The Centurion and the Queen

by Minnette Meador

  She had been given to a plump, wrinkled Triniovates who squinted and squeezed her cheeks. Forcing Delia to clean and prepare food for the troops. Rheydyn also ordered Delia to wait on her and her sister. It was humiliating. Her cousin would call her names in front of the other warriors. She would not let her change out of the Roman garb, so the scarlet material served as a badge to the others. If Delia did not move quickly enough for someone’s pleasure, she was beaten.

  To make matters worse, Conall had never shown up to join the tribes on their march as promised. It made Delia appear even more culpable. She tried in every way possible to escape the camp, but Rheydyn had seen to it she was carefully watched during the day and ensured she be bound tightly at night.

  At dusk, if they were not fighting, Rheydyn would call for her, tie her hands behind her back, and make her kneel at the center of a crowd of the warriors. In a contemptuous voice she would cry, “Do you denounce the Romans and will you take up arms to fight with us?”

  Delia was no fool. As loudly as could she would shout, “Yes. Give me a sword so I may fight.”

  Rheydyn would simply laugh at her, call her a Roman whore, and say she was unworthy. They would then spit on her and call her names.

  Thankfully, for whatever reason, Rheydyn would not let any of the men touch her, though many tried. Delia’s keeper would watch them carefully and chase them away. Delia was grateful for no other reason.

  The woman running the wagons was slothful, disorganized and careless. Delia did most of her work as the heavyset woman sat on the back of her wagon with a long lash she used liberally, eating food that was becoming more precious every day.

  Five days out of Verulamium, the line suddenly stopped, several hours before the scheduled time. A ripple of excitement echoed through the crowds. The Romans had been spotted five miles up the road and to the north, camped on a long sloping field inside the West Midlands, their backs lined by trees on all sides. The Bretons were ecstatic; Suetonius had made a mistake and backed his puny legion into a trap.

  Delia knew the Romans, knew they would never do anything that would not give them an advantage. Their general, this Suetonius, had placed them there for a reason. Despite the animosity she felt for her own people, she deeply feared for them. Of course, no one would listen to her.

  With a lunge, the roiling mass of Bretons swiftly moved forward.

  By the evening, they were camped fifty thousand strong and across an open plain. The Roman camp shown as a distant line of fires in the darkness, and all Delia could think of was Marius.

  He must think I am dead . Then another thought occurred to her that she could not push down fast enough. His men could kill me in the battle and not even know until it was too late.

  When she wandered through the camp, bringing water to the waiting warriors, they cheered and shouted their triumph. The Romans were grossly outnumbered. It would be impossible for them to win the day. The Bretons would simply run them over and trample them under their feet.

  At the center of camp, an hour before dawn, Boudiga’s chariot arrived and a deafening roar broke out from the people. Delia, thrown back when she tried to see, scooted behind a tent where she could hear the final words before the battle.

  “This,” Boudiga called, shaking a fist in the air, “is not the first time that Bretons have been led to battle by a woman. I do not come to boast the pride of a long line of ancestry, or even to recover my kingdom, and the plundered wealth of my family. I am taking the field, like the meanest among you, to assert the cause of liberty, and to seek revenge for my body seamed with shameful stripes, and my two daughters infamously ravished. From the pride and arrogance of the Romans, nothing is sacred. All are subject to violation. The old endure the scourge; the virgins are deflowered. However, the vindictive gods are now at hand. In the past, a Roman legion dared to face us, the warlike Bretons. With their lives, they paid for their rashness. Those who survived the carnage of that day, now lie poorly hid behind their entrenchments, meditating on nothing but how to save themselves by a disgraceful flight. From the din of preparation and the shouts of the Breton warriors, the Romans, even now, shrink back with terror. What will they do when the assault begins? Look around, view your numbers, see the proud display of warriors, and consider the motives for which we draw our swords. On this spot, we must either conquer or die with glory. There is no alternative. Though I am only a woman, my resolution is fixed. The men, if they please, may survive with infamy and live in bondage. I, for one, will not!”

  The deafening roar that echoed through the camp made Delia cover her ears.

  She also knew it reached the ears of the man she loved.

  C hapter Twenty-Six

  Marius stood, alerted by the roaring crescendo echoing dully against the horseshoe-shaped line of trees, surrounding them on three sides. He knew the advantage they had and the plans of the general, but it did not help to alleviate the feeling of entrapment within these trees. They would all die here if the Bretons could not be stopped..

  It had taken the scouts three days to find the open field, a perfect place for Suetonius to place his men. They waited four days for the Bretons to arrive, and the troops were restless.

  After he left Suetonius that first day, he had joined Kuna, Leonius, and Aelius to ready their men and bolster their ranks with Roman citizens. These men were merchants, tradesmen, and businessmen; none of them had ever held a sword. It took the soldiers days just to teach them which end to use. Most were out of shape, fat, or dreadfully under nourished. Having been with well-trained soldiers all his life, Marius was stunned by how far a man could let his body deteriorate. Finally, it was decided to take these men to replace aides and privates of the legions who had training. It was almost comical to listen to a statesman whine about having to muck out the horses. Nevertheless, a stable boy with two years of military training had more skill than a merchant with thirty years of none.

  In hopes of finding Delia, Marius asked repeatedly to be allowed to scout the advancing warriors, but he was continuously refused. Twice, unknown to the general or even his men, Marius and Kuna traveled east in the darkest part of night. On the second night, they made it as far as the outlining Breton camp, but the well too guarded camp made it impossible for them to advance any further. Marius was increasingly anxious.

  That fourth day, Marius and Kuna had woken an hour before the sun. They stood outside the tent and watched the rising soldiers, each lost in their own thoughts. Across the camp, a good half mile away, they noticed a lone figure on horseback entering the outskirts from the east. Marius flashed a look at the figure without interest, however, when he turned to Kuna, his friend’s breathing became suddenly rapid and his dark eyes widened. He took off running across the camp, heedless of soldiers, horses, or other obstructions. In twenty years, Marius had never seen Kuna panicked by anything, including pitched battles, hand-to-hand combat, or even snap inspections.

  Marius’s stomach turned into knots and he ran after him.

  He had difficulty distinguishing the rider at first, but as he approached, the horse stopped, and the figure teetered in the saddle. Kuna swiftly made it to the horse before the figure went down.

  When Marius arrived, Kuna was setting someone on the ground. The first thing Marius saw was a delicate white hand reaching from the red cloak to touch Kuna’s chest. As the hood fell away, he saw the matted, billowing, dark silver, streaked hair of his sister.

  Antonia looked up at him from Kuna’s arms and barely managed a smile before her head slumped. She was bruised and scratched on nearly every inch of her face; nearly naked, patches of black and blue skin could be seen everywhere, and her clothes were nothing more than rags.

  He ripped his own cloak off his shoulders and threw it over his sister before Kuna scooped her up into his arms. His face grave, Kuna ran as fast as he dared, and Marius followed, shouting for the medico.

  The older man came out of his tent blurry eyed, but became instantly alert as soon as he saw t
hem. They scooted her into the tent and the medico went to work immediately.

  Fortunately, most of the damage was superficial; bruises, scrapes, and bumps. Her wrist was cracked and one rib was broken, but otherwise she was sound enough, beyond exposure, starvation, and exhaustion. Her husband would not leave her side. When she woke later that day, Marius brought her a tray of food.

  “Good morning.” He set the tray on her lap. Kuna held her hand, unwilling to let it go.

  Antonia sweetly smiled at Kuna. “I am not going anywhere, my love. Let me eat.”

  As she ate, obviously starved, she told them what happened in the city, verifying the information that Kuna had extracted from the Breton.

  “For what it is worth, Marius,” she said, touching his face. “I think Delia is alive. I am… I am so sorry I could not get her out.” She looked down and tears mingled with her food. “I tried.”

  Marius took his sister into his arms. “What you did was brave beyond words,” he said. “If she is alive, it is because of you.”

  When she finished eating, Kuna seemed so lost that Antonio finally sent him out for water.

  His sister sat up in the bed and searched Marius’s face.

  “Delia is… precious, but she is not a common woman… not Roman.”

  Marius scowled, and she touched his cheek, smiling.

  “You will not be able to take her from his place—ever. It would destroy her. Delia needs to be with her people. She also needs loved—without restrictions. Do you understand?”

  Antonia always saw into the heart of him, often echoing his own thoughts, feelings, and doubts. He nodded.

  “Without restrictions,” he repeated and pulled her into his arms.

  “Can you do that?” she whispered into his ear. “Do you know what that means? The love will have to be unconditional… she deserves nothing less. If you cannot sacrifice what you must, then step away now.”

  Marius kissed her on the cheek and pushed her back.

  “I will not step away,” his words were sad but his heart determined.

  Antonio’s eyes sparkled with tears, and she curled a lock of hair at his forehead. “I am very happy for you, Marius. You are so deserving of love. I thought I would never see it.”

  The joy in her face did his heart good.

  Marius listened to the thundering of human cries from across the field and his thoughts went again to Delia. The memory of her body in his arms, the smell of her flesh in his nostrils, and the taste of her on his lips sent a flush through his body. Her smile burned in his mind, and her laugher still echoed in his ears. His arms ached to hold her again. Regardless of the cost, he would make sure that if he found her, he would never let her go again.

  As the noise died down, Suetonius came out of his tent and motioned to Marius and the other hundred centurions that were present with him. They took their positions before their columns of men and stood at rigid attention. The centurions sent orders down the lines, and every man stiffened to attention behind their leader. Rank after rank of soldiers filled the field in precise rows, their helmets shining golden in the light of the fires, their armor polished, and their shields blazing red. An hour before dawn, they assembled until all ten thousand filled the field. All would fight.

  The general paced before his men. The flickering torches sent red-gold reflections that deepened the war weary lines of his face, accentuated the stiffness of his gray lips, the drooping circles of his eyes. His face framed within a triangle of silver steel. His voice was the only sound.

  “Do not listen to the savage uproar,” Suetonius called to his troups, “the yells and shouts of undisciplined barbarians. In that mixed multitude, the women out-number the men. Ignore the cries, for they are without arms. They are not soldiers who come to offer battle; they are bastards, runaways, and the survivors of your swords. They have often fled before you and will again flee when they see the conqueror flaming in the ranks of war. In all engagements it is the valor of a few that turns the fortune of the day. It will be to your immortal glory, that with so few numbers you can equal the exploits of a great and powerful army. Obey your commands! Keep your ranks! Discharge your javelins! Rush forward to a close attack! Bear down with your shields and hew a passage with your swords! Pursue the vanquished and never think of spoil and plunder. Conquer, and victory will give you everything!”

  The roar of men was not as great as that of the Bretons, but it did not contain any less devotion. Marius watched his century standing behind him, mingled amongst ten thousand men, and could not help but feel honored that night to be a Roman.

  It would be the last night for such pride.

  C hapter Twenty-Seven

  While the morning dawned behind them, Breton warriors ran down the hill to meet their Roman enemy. They were fifty thousand strong, many of them naked, and all of them tattooed in blue. Few had armor or helmets. They carried swords, spears, axes or anything they could use to hew and kill. From behind them, Boudiga stood proudly in her Breton chariot, forcing them on with her hands, her voice, and her daughters standing next to her, urging them to war.

  Behind the charging Bretons, hundreds of carts and wagons followed. The children, the old, and those who could not fight, cheered them on; demanding Roman blood and driving the teams of horses and mules to stay close to the advancing ranks.

  Delia could not see much at first, being relegated to the back of the charging wagons. However, unlike those around her, running was something she did very well. It was not long before she outpaced the charging children, adults, and then the stampeding beasts pulling their burdens. She found herself with a storm of air around her head, straining to see the fight.

  Cresting a final hill, she stopped abuptly. Massive walls of trees loomed around her on either side of the field, shadowed in the morning light. Waves of Bretons roared their thunder toward the seemingly tiny Roman formation before them. A massive square of shields and helmets gleaming in the rising sun, stretched tightly across the open defile. The wagons full of people quickly caught up to her but stopped as well, watching their warriors line the field, well within the arms of the forest, waiting to see their Breton brothers win the day.

  The distance closed quickly between the rush and the still. The sun glinting on a shadow of black and red as it flew through the air above the advancing warriors like a flock of soaring birds. Across the field, with stringent orders given, ten thousand heavy javelins filled the air, taking down almost as many Bretons. A profound drift of dead rippled before the charging warriors.

  Another shout of repeated Latin orders mingled with the Celtic curses and a volley of death rained down on them again. Ten thousand more died. The raging Bretons being slowed by the mounting bodies.

  The Roman’s momentum was too great. The hoards crowded together into a funnel formed by the stand of trees on either side until the Breton front line became no more than the soldiers that faced them. Delia watched in horror when that first line fell against the advancing zigzagged wall of Roman shields. Her people fell in a spray of blood, trampled by studded leather sandals. Then the second line fell, the third, and the fourth; the incensed Bretons pushing their comrades forward into the jaws of brisling little swords, bloody shields, and determination. They fell by the thousands before the wall of death, the Romans rotating their legions at the front of the line to keep the men fresh, strong, and unwavering.

  Thousands more fell and the field flowed with red.

  Repeating it many, many times, each thrust repelled in an instant while bodies stacked on the field, and the Romans took one more grisly step forward.

  The Bretons in the back stopped and some even backed up a step or two. The Romans moved quickly, mowing down a thousand at a time, and stepping over their mangled bodies to reach the next. A panic settled amongst the Bretons that were left, and despite the commands of their leaders, men and women hesitated.

  The noise was deafening, the cries, the shouts, the orders, until Delia had to cover her ears and turn
away.

  When she lifted her head and saw the scene behind her, her mouth opened in astonishment. The wagons, carts, and pack animals were lined, one next to the other, at places four deep. The closed arms of the forests on either side sealed in everything. In a panic, she glanced back at the rushing rage of battle and saw the running throng of warriors pause and break away. The Romans moved swiftly, pushing them back yards at a time and killing all they could reach. Tens of thousands of them lay dead or dying on the field. Those that remained, turned away, but the Romans were right behind them.

  “Move the wagons!” The shrill of her voice sounded dull against the crowded field. “Move the wagons now!” but her cries were ignored.

  She spotted the Trinovante woman to the side, cheering from the back of a turned wagon and Delia ran to her, grabbing her sandaled feet, and pointing to the warriors.

  “The wagons!” Delia could not get the words out fast enough. “Move the wagons, or the retreating armies will be trapped. You have to move them now!”

  The woman glowered at her and gritted her teeth. With a swift kick, she caught Delia on the forehead and sent her sprawling onto the grassy field.

  “They will not retreat,” the bulky woman hissed, turning her head to the warriors at the back of the line. Her eyes widened.

  A massive throng of men and women stumbled toward the wagons, first from one side and then the other, sparking the abandonment that rippled through the uneven throng of Bretons.