The Edge of Honor

by Minnette Meador

  Rheydyn shrugged, but the movement sent pain across her face. She clamped her lips tight against it. “It does not matter what I gain, Cousin. Perhaps my dignity. Perhaps some small part of my soul.”

  Delia did not want to travel with her, did not want to even look at her. She searched her skills to talk Rheydyn out of her decision. “You are wounded. The pain alone—”

  “I have lived with worse pain. Trust me.” The confession was a quiet rasp from her throat.

  A wave of compassion rushed through Delia and she did not like it. She questioned Rheydyn’s motivations, despising her, the image of her body against Marius running through her mind.

  Delia had no time. Circumstances were crowding in on her to make a decision, before it was too late.

  “Kuna, field dress her wrist and ribs, find her something to wear and a cloak. Someone give her a horse and half the supplies.” She hoped no one else could hear the uncertainty in her words or see the way she was clutching Marius’ cloak in her hands. “Do it now, quickly.”

  The men and women surrounding her moved as one, rushing to prepare the women for the arduous journey ahead. When they were packed, she shouted hasty farewells and followed her cousin into the forest.

  Delia was empty inside. She had to trust a woman who had enslaved her, seduced her husband, and nearly delivered their Celtic culture into the hands of its enemies. Charging through the forests to find a Roman she was not even certain would help them, Delia raced like a mad woman, risking everything she had for the man who had betrayed her. The burden was almost too much, but her inherited stubbornness and determination served her well. It gave her the courage to move toward a slender hope.

  The Edge of Honor

  Chapter X

  When the Britons, Kuna, and Aelius were gone, Quintius kicked the sides of the large black horse, forcing it onto the road from his hiding place in the forest.

  He pulled viciously on the reins, fury blinding him. The animal climbed to its back legs and whinnied, almost throwing Quintius from the saddle. When he squeezed the horse between his legs and strained his muscles to keep from falling, the surge of alarm cooled his anger. The horse settled and he dismounted, shaking.

  A three-quarter moon resting beneath rushing clouds illuminated the night. Quintius slapped his thigh repeatedly with his hand until tendrils of pain sent sharp quivers through his back. The pain helped him to focus.

  There were so many thoughts struggling for his attention. The knowledge that Rheydyn knew his plans and was still alive; the betrayal of Centurion Kuna and Aelius against the empire; the Briton army that had been called tonight to defend the Corieltauvi; and the more urgent need to destroy Marius to keep him from Seneca and Afranius.

  Quintius could not be in four places at once. He could not trust anyone, not even his closest allies. He would have to do this alone and he would have to do it quickly. He detested being rushed. Meticulous preparation was fundamental to his way of dealing with anything.

  He took several cleansing breaths as his Celtic mother had taught him many years ago to help him calm his tattered nerves.

  The thought of his barbarian past darkened his heart, but he could not stop the memory.

  Young Roman soldiers had cornered them in the house when they attacked his Germanic village. They wanted his mother, but she refused and Quintius fought them. They dragged out his five-year-old sister and placed a gladius to her heart to stop him. For sport, their leader forced him to make a choice. If he chose his sister, they would rape and kill the child. If he chose his mother, they would force him to strangle her while they took wagers on his skills.

  He chose instead to fight and managed in the melee to retrieve a gladius from one of the soldiers. His sister escaped. Despite his youth, his skill with the blade was uncanny and he killed three of them. Quintius could not reach the others. He stood protectively in front of his mother in a corner of their home, at an impasse.

  A tribune came in then, a tall man with a kind face who scanned the scene. He took in the writhing bodies lying on the dirt floor, and spotted the bloodied youth holding the rest at bay.

  “What have you there?” he asked. “You are very good with the sword, boy. Come with me and we will train you to be the best.” The other soldiers backed away.

  “My… my mother…” he stammered, not trusting him.

  “Your mother may stay with us. I promise you, I will not harm her.”

  There was compassion in the man’s voice, a promise of greatness that Quintius responded to, even at that age.

  “You have remarkable skills, boy. I will bring you to Rome to learn to fight. Would you like that?”

  “You are Praetorian?”

  The man chuckled and put his sword back in its sheath. “I am Praetorian. Take the offer or leave it, but do it now. I have more city to sack before the sun goes down.”

  Still suspicious, but knowing this may be his only chance, he lowered the weapon and they swarmed in on him.

  The Praetorian was true to his word. He took them back to Rome where Quintius lived in the emperor’s palace. He discovered the seed of his plan at the knee of his guardian. It grew into a great idea by the time he enlisted at fifteen, a gift from the man who had saved him from a barbarian’s life.

  The thought of those days in the palace with his mother and his Roman father calmed the ragging currents of doubt running through his mind.

  As any good officer would, Quintius took an agenda, summed up his objectives.

  Rheydyn must die and he had to capture the queen, keep her somewhere safe until he needed her. That was a priority; to stop them before they reached Seneca. He would have to do it swiftly and resist the urge to torture them first. Quintius chided himself for his stupidity. Had he refused the sadistic need to feel Rheydyn suffer, she would be dead and none of this would be happening.

  How could she know ? He asked himself that question a hundred times. Who could have told her? The hot suspicion toward his men was tying his stomach in knots, pushing green gall up his throat, making him spit a gob of illness. No one knew of his plans, except a few key men, men he trusted with his life. Someone had betrayed him.

  He balled his fists, forcing down the surging emotions, fighting the impulse to chase the women down and slaughter them like sheep.

  No. He had to deal with Marius first. With Marius dead, the rest would go as planned. Then, it would not matter what the women told Nero’s councilors. He could discredit them in a heartbeat. Quintius had the papers, the reports, all the evidence he needed to convict them both of treason.

  The image of his gladius stained with Rheydyn’s blood made him feel a little better.

  A realization sent a bemused smile across his face. Of course, deal with Marius and then go after the women. There was still time. The ship would not hit Britannia until the day after tomorrow. He could force a confession from Marius and still have time to catch the Britons before they reached Seneca. They were women, one pregnant, the other wounded. How fast could they travel in those conditions? Why had he been so worried? He would have Marius’ confession in a day and, failing that, would push through a trial in two. Killing him on the third day would be easy. If the executioner’s hand did not do it, he would use his own. He would find a reason to make it legal.

  Quintius whistled to his horse and mounted the tall animal easily, a sense of satisfaction coursing through his body. The Corieltauvi were dead already. Suetonius wanted that land and once Marius was out of the way, he would have it. The minute Marius died ten thousand troops would march on the Britons, with Suetonius leading them. Quintius had seen to that days ago. The Corieltauvi had no chance against the Romans. In fact, this could all work to his advantage. If he timed this perfectly, Seneca and Afranius would be arriving for the blood bath. They would discharge Suetonius immediately and name Quintius governor. Once they were gone, he would take his Briton queen, kill Marius’ child, and father one of his own. His loins tightened at the thought of impaling Delia wi
th his hardened stake, listening to her pleas for mercy. He had wanted her the first time he laid eyes on her.

  Visions of him leading a Briton/Roman army against Emperor Nero danced in his head. He turned his horse and rushed to Suetonius’ command camp.

  * * * *

  Marius tried to decipher what the two men were saying across the tent, but only muted whispers floated back to him. A single lantern sat on a table directly in front of him. Beyond the bright glow, their silhouettes stood rigid at the entrance to the tent along with the outline of dangling, unsheathed gladii.

  Quintius had ordered strict security. If they breached the order, they would be flogged or worse.

  Even the slightest moves by Marius brought painful, retaliatory reminders; a strong, centurion arm, one of Quintius’ men, wielded the vitis with passion. Marius’ arm throbbed where the staff had landed a half dozen times. He had never used a vine stave during his command, but it was very popular for discipline amongst other centurions. They would crack the heels of a man who did not run fast enough, or the knuckles of a poor swordsman. To Marius’ way of thinking, it was a coward’s tool, for officers who did not know how to rule their men.

  The small manacles around his ankles sent agonizing shards of pain through his legs, causing the metal to burn into his constricted flesh as his legs lay on the floor in front of him.

  The pole behind him dug into his spine, making his head and neck pound while the blood in his face thumped against his temples to the rhythm of his heart.

  Behind his back and around the wooden spike, his hands were numb lumps encased in metal. He had not been able to move them for at least an hour and the deadening of his flesh crept up his arms.

  Marius was in misery, but not from the pain. He could deal with that.

  The isolation, the quiet, had left him alone with his thoughts; guilt was the deeper anguish.

  He had betrayed his wife, his unborn child, and the country he had sworn to protect. Marius knew Rheydyn had poisoned him to get what she wanted, but wondered again how he could have allowed it. He should have been stronger. If Delia could ever forgive him for what he had done, he would not accept it. He would have killed a man for hurting her as he had.

  He may still.

  There was a commotion at the tent entrance when two soldiers entered, one tall, and one short.

  “Evening, officers. It is time for dinner,” said the taller one and Marius jerked his head up when he recognized the voice. He then forced himself to stay completely still.

  “It is a little early,” said the centurion, the one with the vitis. “We have another half hour, I think…”

  “And I have a beauty a half hour less on the other end of this shift, if you understand me, sir.”

  Marius saw the shadow shrug.

  “We could come back,” the tall man said longingly, “but you would be doing a lonely soldier a service, sir, to reward him for his duty. I have not seen the curve of a breast or the dark slit of a cleavage in over six months. She promises me glimpses of much more if I come a half hour early.” He nodded to his partner. “If not, I will be forced to lay with my tent mate here.” He lowered his voice to a loud whisper, “Between you and me, the other prospect is much more appealing.”

  The centurion released a howl of laughter that shook the weapon in his hand and infected the soldier at his side. “By the gods,” he said, wiping his eye, “for that alone, I will grant you the half hour.”

  The two men formally exchanged positions with the centurion and his partner, drew their swords, and stiffened their backs into their duty.

  “You know the order?” the centurion asked, sheathing his own gladius.

  “Yes, sir.” The response from the tall man was crisp. “Full security. We are not to let him out of our sight.”

  The centurion gave him a feeble salute and strolled out the entrance. “You will be relieved in four hours, soldier. Good luck with the girl,” he called over his shoulder, renewing his laughter.

  When it faded, the smaller of the two men broke from the entrance and ran to Marius. He removed the flattened helmet and Marius had never been happier to see his Asian friend.

  “Glad you could come,” he wheezed taking time to relax his aching arms and trying to move the leaden legs.

  “You hurt?” Kuna examined his face and then helped to lift Marius’ knees. The return of feeling in the limbs made him clamp his jaw tight to keep from crying out, but it felt glorious to move.

  “No,” Marius grunted. “Did Delia get back to Hillfort?”

  Kuna’s immediate silence sent sharp prickles of heat through Marius’ neck.

  “Yes,” Kuna finally said.

  “Is she all right… the baby…?”

  Kuna touched his shoulder. “They fine.”

  Something in Kuna’s voice bothered him. Marius wanted to get out of this tent, this camp, and rush to his wife.

  He bowed his head and flexed his neck. “The key is over there on a peg. Get me out of these.”

  Kuna pushed to his feet and strode to the wall. He stopped after a few steps and did not turn around.

  “Get me out of here. There is no time. The other guards will be here soon.”

  He saw Kuna throw a fleeting look to Aelius, but Marius could not see his ward’s face in the shadows.

  “No,” Kuna said quietly and turned to regard his friend, his face filled with remorse.

  It terrified Marius.

  “Must give lady chance. Must give her time,” Kuna said to him.

  Marius could feel the blood draining from his face, a flow of fear settling against his insides. “Delia?” he whispered.

  Kuna kneeled beside him, the ancient half-shadowed scars on his face moving in the light. Marius listened to the low voice, speaking in perfect, unbroken Latin, while Kuna reported everything that had happened since his capture.

  When the Asian was done, Marius allowed a short breath to fill his lungs, not knowing how long it had been since the last.

  “How could you let her do that? How could you possibly let her trust Rheydyn?”

  Kuna turned over one gnarled hand and spread his fingers as far as they would go. “Not let. Lady knows what she do.”

  “No,” Marius hissed, straining against the restriction of the irons. “Get me out of these, you bastard,” he demanded, not caring that his friend looked hurt. “I need to find her before Rheydyn—”

  “No.” Kuna’s voice was quiet, dignified.

  To Marius’ surprise, Kuna reached up, brushed a strand of hair from Marius’ brow, and touched his forehead with a rough thumb.

  Looking straight into his eyes, Kuna took Marius’ chin in his hand. “Centurion listen to Kuna now. Lady knows what she is doing. She is wise, she thinks clear, clearer than Marius. Delia helps her people in only way she knows how, by saving you. Even though you hurt her, even though she knows she could lose her child. Delia does her duty.”

  He leaned into Marius’ face and their brows almost touched. “Marius needs to learn his own. You understand?”

  Kuna rose from the floor resting one hand on his hip and the other on the pommel of his sword.

  Marius nodded once and the self-pity washed out of him. He knew what he had to do for her. “What will you do?”

  Kuna twisted his neck toward Aelius and sucked his upper lip into his teeth. “We delay trial. We give her time.”

  “How are you going to do that?”

  The small man shrugged and smiled. “Not know. Figure out. You,” he said pointing a meaty finger in Marius’ direction, “not confess… oh, and not die. That is Marius’ duty. Yes?”

  Marius curled the side of his mouth and settled back into his bonds. “I have no intention of doing either.”

  “Good.” Kuna crossed to the tent entrance, glancing under the flaps. “They coming. We go.” He turned his face back to Marius and flexed his neck. “Remember… do not confess, do not die.”

  Marius pursed his lips and lowered his legs caref
ully back to the ground.

  Absolutely.

  When the real relief soldiers came, Kuna nodded abruptly, tapped Aelius to follow, and ducked out of the tent to make the switch, stretching as if they had been there for hours.

  The Edge of Honor

  Chapter XI

  The chill of the late night steamed off Marius’ naked body, strapped to a narrow tree, the bark digging into his chest. The binds around his hands over his head stung and his legs ached, stretched to their limits. He saw the irons burn red in the embers of a hot fire while Quintius stood beyond the shimmering heat of the flames, talking to another man.

  Marius threw back his head to stare up at the intertwined branches. The pain made it hard to concentrate. Sweat and blood filled one eye. He moved his face toward his outstretched arm to wipe some of it away, but immediately wished he had not. The agony of the open whip wounds almost made him pass out. He did not want to lose consciousness and have icy water thrown onto his back again, forcing him to embrace his anguish.

  He held still until the pain passed, concentrating on the bark of the tree as it pressed into his belly, his tender groin, and scratched his thighs bloody. The sting in his loins was the least of his sensations.

  Marius knew Quintius was rushed, could see it in the way he was flitting from one torture to the next, trying without success to extract a quick confession. It made him sloppy, and Marius managed a slight smile to open the puffed lip. His left eye was swollen shut, the other undamaged. Being right handed, Quintius favored the left side. Marius’ cheek, if not broken, was certainly deeply bruised, accentuated by a large split in his lip that he again touched with his parched tongue.

  All Marius had to do was wait. Reviving his unconscious body would soon be impossible with cold water. At that moment the torture would stop. He hoped it was soon. Of course, Quintius would probably just kill him then.

  Do not confess… do not die… Kuna’s word filled his head. Was that only a few hours ago?