by C. N. Bird
Labor was upon me, and, not listening to the women in the group, I stood and waited through the contractions for Victus to come.
Several more hours passed and I shook with tears, crying my heart out into the dark that had fallen too soon.
I was starting to push instinctively now, the pain nearly unbearable. One of the men picked me up from where I collapsed waiting, and put me on the carriage. Marcus stood with me as the people led the mule and we continued our journey to Neapolis. A woman jumped on and began examining me. Placing her fingers inside of me, she called for the mule to stop.
“You’re going to have this baby within moments,” she said, frantically getting off the carriage and pulling cloth out and positioning it on the ground. “Get up and let your frater hold you.”
She instructed Marcus how to hold my arms as I squatted on the fabric. I began pushing as she knelt and started examining me once more.
“The head is almost out, at the next big feeling, push until you tire.”
Three pushes later, the baby’s head was out; another push and the baby was completely out. I collapsed on my backside and the baby was given to me wrapped in a dress. The woman showed me how to have the baby latch on and I fed the baby.
Once we knew we were staying here for a while, she had the men build a fire, and once my placenta was born and cut, she took it to the fire and cooked it, bringing it back to me and instructing me to eat it to provide the best nutrients for the baby.
The first time changing the baby, I finally saw what I had: a baby girl. I started to cry thinking of Victus, and how he should have been here with me to witness the birth of our daughter. Once again my instincts took over and I fed, changed, and nurtured my baby. When the sun broke over the horizon, I was loaded onto the carriage with the fabric I’d given birth on, and carried the short distance to Neapolis. When we were greeted at the city’s gates, we told them of our account of what happened, and that we had another party that should be reaching the city soon. They sent out some of their military men, and some of ours went with them, to search for survivors.
A day passed, and I was set up in a house with my brother and with a family that had a small child too. The woman there helped me where she could, and as joyed as I should have been, a sinking feeling that I would never see Victus again crept into my mind.
Late in the evening, the party returned and I listened to the news of what they found.
“The city is buried.”
“If there were any survivors, they went south.”
“Herculaneum is gone too.”
I mourned with the others. Out of the seventeen people that left, only ten were accounted for.
Several days later, we held a pyre outside of town, and, to show support for us, many of the people came out. Like with all burials, there were offerings, and people giving their respects. A clergyman read a saying from a book and we all watched the fires burn.
I didn’t want to go on. I couldn’t anymore. As the thoughts ran through my head, I looked at the child Victus and I had created and knew he would not want me to mourn, but to find life and a reason to continue going.
Two weeks following the devastation of Herculaneum and Pompeii, I awoke to chatter on the street.
“Four boats, about thirty people in all.”
“Where’d they come from?”
“Traveled from Surrentum.”
“More escaped but suffocated in the ash.”
Careful not to wake the baby, I dressed and went outside. “What’s going on?” I said to the small group standing on the street.
“Survivors from Pompeii, they were forced to head south to Surrentum,” a man said.
“Where are they?”
“Down by the docks. Some have broken limbs that are going to need to be amputated; the healthy ones are helping.”
Before I even processed what was happening, I was running toward the docks. Others joined me as I made my way there, and once at the destination, I milled through looking for Victus.
There were bodies wrapped in fabric still in the boats, and not one of the people I saw that were covered in ash was Victus.
I collapsed to the ground. Of course, why would my luck be any different from times past? The wretched city of Pompeii had taken both of my parents from me, given me a brother, let me fall in love with my best friend and given me something beautiful to live for. But now it had taken my love and the only other woman in my life I could call mother. I cried my soul into the air. I lifted my head to see people staring at me, one of them Marcus, who I hadn’t noticed before in my search for Victus. His face fell as he saw me; no doubt he got there before me to look for Victus.
As he made his way over to me, he stopped meters from me, a look overcoming his face I’d never witnessed before.
I jolted when arms wrapped around me; warm and familiar lips grazed my temple. I escaped his arms and turned to face him, my hands moving to feel the contours of his face, his brow, lips, ears, arms.
Victus’ hands clasped mine in their journey and he kissed me, holding me to him while on our knees.
“You’re really here?”
“I hope so.”
He took a moment to look at my face, and I saw that he was crying as well. He looked down between our bodies. “The baby?”
I laughed. “She’s perfect, back at a home sleeping still I am sure.”
“A girl?”
“Yes, a little Hadriana.”
“What’s her name?”
“No name yet,” I said, “I still had hope you and your mater would make it back to choose one.”
At the mention of his mother his face fell.
“Where is she, Victus?”
He looked over my shoulder to the boats. “In fabric on the boats. When the first quake hit around noon we started to leave; we were trying to pack more than we needed and got a late start. Ash soon fell on us as we were leaving and thickened during our journey. We wrapped our heads, but Mater couldn’t breathe after we started running when the main eruption happened, so she took her head wrap off. She must have inhaled a lot because by the time we got to Surrentum she could barely breathe. A few days later, while we were acquiring some boats, she passed. I couldn’t leave her there.”
My life had been filled with grief and mourning. Now in happiness I was left to mourn again with Victus. Over the coming days, we held another pyre for those who were brought over by ships. Tens of thousands died in two days in both Herculaneum and Pompeii. Some people went back to try and exhume stuff from their houses, but most of us just bade farewell to that old life and continued moving on with the new one.
It took a bit of time, but Victus started working and we were soon independent, and had Marcus living with us.
***
100 A.D.
“Pompeii was a beautiful, vivacious city. Your avus can tell you many more tales of his time, his life of fishing and hunting. For now I leave you with the knowledge of your avia and how I overcame a lot in my life and you both can as well, and how Aeliana, your mater, was born to this earth.” I looked over at my nepos and neptis, who’d fallen asleep, but I have no doubt my stories reached their ears in their slumber. I got up and nestled them closer together in the chill winter air and tucked them in.
Aeliana and Victus walked in and they both hugged me. “Mater, te amo, and so much more for the life you’ve given me.”
Aeliana left the room and Victus took me to our quarters where we made love much like the first time. His body moved over me and filled me wholly, spiritually, emotionally. Together we slept in peace knowing we made the right decisions to leave Pompeii that day, and our lives couldn’t be better. We had a beautiful, bright family, as did my frater, Marcus, who joined his love shortly after he turned twenty-four. Together they had three offspring, and like us, couldn’t have been happier.
THE END
Hunting His Highland Lass
Samantha Holt
Inverness, 1297
Rory Mac
Pherson grimaced as he eyed his dilapidated keep. The outer wall had taken a serious battering and the portcullis had been knocked in so that it hung at an odd angle. Of course, half of the destruction had been caused by his own men as they attempted to claim back the castle from the English. Thankfully the siege hadn’t lasted long but who knew what damage they had done? Not to mention his household was scattered to the winds.
His gut twisted. Isla’s brown eyes flitted through his mind, warmed by the fireplace as she sat in her usual chair. Had she got away in time? Or had she still been in there, defending his castle when the English broke through? He gripped his sword and swiped the sweat from his brow as he pushed past the twisted gate and raised his head to view the castle. The shutters were torn from their hinges, chunks of stone were missing from the walls. Blood soiled the bailey.
With a shake of his head, he hurried up the outer steps and into the Great Hall. He should never have left her to deal with this. A lass had no place fighting men’s wars. And seeing such bloodshed. Especially a lass like Isla. His wife was delicate, sweet. Not made for battle.
But still, they had kept the English at bay for several sennights. His men must have fought hard for fear of what the English might do to them and their lady. Rory swallowed the knot in his throat as he studied the hall with its upturned tables and the smell of death lingering in the air.
Ach, he should never have left Dunmuir. Should never have left Isla. He clenched his fist and considered what might have happened to her. His heart flipped as he realised he’d have to scour the keep for her. When they’d forced the English out, there had been no sign of his wife. He prayed she had fled. She was a beautiful woman—a tempting prize for any man.
He kicked aside a chair and began his hunt of the lower floor. Men entered the hall behind him and did the same, scouring the place for the enemy or any of their kin left standing. Who could have predicted the English would come up the coast? While he had joined the Scots on the border, the English snuck around them and took several castles, including his own. By the time he got word of the attack, it was too late. Only days before he arrived, the English succeeded in breaking through their defences and taking his home.
And mayhap his wife…
Poor lass. She deserved so much better. He took the stairs up to the gallery and continued his ascent to the solar. Once his chamber, it now looked no better than a peasant’s home. His grand bed was torn and filthy, his furniture tossed aside. Some of Isla’s gowns had been thrown about, a stark reminder of what might have happened to her.
In truth, he might never see her again. She was either captured or dead. Or by some miracle, she had escaped in time. He prayed for that but the sickening beat of his heart told him otherwise. Rory picked up a pale blue gown and fingered it. It looked strange against his blood stained hand. So small and feminine. Whereas he was big and rough. A primitive warrior. He sighed as he dropped the gown and studied the chamber once more.
Since his marriage to Isla, he barely set foot in here. After that one night—their wedding night—he hardly dared to. He clenched his teeth as need stirred. It proved too hard to muster the control to keep his desires at bay around her and he’d hurt her enough the first time. Sweet Isla deserved much more. If only the lass wasn’t so wee and fragile. But she wasn’t the first woman who’d told him he was too big for her. His first lover had said much the same, claiming him to be too rough and inconsiderate. Ach, but he’d been so nervous it did not surprise him. But then with Isla… It had been the most astounding experience of his life. Never had a woman made him feel that way and yet, afterwards, she’d cried.
Concluding he wasn’t going to find anyone hiding in his chamber, he took the spiral stairs back down to the hall. Swiping a hand across his face, he numbly helped with clearing the hall. A lump sat in his throat as he righted the chair Isla liked to sit and do her embroidery in. Although they did not behave as man and wife, they had a pleasant sort of relationship. When he kept his desires under control that was. He enjoyed watching her sit with a needle and thread on her lap and she had a keen mind. Often he turned to her for aid. Rory recalled the way her deep brown eyes would narrow as she considered his words and offered a solution.
A shiver trailed through him and he turned. “God’s teeth, Donny!”
His younger brother stood in the doorway, his plaid torn and blood-stained. Rory dashed to his side and wrapped an arm around him. Donny leaned heavily against him as Rory led him to the chair in front of the unlit fire.
“Get some clothes,” Rory barked at whoever was around. “And light the fire. Have we a healer?”
Donny shook his head. “Nay, I dinnae need a healer. This blood isnae mine. I am weary though. Some ale would be good.”
“Ach, the Sasannach bastards drained our supplies. We’ve little left. What happened? I feared the English captured ye.” He rested an arm against the fireplace as he studied his brother. Donny had short, dark brown hair like his but was not as strong nor as tall as he. Why had he left him in charge? Ach, but he was a fool.
“Nay, though they put up a strong fight. But yer lady wife did a fine job of seeing them off. The keep would have fallen sooner had it not been for her.”
“Isla?”
Donny chuckled. “Do ye have another wife I dinnae know of?”
“Isla defended the keep?”
“Aye, why? A Highland lass is plenty capable of scaring off the English, you should know that.”
“Aye, but… Isla…?” He scowled. Isla organising the men-at-arms or rationing their supplies…surely not?
“Much good it did us. They overran us eventually. Isla had us put up a last stand and we killed many but there were just too few of us.”
“Lord Almighty,” Rory breathed. “And what of Isla? What became of her? Dinnae lie to me, Donny, for ye know ye cannae.”
“Ach, I know ye always see through my tall tales but I truthfully dinnae know. She got away but how far she got I cannae tell ye. And I cannae say whether she fell into the enemy’s hands.” He lowered his gaze. “Forgive me, brother, I’ve failed ye. I should have taken better care of her.”
“Nay, I failed ye all. I should have been here, protecting what’s mine.” Protecting Isla. “I have to find her, Donny. Did she say what she would do should the keep be overrun?”
“Aye, she spoke of seeking refuge with her father. But, Rory, I dinnae know if she even took a maid. The battle was fierce and I cannae be sure of anything. If she made it out, I think it likely she’s alone.”
A chill swept through him, so that even his bones were cold. Wee Isla all on her own. Even if she didn’t fall into the hands of the English, it did not bode well for her. He scraped a hand through his hair as he considered what he needed to take with him. If she was on foot, mayhap she hadn’t got far. Hopefully he would catch up with her in no time. If she was alive. And free.
“Rory.” His brother drew his attention back to him. “Isla said if that ever happened to tell ye…to tell ye not to worry. She’d no’ be yer burden any longer.”
Rory scowled. “What does that mean?”
Donny shrugged. “Ye’d know better than me, Rory. She’s yer wife.”
Hell fire. The sickening sensation that had plagued him since they’d claimed back the castle increased. His burden? Did she believe he’d just let her run off to be killed or captured? Did she think he wouldn’t care what happened to her? He ran a hand through his hair again and clasped the back of his neck. Aye, mayhap she did. He was no loving husband and they’d yet to sire an heir. There was little to keep her with him.
He glanced at his brother and drew in a breath. “Donny, I am going to find Isla and bring her back.”
His brother gave him an uncertain look and lifted his shoulders in resignation. “I cannae stop ye but I dinnae think she wants to come back, Rory. Mayhap ye’d be better off letting her go. And ‘tis dangerous out there at the moment. Ye might be captured by the enemy. Think on that, Rory. Is she worth that?”<
br />
The cold within him dissipated, replaced by a burning fire in his belly. Aye, Isla was worth that but was he selfish enough to bring her back to a loveless arranged marriage? Loveless? Nay, mayhap not loveless but certainly affectionless. The disappearance of his wife had taught him one thing. He cared for her more than he ever realised. Now he just needed to figure out how to prove as much.
***
Isla swiped furiously at the tear that escaped as she continued the climb. The jagged rocks and rolling mountains meant the journey to the village would be a hard one but she had little choice. Thankfully the weather was on her side. Though a chill seeped through her, the clouds remained white with little threat of rain. Hopefully she would find shelter before it turned on her.
Her heart did a little jump as her thoughts turned inevitably to her husband. Word of the attack on the keep had been sent to him. Had he returned? And if he had, was he well? The English had proved to be harder to defeat than they’d realised. If Rory fought them, she feared he might not survive.
She straightened her shoulders and drew in a restorative breath. Nay, Rory would endure. He was the biggest, strongest warrior she knew. No Englishman could defeat the laird. She just hoped he wouldn’t be too disappointed with her for allowing the keep to fall. Still her absence would be a comfort to him. He wouldn’t have to worry about her any more. Now he could take a lover. Or mayhap take up with the one he already had.
Surely he had one for what man as virile as Rory would not if he did not find satisfaction with his wife? She shuddered and wrapped her arms about herself as she allowed a sad smile to creep across her face. It was a shame because she so enjoyed his company and even her very brief taste of love-making. For a large man, he had been surprisingly tender. Aye, she had been unbelievably nervous, for who wouldn’t be when faced with such an intimidating man? A man she barely knew at that, but once the pain had passed, she had been overcome by such pleasure, it shocked her to her core.