn I apologized.”
A deep sadness changed her eyes for a moment and she covered them with a hand, pulling her shoulders into her chest. A single sob escaped her throat. She turned away from him.
“Very well.”
Marius reached across his table to pull the delicate fabric from under one of his other trophies. He handed it to her. The scent was still strong from the night before, but not as strong as the same scent radiating from her body as she leaned in close to take it. Rheydyn tucked the fabric into the sash around her waist.
“Would you like some wine?” he asked.
Rheydyn nodded absently and Marius filled another goblet. He pressed it into her hand. The earthy perfume caught him off guard. It sent his senses reeling and he shook his head. Instead of drinking, Rheydyn looked into the vessel and watched the liquid move.
Marius leaned back and took a long pull on his own. “Tell me what Delia did for you.”
“Why?” she spat, baring her teeth. “You will only turn it against me… turn Delia against me. You already have. Last night I was going to…” Rheydyn bit her lip to stop the words.
“To what?”
Tightening her hand on the goblet, her nostrils flared. “I was going to seduce you while Delia was gone,” she whispered. “I was going to prove you did not love her, that you were only using her to get her land, to take over her people, to squeeze a Roman child from her loins to become king of our country. Like every Roman pig, you want nothing more than to add to the coffers of your empire. You care nothing for her or her people.”
Marius let out a guffaw of laughter that sent her back several steps.
“By the gods, woman. If that were only true. Obviously, you do not know your cousin very well. Delia is a force of nature and no man or woman is more powerful than that slip of a girl when she gets a notion in her head. In the face of that tenacity, the gods themselves, mine and yours, would be helpless.”
For the first time a
smile flitted across Rheydyn’s face and sparked in her eyes. She was obviously fighting to keep laughter in check.
Marius raised his glass. “To the queen.”
Rheydyn returned the gesture, sipped the wine, and then set the cup on a table.
“You are right, you know,” she said. “Delia is a force of nature. She always has been. Strong. Capable. Realistic. Intelligent.” A sullen sadness tucked at her eyes as she walked around the room, absently examining Marius’ swords and shields. “Everything I wanted to be when I was young, but was not.”
Marius set down his cup and observed her closely.
“We went to Egypt when we were young. I am certain she has told you of that trip.”
“Yes,” he replied quietly.
“Did she tell you I almost died?”
Her slender bare arm reached to touch the bottom of one of his trophies, exposing the shadow of a breast through the armhole. The dark areola caught the lamp light for a fleeting second and Marius had to force his gaze away. A whiff of her perfume sent his head spinning briefly and he took a sip of wine to clear it.
“Probably not,” she continued, lowering her arm and proceeding down the wall. “There was a man, an Egyptian, young, handsome, the son of a wealthy merchant. Delia caught his eye first, as she always did…” Her voice faded. She traced the segments of the centurion armor mounted to a stand against the wall, trailing her fingertips seductively along the leather straps. “But it was to my room he came that night.
“I was very young, only sixteen winters. I had never been with a man before. He was beautiful.” Awe deepened her voice and crimson flushed across her face and neck. “He did things to me that night,” she continued, pulling closer to his armor, wrapping her arms around it. “Things my father would never approve. Sins he would have said.”
The Edge of Honor Page 6