by Claudia Dain
With Dorcas nodding her approval, and the woman's unspoken hope for peace shining from her dark eyes, Melania arranged the folds of her palla and left the exercise room. Dorcas followed at a discreet distance. It might be fun to see how the Saxon responded to her now; she looked nothing like the bedraggled and dirty girl he had pulled from the hypocaust. Perhaps he would even be intimidated by the overt stamp of Rome in her demeanor and bearing, though she did not put much hope in that. The man had proven to her repeatedly that he was too dull to know when he should be impressed.
Not so his men.
She walked across the courtyard, where they were engaged in their usual mock battles, and first one, then another, then all stopped to stare at her. Dirty and sweaty and pagan they were, but they stopped to stare—no, to gawk—at her.
It was quite enjoyable.
"Who is it?" asked Cuthred.
"It's Melania, you dolt," Cenred said. "Who else could it be?"
"I thought it was your woman, Dorcas."
"Dorcas stands behind her, Cuthred, which you could see if you saw anything but the gleam of your seax."
"I see her," he said gruffly. It was clearly a new experience for him.
"Melania," Balduff said under his breath, dropping his seax and his shield so that they hung limply from his two hands. "She's a beauty, as I knew she was, And you said she was a mole, Cynric."
"She doesn't look as small and dirty now," Cynric said slowly, still staring and not able to stop himself.
"And she certainly doesn't look like a boy," Cenred said.
"I never said she looked like a boy," Balduff huffed. "I have always seen her worth, her femininity, her shapeliness."
"What compliment is that?" Cenred argued. "You see the worth of every tadpole of a girl."
"She is no tadpole," Cynric said.
"Bravo, Cynric, she has escaped being a mole and now a tadpole by your wise judgment. It would be best if you left the discussion of women to your superiors. You seem to lack the ability," Balduff said, pushing Cynric to the rear of the group they had formed to marvel at the glorious transformation of Melania.
"She looks very Roman, doesn't she?" Cuthred said, gripping his seax, his knuckles white.
"And you find that a curse?" Cenred said. "She is a Roman, fool, but I can find no fault with it, not as she looks. Do you think all Roman women look like her?"
"No," Ceolmund the Silent pronounced. "She is unique."
"I agree," said Balduff. "Never have I seen... Almost I would not have thought..."
"Ho, so you admit to being stunned by her beauty," Cynric said, pouncing. "You, who claim to know all there is to know about women."
"I never said she reminded me of a mole, Cynric. You alone have that distinction...."
Melania listened avidly as she slowly glided across the courtyard to the doorway of her room.
This was wonderful fun. Why, oh, why, had she waited so long to bathe? It was just then that Wulfred stormed through the gate and into the courtyard. What would his reaction to her transformation be? She only hoped it would be as soul-satisfying as that of his men.
"Is this how you serve me? In childish bickering? I could hear you halfway up the hill," he snapped, not looking in Melania's direction. Very deliberately, she thought.
"Wulfred," Cynric said, almost blushing, "the woman, the Roman, she... we... well, look at her!"
Wulfred glanced at her over his naked shoulder and said gruffly, "Have you never seen a clean woman before?"
"No," Cynric tried. "I mean, yes, but Wulfred, she..."
"She's beautiful," Balduff said, his voice soft and emphatic.
"She's Roman," Wulfred spat out.
"Fine," said Cenred. "She's a beautiful Roman."
"A beautiful Roman woman," Cuthred summarized for them all.
"And?" Wulfred demanded. "This is something you have not known before now?"
"Well, she was very dirty," Cenred said haltingly.
"And now she is clean. Does that mean that she will rob you of your purpose simply by bathing her filthy body and replacing her encrusted rags with proper clothing? Is that the extent of your commitment?"
"No, Wulfred," they said, almost in unison, shamed.
Melania watched and heard all from the shadow of her doorway, learning, observing, planning. What a fool she had been. What a self-destructive fool. If a simple stroll across the courtyard had caused such bickering and splintering, what would a more concerted effort yield? Wulfred would be harried in trying to control them, the dogs who claimed him as master. He would be exhausted within the week, and how could he retaliate against her? She had done nothing, except to bathe.
Oh, and Wulfred would not escape unscathed. No, him she would taunt and beguile until he was a besotted fool. If Dorcas was right—and she now prayed to God she was—then Wulfred felt a flicker of attraction for her, though he had hardly glanced at her and was acting in his normal obtuse way. He hadn't taken one step toward becoming besotted that she could see; but he would. With some effort on her part, a look, a smile, and that blessed proximity he insisted upon, she would have him howling in frustration as easily as she would have his men at each other's throats.
And when the game had paled for her, when she was sick of watching the Saxons fall over themselves for her, she would kill him. Thanks to his own proclamation, she would be close enough to accomplish it. God willing, she would have him enamored enough to have weakened his guard.
Melania smiled suddenly and smoothed the folds of her palla. This was going to be a lot more fun than starving.
Chapter 13
She took a piece of bread soaked in oil and spices and held it out to Balduff, her head lowered and her smile beckoning. Balduff, his smile radiating all the way to his eyes, leaned forward to take the offering with his fingers. She pulled back, laughing, coaxing, until he finally opened his mouth in submission and took the food from her hand—all the while wearing that besotted smile.
She leaned toward Cenred, leaned so far that the neck of her stola gaped and he surely had a view of the tops of her breasts, and made a motion of brushing dirt off his shoulder. Cenred laughed at her touch, his light brown eyes shining.
She winked at Cuthred. Cuthred, who smiled only when he was killing, grinned and turned away, pleasantly embarrassed.
Ceolmund, still silent, could hardly bear to look away from her.
Wulfred watched and wondered.
Melania had changed more than her clothes. She had been the personification of spitting and hissing fury; she was now smooth and silky temptation. She had insulted his men at every turn; she now charmed them with seductive smiles of promise. Promises she did not keep. Promises he would not allow her to keep even had she dared. No one would touch Melania. She was his alone.
He knew she would not dare. This display of hers was a ploy, a new method to thwart him; he understood her well enough to know that. Unlike other women he had known, Melania was consistent in both her emotions and her goals. He knew that she was still determined to defeat him and, at the very least, rob him of his joy in defeating her. So this new familiarity, this exuberant flirtation, was only a new means to the same goal.
But how did she rob him with this display? Did she think that watching her breast brush against Balduff's arm would bother him? Balduff, his eyes glowing with suppressed desire, did not touch her. Wulfred tightened his jaw until his teeth ached, but he kept watching her, his face a careful blank.
When she leaned close to whisper into Cenred's ear, brushing a finger down his arm to the back of his hand, did she cast half a glance at him to see if he watched? Wulfred crossed his arms over his chest as he leaned against the plaster wall; he knew she did. Therefore he would not allow her antics to make his guts twist upon themselves in angry turmoil, though they did each time she touched a man and smiled her sudden smile. He would not give her his anger or his interest. He would give her nothing on which to sharpen her viperous teeth.
Not everyone had his control.
>
Cynric lurched to his feet and strode away from the table, his eyes an angry blaze of lust and fury; Cynric was finding it difficult to reconcile his distrust of the Roman with his desire for the woman. Cynric found his temper pushed to the edge by the little Roman snake.
"You can see the trouble she is causing," Cynric fumed, "and the pleasure she gets from it." Balduff and Cenred were debating, loudly, the quality of the wine from Melania's vineyard.
Wulfred, studying Melania's pleased expression with studied stoicism, said only, "She thinks she is causing more trouble than she is."
"She is a viper, slithering among us. A fire, burning each of us."
"I am not burned," Wulfred said easily. "And I am not afraid of snakes."
"Perhaps not you..."
"The solution is simple, Cynric," he said, facing his friend. "Walk away. If the fire is too hot, turn your back on it and walk away."
Cynric grimaced his anguish at the idea of retreat, before he did just that, but not before turning for one more glance at Melania.
Melania, always reworking her battle plan. She had the appearance now of one content, at peace with her situation and with her life, but he did not believe the pose. She was not happy. The hatred and violence of weeks did not turn easily to acquiescence; none knew that better than he. Melania was consistent, true to her stated goals, passionate in her vow of hatred. No, this was a new tactic, a new strategy to best him.
She was a resourceful adversary; he'd give her that.
She'd maneuvered him into prohibiting her from hard labor, into eating each meal at a place of prominence at his side, into daily baths; it had not been her initial intent to win these luxuries from him, but the result was the same. And now she teased his men into fits of desire and jealousy and he spent more and more of his days controlling them, redirecting their passions, because he would kill the man who touched her. His men did not act on her blatant invitation and they never would; he had declared her his alone, which all within the confines of the villa knew very well. Now she turned his protection of her to prick him. Oh, yes, she was very resourceful, very devious.
How to turn the trap she had set back on her again? What would eat at her? What would cause her to crash against the restrictions of her life until she drowned in endless despair? That was all he wanted for her, this Roman, to be crushed by his hand, as he had once almost been crushed. To taste the despair he had once known until she choked and vomited on it.
He watched her. It seemed he always watched her. Her hair was up, crafted into swirling, minute braids, the black gleaming in the torchlight, inky, shining, smooth, a perfect foil for her glittering eyes. The black makeup she wore accentuated the large almond shape of her expressive eyes—eyes in which he could read the shadows of spiteful pleasure. She was an exotic beauty like nothing his men had ever seen or ever known, even beyond his own experience of women, but she was Roman. He understood Romans.
She leaned back on her elbows and Balduff fed her. It was very seductive and she knew it well. She had filled out since her attempts at starvation had failed, but she was still petite, hardly more than a handful, hardly as high as his chest. A Roman to the bone, she was; they were not a large race, but they were proud and domineering. She was dominating them now, subjugating his men with desire. She, being Roman, would not be content until she ruled them all. An arrogant race. A seductive race.
Though he had never found anything about Rome to be seductive before knowing her.
She knew what she was doing. Every smile and tilt of her head was by design, She was clever. She was determined. And she had proven herself to be ruthlessly devious.
Spitting her fury at him, she had defied him. Demanding rights that were no longer hers, she had tried to bully him. Even when she was afraid, anger came spitting out of her. Anger, so often rolling out from her to slap against her foes, was her defense.
Wulfred smiled, knowing he had unearthed a weakness in his adversary, and then he laughed lightly; he could only appreciate her unflinching bravado. She did not give up, this one, and perhaps he might have admired her for it. Perhaps he would have felt desire for her himself, for her hair was as thick and dark as the night and her eyes as bright as the sun and her shape and form as delicate and feminine as the lark, and her spirit... her spirit was a blazing fire that would not be doused. Perhaps he would have felt these things, thought these things, if she had not been Roman.
Wulfred pushed away from the wall and dropped his arms, forcing himself to look away from her. She was like a fire in the night; if one looked too long, it became impossible to see anything but the fire.
How to stop her? How to turn this latest strategy against her? How to end the friction among his men? How to destroy her slowly, so that he could lengthen his own pleasure in this revenge? That was all he wanted, no matter her beauty and her fire; her defeat was what fed him, as planning his defeat fed her. She had not changed. She would never change.
He looked back at her over his shoulder. How long had he looked away? A moment or two? Had it even been that long? It had felt longer.
Wulfred, watching her sip her wine and smile at Cuthred across the rim, smiled as the perfect revenge burst upon his mind with the shining force of the rising sun. His smile was so full and so unexpected that Melania choked on her drink, eyeing him with instant suspicion. It was well she was suspicious, for he knew exactly how to stop all the trouble she was stirring up. This little Roman snake would cause no more trouble. He laughed out loud as he left the triclinium.
He could not see her, but he could feel her eyes on his back. And he could almost hear her rattle her alarm.
* * *
They stood in the dark of the wood, the scattered yellow lights of the villa twinkling warmly in the narrow valley below. Clouds of ice blue skidded across the night sky in tattered, tortured strips, running away to the east. A wolf cried sharply in the night, a broken cry of hunger. The leaves of last autumn twirled and hissed in a sudden strong gust of night wind, stirring the moist decay at their feet for a moment before dying off.
It was just such a night as this that he had taken her world for his own, taken it and destroyed it. It was fitting that this night should be so much like the first time he had seen her villa, so helpless and indefensible against the dark, for now he would destroy again, though in different fashion.
Why could his comitatus not see it as he saw it?
"I honor you always, Wulfred, but think again on this plan. This is no way to defeat her!" Cynric said, his voice quavering with tension.
"Better to kill her, be done with it, and move on," Cuthred said flatly, fingering his blade with a reluctance odd for him.
"Without my pleasure from her?" Wulfred smiled, with no thought at all of killing her.
"There is pleasure in killing," Cuthred argued.
"But there is more pleasure in torment, especially of a Roman," Wulfred said. "Especially of this Roman."
"If it is because she has.... well, if it is because she is beautiful..." Cenred stammered guiltily.
"And?" Wulfred prompted, squatting on his haunches and turning his shadowed face to the quiet villa below.
"If we have driven you to this by our attention to her..." Cenred continued, his guilt almost choking him.
"No one drives me to anything, Cenred," Wulfred said slowly, pulling his knife free and resting its tip on the ground at his feet. "You are not the cause of this. She is. As to her beauty, I have seen it always."
"Have you?" Cenred said, amazed.
"Certainly. Do you throw your seax away because it is covered in blood and mud? Do you not see its shape and form? Is it without virtue because it wants cleaning?"
"She has no virtue," Cynric mumbled.
"She has one virtue that I prize above all," Wulfred said, standing, holding his knife easily, aggressively. "She is Roman, and only a Roman can give me my revenge. For this I value her."
The group of warriors went silent at that. The night wind died
to nothing. The leaves drooped from the branches and hung lifelessly in the dark. A large insect, black and armored, scuttled through the leaves; Wulfred flicked his knife and the insect was impaled, his armor a useless thing against a Saxon weapon.
"She is courageous and she is hostile, hating Saxons as you hate Romans," Ceolmund said, looking away from the quivering knife in the ground and down into the villa courtyard.
"Hating us?" Balduff asked, his light blue eyes round in disbelief. "She has been delightful, at least to me." He eyed Cynric judiciously.
"Hating us," Ceolmund repeated.
"You were not fooled?" Wulfred asked, looking at his companion with quiet respect.
"No," Ceolmund stated seriously. "I think that her hate is as strong as yours, Wulfred."
"Perhaps, but she is not as strong as I. She cannot win."
"No, she cannot win, but why do this to yourself? This method wounds you as it enhances her," Cynric said, his voice hot in the still night.
"Wounded?" Wulfred asked, flexing his right arm. "I shall not be wounded because I marry her."
The words settled into the darkness like a stone, sending back ripples that struck against their very bones. Only Wulfred was oblivious to their bruising. Only Ceolmund suspected why.
"No, but you will be tied to a Roman for the rest of your life. What vengeance is that?" Cenred argued.
"And she will be bound to a Saxon throughout her life, a very miserable life. There is my vengeance."
"You honor her with your commitment," Cynric said in a snarl, angry because the contrary woman would see it as a punishment. "She will be brought into your house. What greater honor for her?"
"She will not see it as an honor. For her it will be torture, and that is all that is important," Wulfred stated, closing the subject, he thought.
"Slavery can end at your will, but the marriage bond is binding. You will have her in your life for the rest of her life," Balduff said with a shudder that had little to do with Melania.
"Which is all the more reason for her to hate it and all the better for my purposes. There will be no release for her, and she will know it."