The Centurion and the Queen

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The Centurion and the Queen Page 8

by Minnette Meador


  “Tie her to the post.” The centurion’s voice was crisp, brittle, and quiet. He took his position among the crowd. Delia strained to hear a warm note in those words but there was none, and her heart sank further into misery. Two men broke from the ranks, grabbed her arms, and dragged her stumbling to the coarse pillar, pushing her hard against it. The jolt stole her breath, causing a startled gasp to escape her lips. She closed her eyes against the pain when her collarbone hit the wood. Resting her chest against the pole to balance herself, she laid her face against the side of it, tears drenching he cheeks.

  The two men unlatched the manacle from around her right wrist and yanked her hands above her head, wrenching her shoulders. Stretching her body so it would reach, they fastened the dangling chain through the loops in the hard metal and left her hanging; her feet barely touching the ground. An ache started at the base of her neck that coursed down her back, her buttocks and into her legs. Several times, muscles twisted into painful cramps and she had to fight to keep from screaming.

  Delia knew Marius had saved her life,and she hated him for it. She should be grateful, but there was no gratitude left in her; only fear of discovery and pain.

  Unlike the night before, the temper of the Roman soldiers had changed. Where the mood had been somber, now it was almost elated; where they had been silent, now they were noisy and boisterous, taunting her. Where they had been still in deference to their comrade; now they waved their fists, calling out cruel and obscene slanders. Some of the soldiers even exposed themselves. The curses from these normally stalwart and serious men were terrifying, and the multiple languages echoed across the camp. She had never felt such hatred.

  “Strip her,” Marius commanded, breaking her heart. The crowd of men went wild, cheering and whistling at the top of their lungs, doubling their insults, some lewdly handling themselves in front of her.

  A man separated himself from the crowd of jeering men and stopped in front of her, making certain she could see him. Smiling back at the men, he made a show by waving his fists in the air, and the soldiers’ reply was a deafening roar. He placed his palm on the wooden pole near Delia’s waist and circled behind her, running his hand from the wood to her side, and then lingered on her buttocks.

  The touch sent shivers of grief through her aching arms, and sobs quivered inside her belly. Delia would not open her mouth to let them escape; her throat stung with the effort.

  She closed her eyes against the truth that was about to be revealed.

  It was not the whip she feared, it was not the anger, the hate, or even the thought of being naked in front of all these men; it was the exposure of a truth she had kept hidden for many years. It was the reason she never took a man to her bed or let a woman get too close to her. It was her deepest, blackest secret, and having it lay bare like this, sent her mind into a spiraling, numbing chaos. The world around her suddently lost substance.

  The man leaned in, grabbing the back of her tunic in two massive hands, and said in a heavy accent, “For the centurion, whore.”

  With a quick tug that strained her against the manacles causing pain to surge down her neck and shoulders, he effortlessly ripped the fabric from neck to hem, and she screamed once in despair.

  She hung naked in front of all of those eyes.

  Instantly, everything became silent.

  Crisscrossed against her back, in livid reds, stark whites, and every shade of bruise, were countless whip marks. Her back, her buttocks, her hips, and even her thighs reflected scars from years of abuse. Some of the marks were stylus thin and healed, while others were recent, fresh, still vividly purple, the skin broken and the wounds moist. Deep, black, and violet marks, the size of a man’s hand, marred the beautiful white skin of her sides, across her belly, and along the delicate skin on her thighs. Her face, neck, and head remained clear of blemish except where Leonius had struck her.

  Marius was stunned, having only seen this type of abuse after days of torture. His experience told him an extremely skilled hand was responsible for this. These marks were deliberate, well planned, and placed where they would go unnoticed by the casual observer. The fact she was even alive after the evident abuse was, in itself, astonishing. What kind of bravery would it take to sustain this torture and still maintain a normal life, a simple grace, and an elegant honor? It was overwhelming. Marius had never seen anything more courageous. His feelings toward Delia solidified at that moment; he would love her for as long as he lived and kill the bastard that had done this to her.

  “Strike her!” a voice roared out from the stunned men. “Strike her now!” Leonius quickly crossed to the man holding the whip, towering over him. The blacksmith took a step back and turned his eyes to Marius for guidance. The second reached out, grabbed the lash from the man’s hands, and whirled around toward Delia.

  “Bitch!” Leonius lifted the crop over his head. He brought it back and forward in a single motion. A hand grabbed his wrist and twisted it back, stopping him in midair.

  Marius stared Leonius straight in the eye for a long time, but said nothing. They struggled for a moment, fighting for possession of the whip, each of them as strong as the other. Leonius finally hesitated, apparently seeing something in Maruis’ eyes that frightened him. He released the whip and stepped back from him, rubbing his wrist. Leonius became enraged and he clenched his fists.

  “Coward,” Leonius hissed. He turned on his heels, pushed several of the soldiers out of the way, and made his way to his horse. Wincing, he mounted his horse. He glared at Marius, growled at his beast, and dug his heels into the flanks as he thundered out of the camp.

  Marius turned to stare at Delia standing naked against the white post, her skin blending into the wood. The burnished manacles stood out roughly against her bruised wrists and her tiny hands. Her quiet sobbing shook her delicate body, making his heart tighten with compassion. He picked up the whip and stared at it. In a quick gesture, he threw the lash to the blacksmith behind him.

  “Take her down,” he said. “Confine her to a tent.”

  Without another word, he turned and hastily headed for his quarters, certain he was leaving the men to gape after him in wonder.

  When they unfastened her bonds, Delia fell to her knees and weakly tried to cover herself with what remained of her tunic, but she accomplished very little. In shock, she blinked and turned her head to inspect her surroundings, but the men were already gone, as silently as they had disappeared the night before. Shock neutralized her senses and everything became vague and dream-like. Someone mercifully wrapped a cloak around her scarred back, pulled it tight around her body, and lifted her into his arms. When she opened her eyes, Kuna’s dark eyes gleamed down at her through the haze. He was incredibly strong.

  “Lady, sleep now.”

  Delia fought to keep them open, but her eyes fluttered and she lost consciousness.

  C hapter Eight

  Marius stared at the flickering light of the lanterns for several hours, struggling with emotions that mounted to take over his usual control. He was furious but for reasons he could not even fathom. He was angry with Delia for what she had done, angry with Leonius for leaving camp, and angry with himself for not fulfilling his duty by having the woman flogged.

  She is only a women, damn it—just another barbarian!

  This little agitator had poisoned not only himself, but also four of his sentries, freed Roman prisoners’ right under his nose, and manipulated him into giving the order for the diversion. She had spit in the face of his loyalties, and he had let her get away with it. His duty was having difficulty justifying his actions over the last few hours.

  She is just a woman!

  However, the black rage he was feeling had nothing to do with Delia, Leonius, or himself. He would deal with that later. No. This was different. An overpowering fury was blinding him to everything else, driving him insane with its potency, and making him desperate to master it, without much success. A vicious animal had tortured this woman. The man
had done it deliberately, meticulously, and repeatedly for many years. Marius would find out who it was. He knew it would take every skill he possessed to force the truth from her, but he would get it.

  “Aelius!” He rose from the leather chair in his headquarters and unlaced his armor.

  The aide quickly ducked into the tent. “Sir?”

  Marius pulled the armor swiftly from his chest and set it in a corner. “Is the girl… Glenys is it… is she up to helping the queen?”

  “I believe so, sir. Medico wrapped her ankle—it was not broken, merely dislocated. He reset it and she is walking on it. I could…”

  “Good,” Marius said, pulling up the small benches and stacking them on top of the table. “Have her go to her mistress immediately and get her cleaned up. Then bring the queen to me.”

  Grabbing the large table with both hands, Marius pushed it to the side of the tent.

  “Would you like some help with…”

  Marius shot him a dark glare.

  “Yes, sir.” Aelius turned on his heel and left the tent.

  He set one of the leather stools in the center of the tent where the table had been and positioned several hanging lanterns around it. A dull hiss of rain beat on the soft leather above his head. He ignored it as he sat on the table, folded his arms, and waited. He would get the truth out of her if it took all night.

  * * * *

  Aelius showed up at the tent door with his arm wrapped around Delia’s shoulders. She seemed very small and frail, outlined in the light at the entrance. A strike of lightning silhouetted her. She was clothed in an oversized red wool tunic pinned at the shoulders to keep it from falling. Around her waist was a gold sash Aelius must have contributed—Marius recognized it from his aide’s treasures—and her hair braided and hanging down her back. Her face and hands were clear, with the exceptions of a bruise on her cheek and the black mark on her lip where Leonius had struck her. Even with that, her beauty was astonishing.

  Aelius escorted Delia into the tent and led her to the stool in the middle of the floor. She did not lift her eyes. It irritated Marius that she would not look at him, but her face was such a strained mask of sadness, he let it pass. Those lovely green eyes were red and swollen, making the color bright against her scarlet nose, ears, and cheeks. Her sorrow was almost tangible, and Marius had problems keeping his heart from going out to her, but he managed to keep his face stern.

  When she finally settled on the stool, Delia silently folded her hands in her lap and stared down at them. Marius watched for a few moments and then turned to his aide.

  “Leave us.”

  Aelius wrinkled his brow and licked his lips. “Sir, are you going to interrogate her?”

  Marius turned his back on Aelius and adjusted another light. “Yes.”

  “You know the law—you cannot interrogate a female prisoner without someone else present to witness…”

  Marius slammed down the lantern and Delia jumped. “I know the law, Aelius. This woman is not a prisoner; she is a slave—remember? Now go.”

  “Sir? Are you sure…”

  “Go!”

  Aelius regarded Marius with a strange mixture of fear, anger, defiance, and concern. “It is my duty to remind you of yours,” he said tightly. “If I am out of line, Centurion, then I apologize, but you have trained me to uphold the law.”

  “Duly noted, soldier,” he replied, looking back at Delia. “Now, get the hell out of my tent.”

  “Yes, sir.” Aelius turned for the entrance, but stopped before exiting. “Marius,” he said, “please do not hurt her.”

  “Is that what you think I intend to do?”

  Aelius took a deep breath and stared at the ground. “No, sir, I guess not. I just do not want to see her…”

  “Neither do I. But I will have the truth.” He took in an irritated breath and leaned against the table. “Now, get out.” The words were quiet, but clear, and Aelius left without replying.

  When Aelius was gone, Marius let several long moments hang in the air before he said anything, trying to make Delia uncomfortable. However, it seemed to have little effect on her since she merely stared at her hands and did not utter a sound. He finally rose from the table and poured a mug of water.

  “Are you thirsty?” he said.

  “No.” Delia’s voice was hoarse with grief, but he was careful not to let it weaken him. He took a long drink and then set the cup down.

  “Do you know why you are here?”

  “I am your slave,” she replied bitterly. “You can command me to do whatever you wish.”

  “No. Delia, you need to tell me about what happened. I need to know who did this to you.”

  Delia shook her head and tears came into her eyes. “I cannot…I will not…” she whispered, staring at a space in the air. “No one knows—and never will.”

  “Look at me.” She would not obey. Marius crossed to her quickly, grabbed her chin, and forced her face up. “Look at me.”

  Delia glared at him and the fire in her eyes impressed him. “No matter how long it takes,” he said softly, “no matter how hard this is for you, I will have the truth. Understand me, Delia? I will not hurt you, I will not betray you, and I will not let anyone ever harm you again.”

  The angry light in Delia’s eyes washed away, replaced by sadness. “Then let me go,” she pleaded. The sorrow in her eyes was overwhelming.

  “That is… impossible.” The words took on a significance they both heard. “Do you understand?”

  “No,” she whispered, examining his face when he released her chin. “I thought you…” Her voice drifted away, and she lowered her eyes.

  “Do you know why I am asking for this?”

  “No.”

  “Because it has to stop, Delia,” he said with intensity. “Because, if it continues, he will eventually kill you.”

  She shook her head. “I… I have taken care of it.”

  “What?”

  “I have taken care of it… he will not bother me anymore. I have been hiding. He will not find me again.”

  For the first time he saw the child-like panic in her eyes. “How many years have you been telling yourself that?”

  “What?”

  “How many years?” Marius’ voice rose, a technique he had used many times in the past. “How many times has he found you, Delia? Ten? Twenty? Does he beat you when he does? How many years, Delia?”

  “Stop it!” she shrieked, placing her hand in front of her mouth.

  “You have to tell me the truth.” Marius crossed to her slowly and unconsciously brushed a wayward hair from her forehead. “Tell me, and then it will all be over. We are not leaving until you do.”

  Delia clamped her mouth tight, threw her hand onto her lap, and stared straight ahead.

  “I cannot tell you.”

  Marius nodded and crossed to lean against the table again, folding his arms, knowing he would have to do this the hard way.

  “Do you have a lover?” The question was blunt, harsh, and with no compassion, but effective.

  Delia regarded him dully and shook her head. “No. I do not take lovers… for obvious reasons.”

  “Yet you told me you had been with a man.”

  She stared at her fingers.

  “Which man?” he asked. Delia started to breathe rapidly but would not lift her eyes to him.

  “It does not matter,” she hissed. However, Marius was unrelenting.

  “Someone from the village?”

  “No.”

  “Someone from Hillfort?”

  “No.”

  “A Roman?”

  “No!”

  “Someone from another tribe?”

  “No, no, no!” she screamed, lifting her face and clenching her fists. “I tell you, it does not matter!”

  He had watched her closely for any signals and thought he had detected one. Marius tried a different tactic, suspecting something.

  “How long ago did your father die?” he asked calmly.r />
  “What?”

  “How long ago?”

  Delia seemed confused by the sudden change in topic. “When I was thirteen. Sixteen years ago.”

  Marius pushed away from the table and paced in front of her. “Who took care of you after your father died?”

  “My… my maids, mostly. Father’s men made sure we were protected when we were children and Sofronio.” Delia put two delicate fingers in front of her lips, resting her chin in her hand, and gazed at the tent walls. Pain plucked at her eyes.

  “The tutor… yes.” Marius was careful not to take her out of his sight. “He died a year later, is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did he die?”

  Delia pulled the braid from her back and toyed with the end of it. “A… an accident.”

  “What kind of accident?”

  She brought her face up and her eyes darkened, her irises dilating. “I do not see what this has to do with…”

  “What kind of accident?” he said forcefully.

  She swallowed. “A… a riding accident.”

  “I see,” he said simply, and he did. She was lying to him. He turned away from her and gave her a moment to relax. He poured another cup of water. When she seemed calmer, he continued, pitching his voice very carefully.

  “Who took care of you then?”

  “What?”

  “Who?

  “Father’s men… I suppose,” but it was more of a question than an answer.

  He glared back at her from above the cup. “Not your brother?”

  Delia pulled in lungful of air and her eyes widened for a split second. “No,” she said. “He was very… busy. He did have a tribe to rule.”

  Marius casually moved in front of her. “Tell me about Conall.”

  Her face moved in little quick movements. “What would you like to know?”

  The edges of his lips curled down. “Everything,” he said casually. “Tell me about him.”

  Delia regarded the tent entrance with longing and released a short sigh. “He is tall, red headed, full beard, long hair.” Marius watched her face closely, but she would not return it while she spoke. “He is—Conall. I cannot tell you more.”

 

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