The leader looked at the Roman, who was frozen, his sword at the ready; the Celt was obviously itching to cut his throat.
“I will tell my brother Brettix that you defied me,” Bronwen said in a silky tone. “He does not favor interference with civilians.”
“That,” the Regnus said viciously, pointing his weapon, “is not a civilian.”
“You were instructed not to enter the residences!” Bronwen yelled at him, wondering if the Celts would kill her and then blame it on the Romans. The Regni were new allies and not overly fond of the Iceni.
The leader glared at her defiantly.
“What are you doing in this house?” she demanded. “Were you planning on looting it? Cutting the servants to pieces as they cowered in their quarters and then robbing them? Half of them are Celts! If you don’t leave immediately I will make sure my brother hears of this!”
That convinced the interloper. He jerked his head toward the hall and ran out of the room, the others following close behind him.
The centurion let out his breath in a long sigh.
“Why did you do that?” he asked warily.
“I don’t know,” Bronwen said. “It seemed important not to see one more person die.”
“You were very brave. Three of them could have overpowered me.”
“Bravery is easy when you have nothing to lose,” Bronwen replied. She was suddenly conscious of the thickness of the air and added tonelessly, “Is the house on fire?” She didn’t really care.
“The house is made of stone, madam, and the roof is too wet with snow to burn.”
“Then what is burning?”
“The wooden ramparts inside the fort walls,” he replied, going to the window and looking out of it. “I can’t see much through the smoke but the flames are brightest in the direction of the gates.”
“Is it over yet?”
“Not yet,” the centurion replied quietly. “Listen. You can still hear the clash of swords.”
Bronwen heard nothing more than a general, hideous din; to her inexperienced ear the individual sounds were lost in it.
“Do you think there will be anyone left alive to execute me?” she asked disinterestedly.
“Execute, madam?” the centurion said.
“I am a hostage bride, centurio. With this open violation of the treaty my life will be forfeit.”
“Surely Tribune Leonatus will not let that happen,” he replied soothingly.
Bronwen smiled sadly but did not answer him.
Gradually, over the course of the morning, the sounds of the battle decreased, and then Bronwen heard the blast of a Celtic horn, the dubh broch, sounding the retreat. Not long after she saw Maeve standing in the doorway, and the old woman rushed into her arms.
“I was afraid to leave the quarters,” she said in Celtic. “I’m so relieved to see that you are all right.” Then she saw the centurion and said, “What is he doing here?”
“Guarding me,” Bronwen answered.
Maeve looked at her.
“Claudius knows,” she said briefly.
“How?”
“I told him.”
Maeve glanced at the guard.
“He doesn’t understand us, don’t worry,” Bronwen said. “I told Claudius in the middle of the night, so the Romans had some advance warning. They were expecting the raid when it came.”
“They still couldn’t produce more men on such short notice. It probably didn’t matter very much.”
“It matters to Claudius. Very much.”
“Shall we look outside?” Maeve asked.
“You do it,” Bronwen said to her, turning her head. “I don’t have the stomach for it.”
Maeve left the study as the Roman watched Bronwen, making sure she didn’t follow. A short time later the old woman returned, her expression sober.
“The ramparts and the headquarters building are on fire,” she reported. “The smoke is so thick I couldn’t see much, but there are bodies piled everywhere.”
“Did anyone win?” Bronwe asked sarcastically. “That was the point of all this, as I understand it, to win.”
“You wanted to win, too,” Maeve said to her. “Once.”
“Yes, I know,” Bronwe said, sighing heavily. “It’s difficult to remember that now.”
“I’m sure Brettix and his force did a lot of damage,” Maeve said. “Maybe enough for the Romans to give in on some of the points they have always refused to negotiate before; they won’t want a repeat of this any time soon.”
“That’s enough talk!” the centurion broke in sharply, speaking in Latin to Bronwen. “Dismiss her.”
“Is everyone safe in the house?” Bronwen asked.
Maeve nodded.
“Then go back to the servants’ quarters and keep them all calm,” Bronwen said. “Tell them I’m fine and we now await the return of the master.”
“If he’s coming back,” Maeve said, watching Bronwen’s face.
“Until I hear differently I am proceeding on that assumption,” Bronwen said, with more confidence than she felt. She waved her hand to dismiss Maeve and sat once more at Claudius’ desk.
It was nightfall before Claudius returned; during the day Bronwen was permitted a meal, which she did not eat. For all the long hours until her husband entered the study her guard did not move from his position, not even to sit or to walk around the room, and he was clearly relieved to see his superior officer come through the door.
But not nearly as relieved as Bronwen was to see her husband still alive.
“You’re dismissed,” Claudius said to the centurion, barely looking at him. “Report to Quaestor Ardus Cappius for the burial detail.”
The man fled, glancing once searchingly at Bronwen before leaving the room.
Claudius was filthy, his cloak rent with sword slashes, his tunic practically ripped from his body, exposing his chest from collarbone to waist. There was a fierce gash on his right cheek and his left bicep was bound with a bloody rag.
“Are you all right?” Bronwen asked him.
“I’m fine, no thanks to you,” he said flatly. “Let me tell you what’s going to happen. An escort will arrive shortly to take you to the barracks where you will be placed in a detention cell to wait execution according to the terms of the violated treaty.” He turned his back on her and walked back toward the hall.
“Is that all you have to say to me, Claudius?” Bronwen called after him miserably.
“That’s all I have to say to you,” he replied, not looking at her, and then walked out of the room.
CHAPTER twelve
The men did not return to the Iceni village until three days after the battle. Lucia spent the time with Cartia in the house where Brettix had left her, contemplating her uncertain fate.
When she awoke the morning after her arrival, Brettix was gone and so was every other man in the village. None of the women spoke to her as they went about their chores, walking back and forth in the cold between the cooking fires, the wood stores and their houses. Although she could have addressed them in Celtic she chose to remain silent and keep to herself, acutely aware of their darting glances, as well as the curiosity and covert hostility which motivated them. Cartia prepared meals and set them before the Roman girl, who tried to eat but left most of the food untouched. Lucia sat before the hearth and reviewed her time with Brettix while Cartia carded wool and hauled water from the partly frozen well and took dried food down from storage and swept the dirt floor and renewed the constantly burning fire. She didn’t ask for Lucia’s help and Lucia didn’t volunteer it. She was too miserable to care about Cartia’s opinion of her and the Iceni girl seemed to be managing just fine on her own.
On the morning of the third day Lucia heard the sound of drumming hoofbeats and emerged from the house to see the men of the tribe returning. Doorways all over the village were suddenly filled with women pulling shawls around their shoulders, tallying the riders anxiously, their fear written on their faces. Wailing comme
nced as the absent were noted, and Lucia saw several women turn away in grief as they realized they would never see a husband or a son again.
Brettix and his father led the pack, which was large and ragged, the weariness of battle and lost friends visible in their bloodstained clothing, varied bandages and fatigued posture. The horses looked just as tired, and Lucia watched as the men dismounted and tended to the animals first, then dispersed to their homes, walking slowly, some of them so spent they were dragging their weapons in the dirt. She stepped aside to let the men go past her, searching Brettix’ face.
He didn’t look at her as he came in, so she resumed her seat by the fire as Cartia poured corma for the men and then set about preparing a meal. The King, whose left arm was bloody and heavily bound, glanced at Lucia several times, but Brettix and Parex simply nursed their drinks and never turned their heads. The silence lengthened until Borrus finally said, “We’ll wait until they’ve had another day to think about the damage to the fort and their losses, then approach them with our demands.”
“And Bronwen?” Parex said, looking at Brettix.
“She made her choice,” Brettix said.
His father and Parex exchanged glances.
“You heard what the old woman said. They’ve got her in the cell they use for criminals sentenced to crucifixion. They’ll kill her for sure!” Parex told him.
“She knew that when she decided to stay with her tribune,” Brettix replied.
Lucia listened to them argue for a while, then stood and pulled on her cloak, walking out the door of the house before anyone had a chance to stop her. When Brettix realized she had left he got up, mumbling something under his breath, and went after her.
Lucia was standing in the clearing beyond the house, her arms folded inside her cloak, her gazed fixed on the horizon. When Brettix came up behind her she turned to him and said, “Trade me for your sister.”
He stared at her, speechless.
“My father will want me back at any cost. Send a message to the fort that you will return me to him if they let Bronwen live.”
“So you want to go back there?” he asked, his eyes fixed on her face, which was serene with decision.
“Why should I stay here?” she countered.
“Because I want you to,” he answered simply. “I want you to stay with me.”
“It doesn’t seem that way,” she said softly. “I’ve spent the last several days wondering if you were alive or dead, and when you finally come back you can’t even look at me?”
“I wasn’t sure you would want me to look at you. The last time I saw you, Lucia, you weren’t very happy with me.”
“So you went ahead and accomplished your mission without my blessing. I assume you carved a path of destruction and killed a great many soldiers?”
“Yes.”
“You must be so proud.”
“I’ll be proud if it gets us what we want.”
“And just what is that?”
“Self rule. What we had before the Romans came.”
“So my people must pull up stakes and go home?”
“Or withdraw to Londinium as a first step. I don’t care as long as they are gone from Iceni territory by spring.”
“My father will never go along with that. He gets his orders from home and Mark Antony wants to expand the Roman presence in Britain, not go the other way.”
“I’ll make it clear that they’ve just had a taste of what we’ll do before spring if they don’t agree,” Brettix said grimly. “It will take months for your father to get an answer from Rome, he’ll have to take it upon himself to make a decision now.”
“You’re very confident now that you have the other tribes behind you,” Lucia said quietly.
“It’s the first time we’ve been united against the Romans since the invaders came,” Brettix said.
“Then you don’t need me any more,” Lucia whispered.
He pulled her into his arms.
“I will always need you,” he said, his lips against her ear. “I’ve thought of nothing but seeing you again since I left.”
“Then why did you take so long to come back?” she demanded, her arms around his waist.
“It takes time to bury the dead in frozen ground,” he replied simply.
“What about trading me for your sister?” Lucia asked, looking up at him.
“I’m not trading you for anyone. I’ll figure out another way to save Bronwen.” He kissed her cold cheek. “Now come inside before we freeze together out here. I think it’s time you met my father.”
They walked hand in hand back into the house.
Claudius looked up from his notes and said to Ardus, “With the last report from the burial detail I count fifty-six men still missing.”
Ardus nodded. “Some of them we won’t find until the thaw. Some of them we will never find.” He shivered as the wind blew through the abandoned section of the headquarters building, which had been destroyed by the fire. The work had gone on around the clock to seal it off and transfer the men to the undamaged area, but mortar didn’t set well in cold temperatures and the wall was full of chinks. It leaked frigid air like a sieve when the northeast wind blew.
“Build up the fire,” Claudius said.
Ardus added several logs to the blaze and then settled into a chair across from Claudius’ desk.
“Where’s Scipio?” he asked.
“He went home to see his wife. Their daughter is missing.”
“Missing? Taken hostage during the attack?”
“Who knows? The Scipiana is hysterical, as if the general doesn’t have enough to deal with as it is.”
Ardus looked at Claudius’ tired eyes and the healing scab on his face and said, “Have you seen her?” He nodded in the direction of the detention cell.
“No. Not since she was brought in; at the change of the last watch her guard told me she was asleep.”
Ardus sighed. “I’m sorry about her, Claudius.”
“No one is sorrier than I am.”
“The warning she gave you prevented the battle from being a total debacle for us.”
“The information she passed on enabled the Celts to attack and win in the first place.”
“Scipio doesn’t know about the spying she did, does he?” Ardus asked quietly.
Claudius shook his head. “No. As far as he’s concerned she’s just a forfeit hostage. If he knew the rest of it he would want to torture her to set an example, and I’d like to spare her that.” He smiled thinly. “My parting gift, if you will.”
“You still care for her, don’t you?”
Claudius looked away from him. “It doesn’t stop just because you want it to, Ardus,” he said quietly.
“I think she does love you, Claudius.”
Claudius stared at his friend in surprise. “That’s a new sentiment from you.”
“I’ve checked with her guards on each watch. She’s done nothing but cry since she came here.”
“Of course she’s crying. She knows she’s going to die.”
“She stayed with you when she could have gotten clean away,” Ardus pointed out to him.
Claudius said nothing.
“These people are fanatics, Claudius. If she was with you only to spy for her father, she would be serene and accepting of her fate. She would be planning for a glorious afterlife, rewarded by her gods. She’s crying because she lost you, and she lost you because she couldn’t choose between you and her people.”
Claudius was still silent, but he was listening.
“You know I have never been her friend,” Ardus said, and Claudius smiled slightly.
“But I am yours,” Ardus went on, “even though it’s difficult for me to see things from your point of view. I am not handsome and wealthy, I haven’t had women throwing themselves at me all of my adult life. If you want to let her be sacrificed without a word from you, that’s your decision, but she’s locked up in there right now simply because she refused to do the sa
me to you.”
The conversation halted as the outside door opened and Scipio came in, shaking a light snow off the shoulders of his cloak. When he saw Ardus he barked, “Get over to storage depot and get me the inventory of the remaining weapons.”
Ardus walked to the door immediately, raising his brows at Claudius behind the general’s back. As Ardus dressed in his outdoor gear and then left Scipio poured himself some wine from a carafe on his desk and took a deep swallow of it.
Claudius had never seen him drink anything stronger than water while he was on duty.
“Any news of Lucia?” Claudius asked him.
Scipio shook his head. “Nothing. And I spent all last night composing a letter to Rome trying to explain our latest encounter with the natives. Of course Antony and Octavian won’t receive it until the first boat sailing from here lands at Ostia. But if I start now by the time I have to send it I might find some way of phrasing what I have to tell them in less than disastrous terms.”
“You’ll see Lucia again,” Claudius said, aware that his daughter’s fate was more on the general’s mind than the parlous state of his military career. “Even if the Celts took her, they won’t kill her. They‘ll just use her to bargain for something they want.”
“The Celts didn’t take her,” Scipio said wearily, sitting behind his desk and rubbing his eyes. “She went voluntarily. She is in love with the slave who was teaching her to ride and I’m sure that she has gone to his camp with him.”
“The slave who was teaching her to ride?” Claudius said sharply.
Scipio looked at him.
“Do you know who that slave really is?” Claudius asked.
“What do you mean? He’s some Ordovice from the west that Ariovistus found at an auction.”
“No. That boy is Borrus’ son, the one who supposedly died at Drunemeton. Through some subterfuge he was able to pass himself off as a slave and wound up working for you.”
“Who told you that?”
“My wife,” Claudius said. “His sister.”
Scipio sat back in his chair and closed his eyes. After a long moment he began to laugh bitterly.
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