“Very well. I think the minister was having fun at your expense anyway. Please go quietly.”
Delia curtsied to the tall soldier and scurried for the corridor leading from the stage.
When she was close to the entrance, she heard muted excitement far behind her and quickened her pace. Once outside, she bowed her head and forced herself to traverse the solid line of Praetorian Guards.
On the other side of the road, heading back the way they had come stood the mistress and young girl who would service Afranius that night. The girl bowed to her mistress and scurried off down another road. On impulse, Delia mingled into the milling crowd and followed her.
Delia was careful not to let the girl see her, but the crowd was thinning and soon it would be obvious. She had to make her move quickly.
When the girl turned down a deserted lane, Delia saw her chance and slipped into the shadows behind her. Ahead of them, a block away, was an elegant public house. Praetorian Guards patrolled along the outside. Delia closed the distance between herself and the girl.
Catching her arm, she pulled the startled girl into the shadows and with a warrior’s exactness, clouted her swiftly across the jaw. The unconscious girl went limp and Delia managed to get her to the ground. She arranged her comfortably, but guilt gripped Delia’s heart.
Taking a moment to catch her breath, she shut down her emotions and leaned against the cement wall to allow her nerves to settle. The guards paced before the cement structure without missing a step.
Delia was petrified and the ache in her belly was getting worse. She strolled down the road as if she owned it.
Once outside the inn, the two stately soldiers stopped and pulled their gladii ceremonially.
“State your business,” one growled, holding the sword at his hip.
Delia took in a shaky breath and managed a smile. “I am here for Afranius. The mistress sent me to entertain him tonight.”
The other soldier snorted a laugh and sheathed his sword. “You are a bit husky for the Prefect, but pretty.” He hooked his thumb over his shoulder to the entrance. “Go on. Top of the stairs, first door on your right. He is in the great hall.”
Delia stammered her thanks, and hurried into the building.
The first floor was deserted and dark with a single fluttering lamp at the top of the stairs. They must have cleared the house for their special guests.
Another sharp pain constricting her abdomen stopped Delia. Holding onto the railing, she slid to the bottom step. This one lasted a little longer than the last and all Delia could do was wait for it to pass. When it was over, she suspected the worse and great sobs shook her. How was she going to do this? Resolution came from some deep recess of her courage.
I cannot give up now. Not after I have come so far. It is only pain. I can endure pain. I must continue.
Using the stone railing to help her, Delia forced herself back to her feet and struggled up the stairs, fighting back the exhaustion. When she reached the landing, she leaned against the wall until her head stopped spinning. She was becoming dangerously weak.
Next to a torch in the wall, was a large mirror of polished bronze. Delia stood before it and scrutinized her reflection.
The face in the mirror was filthy and frightened. Running her fingers through her hair to tame it, she pulled it behind her head and braided it quickly, disregarding the trembling in her fingers. On the table before the mirror was an altar with a basin of water underneath it, a tribute to the Roman gods.
Ignoring the sacrilege, she cupped water into her hands and threw it onto her grimy face. The chilly water quenched her burning skin and she scrubbed as hard as she could.
Wiping the water away with the back of her cloak, she examined her face again in the mirror. Even in the muted light, her cheeks were rosy, though swollen eyes stared back at her. Squaring her shoulders, she frowned at her reflection, turned away, and started down the long corridor.
Once at the room, she knocked softly half wishing no one would answer. A gruff come in sounded almost immediately, and Delia pushed the door open.
A tall man sat in a large leather chair, the creases in his face delineating his age. In contrast, his lean body was muscular, well-defined, evidence of years of rigorous training in strict Roman military tradition. Even at his age, he was very handsome. Lifting a pair of powerful hazel eyes, the man smiled over at her and motioned her to come to him.
The inherent command in that face frightened Delia. She moved in stilted steps toward him, looking around the room. They were alone.
“You are a pretty thing,” he said when she stood before him. “Take off your cloak.”
“Praefectus, you must listen to me…”
“Soon.” When he stood, he towered well over her head. He reached for the cloak, untied it, and threw it on the table. “Now, your tunic.”
“You do not understand, sir. I am Delia, Marius is my…”
“Shh, shh, shh,” whistled from his lips and he took her shoulders in his huge hands. “Your tunic… now.” The voice was intimate with obedience. “Then you may speak.”
Delia fought the urge to run from the room and clamped her lips tight against the nasty reply trying to make its way to her lips.
Afranius laughed and touched her lips with his index finger. “Your tunic. Or I call my praetorian to assist you.”
In a quick furious gesture, Delia loosened the sash from around her waist, and grabbed either side of her tunic to yank it over her head.
“There, satisfied?”
Afranius scanned her naked body and pursed his lips. “You are rather plump for a courtesan. However, I am pleased to see you are unarmed. You can go now,” he said to a shadow next to the window. A concealed guard separated himself from the wall, saluted his commander, and left the room.
The Praefectus picked up Delia’s tunic from the floor and wrapped it around her shoulders. He reached for a jug of wine and filled two glasses.
“Get dressed. As tempting as you are, I make it a habit not to seduce pregnant women.”
Delia gratefully pulled the tunic over her body and grabbed her cloak to put it around her shoulders.
Afranius sat in his chair and lifted one of the mugs to her. “Drink. You look like you could use it.”
Delia ignored the offer. “Please, sir. It is urgent that I speak to you. I am Queen Delia of the Corieltauvi. Marius Maximus Lardanium is my husband. He said you were a friend… that you could help us.”
An outburst of shouts drifted up from the street and Delia turned to the window. There was a thunderous pounding up the stairs and she ran for the door. A large hand scooped around her chest and pulled her into arms that pinned her in an iron grip. Afranius pulled her across the room. All she could verbalize was a loud no! Her struggles were useless; she had no more strength. A moment later, the door burst open and six men came rushing in. At their head was the ragged countenance of Quintius, obviously worse for wear.
“That is the one, Praefectus. The woman I told you about.”
Afranius stroked Delia’s hair and pushed her head to the side. “She does not look dangerous, Tribune. I searched her for weapons. Thoroughly,” he chuckled. “So tell me again why this lovely lady will bring about the decline of the Roman Empire. The rest of you may stand down.”
The Praetorian Guard saluted their commander and backed against the door where they stood at attention.
Quintius looked at them frantically. “I do not think this is wise, sir.”
Afranius propelled Delia to a chair and made her sit. “Stay there,” he said gruffly and then picked up his wine cup. “If I hear that tone of disrespect in your voice again, Tribune, you will be on the next boat to Gaul. Understood?”
Quintius licked his lips, stiffened his back, and looked straight ahead. “Yes, sir,” he said crisply.
“Now…” The Praefectus slid down into his seat and sipped his wine a long time before adding anything. He rolled the cup between his hands, watching Delia. S
he could not return the look for long and instead stared at her lap.
“Repeat your report, Tribune.” Afranius set the cup on the table and refilled it.
“Yes, sir.” A spark of hatred flashed through his eyes. “Marius has been convicted of treason against the Empire, sir. He has aided dissidents against Rome, attacked Roman soldiers, and betrayed his oaths. His Briton queen has come here with lies to free him. Matters are much worse, sir. General Suetonius, against your orders, marches against the Corieltauvi land, with the intent of destroying her people. Despite the actions of her husband, I was trying to save them, sir.” His voice was impassioned. “Suetonius has brutalized the natives of Britannia for over a year. I know you have received reliable dispatches before now, sir. I have suspicions that it was Suetonius’ order that caused the uprising of Boudiga and her hoards. Your attaché assured me you have come here to verify the reports.”
“And so we have.”
“Please, sir.” Delia kept her voice quiet, controlled, pushing back another wave of pain running through her bowels. “My husband is not guilty of treason. This man is contriving to undermine Suetonius and take over the governorship of this island. He needs Marius out of the way to do that.”
“I warned you she is dangerous, sir. Sent here by her husband to deceive you,” Quintius said quietly, smoothing his tone. “With your permission, I will take this woman and force the truth from her. I guarantee she will admit to her culpability under my hand.”
Afranius raised a brow. “That I do not doubt, Tribune.”
Quintius crossed to Delia, but Afranius raised his hand to stop him. “Perhaps we should detain her until we can sort this out.” He motioned one of the guards who moved quickly to his side. “Bind the woman and put her with my slaves.”
Delia rose, frantically searching the room for an escape. Quintius stepped forward and saluted his commander. “An excellent idea, sir. May I beg a favor?”
“No!” Delia shouted furiously. “You must not listen to…” A Praetorian hand wrapped around her mouth at a quick signal from Afranius. Delia struggled against it, but another wave of pain shot through her belly and she slumped against the man’s chest.
“You have my undivided attention, officer,” Afranius said, sitting back in his chair and sipping from his cup.
“Yes, sir. I feel responsible for this situation, and I apologize for my failure in my duty to Rome. Let me finish what I have started. I will not disappoint you, sir, I swear it. Give the woman to me and I guarantee an end to this matter. I should never have let it get this far. I am certain I have shaken your confidence in me as an officer, and as a viable candidate to replace Suetonius. I request only an opportunity to amend it.”
Afranius looked from Delia to Quintius and set his cup down. “Well said, Tribune. I do not wish the queen harmed and we will march first thing in the morning to deal with Suetonius. Will you swear to me she will be delivered to her people unharmed?”
“It has always been my desire,” Quintius replied in complete earnestness. “I have no wish to harm this lady. Indeed, I feel strongly it is in Rome’s best interest that her passage to the Corieltauvi be swift and safe. It is my duty to ensure this, for the future of Rome and Britannia.”
“Very well, Quintius. I think you should end what you started.” The Praefectus set down his cup and pulled a blank wax table to him. Without looking up, he said to the guard, “Bind her hands and…”
“Perhaps I can help here, Afranius.” Seneca stepped through the door and took in everyone with a swift glance, pulling the gathered folds of his cloak off his shoulders. “After all, Marius is my friend. I owe it to him to at least try to resolve this issue.”
Seneca eyed the Praefectus warily and pursed his lips. He crossed to stand in front of Delia and motioned the guard to remove his hand from her mouth and stand down. Delia held the table for strength and ran her hand over her belly as Seneca continued. “Whereas, I am confident young Quintius’ motivation for securing the lady is as pure as the mountainous snow, this woman is royalty, in a very fragile condition, and an ally to Rome. I believe we should approach this problem with delicacy and wisdom.”
“All right, what would you suggest?” Afranius snapped, tossing the wax tablet irritably.
“Let me take her, sir, provide her with a place to rest, a meal, and a physician’s care. I will question her in the morning. Rest assured, I will get to the truth of the matter.”
He motioned to the guard who took manacles out of his belt.
Delia stepped back, but Seneca smiled. “Those will not be necessary, soldier. Please, Highness. This will go much better for you if you do not resist.” He leaned in close to her face and lifted her chin. “She is pretty. If she is lying, I will find a use for her.”
Delia saw the faintest wink from Seneca and frowned at him.
Afranius chuckled and sat back in his chair. “I doubt your wife would care for your diversion, Seneca. But I think you are right.” He turned to signal the guards. “Escort the tribune out. Thank you for your offer, Quintius, but we will deal with this on our end. You will be given new duties and march with us tomorrow.”
The praetorian took Delia’s arm. The remainder flanked Quintius who glared at them angrily. He tightened his lips, saluted Afranius, and followed the guards out of the room.
Afranius shook his head and smiled at his friend. “I certainly hope you know what you are doing. I would hate to lose you when we are so close with the Emperor. Watch your back, my friend. It would be difficult to replace you.”
Seneca took Delia’s other arm and threw his cloak over his shoulder. “My plans do not include throwing off my moral soul, Afranius. Keep that young man occupied, will you?”
Afranius lifted his hand in acknowledgement and tilted his cup again.
Seneca and the guard pulled Delia out of the room. They swept her down the hallway in the opposite direction from the stairs. A sudden constriction in her belly hit her so hard this time, she lost her footing and almost fell. Seneca and the guard held her up, nearly dragging her down the interminable tunnel of darkness.
“Bear up, little Briton. We are almost there. Take a breath and…”
The rest disappeared inside her scream. Water splattered on the floor beneath her and pooled at her feet. The Praetorian lifted Delia into his arms and ran the rest of the way followed by an agitated Seneca.
The Edge of Honor
Chapter XIX
Seneca saw something he never thought he would; a four foot eleven, rotund woman glare down a twenty-five-year military surgeon, in his own surgery.
The midwife’s pudgy little hands rested on ample hips, her lips pressed tight, and her eyes wild with anger. “Do not tell me how to birth a child, General.” Botilda stared at the medico who stood behind an armed solider indignantly.
Her calling the medico “general” would have been hysterical, if Seneca was not so terrified of her.
“Now get out, all of you.” She poked her finger toward the tent entrance and turned to the screaming woman on the cot. “No, wait. You… and you,” she said, stabbing a curved thumb toward Seneca and then a tall soldier. “There is no time to call my women. You two will have to do. The rest of you, out.”
The soldiers left in a hurry.
Whipping around, she grabbed the Praetorian soldier who towered over her and shepherded him toward the bed. “Here… is your tunic expensive?”
“Ma’am?”
“Your tunic, man. Is it expensive?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She nodded once and crawled onto the mat, sitting at Delia’s feet. “Then take everything off, except your loincloth. Do it now.”
The poor man shot Seneca a befuddled look.
Seneca shrugged and chuckled. “You better do as she says, son.”
“No laughing,” the woman blustered and moved her hands around Delia’s belly.
“You,” she said to Seneca, “in my bag you will find a jug of olive oil and several ra
gs. Quickly soak the rags in the oil and place them near the brazier to warm them. Mind you do not catch them on fire and kill us all.”
Seneca tried very hard not to scowl at the woman.
“When the rags are soaked, hand me the jar.”
Seneca worked very quickly and soaked the rags, spilling much of the oil on the floor, nervous under Botilda’s stern inspection. She snatched the jar from his hand when he offered it.
The poor Praetorian Guard stood self-conscious at the side of the mat. Obviously, he did not use a loincloth. He was as naked as the moment of his birth. Botilda waved a frantic hand at him.
“Come here, man. Sit all the way back on your haunches and slide the lady back to lay on your legs. Can you do that?” she snarled.
The man simply nodded and complied quickly.
Delia cried when he pulled her. One nervous hand slipped from under her arm and she almost fell off the mat.
“Hold her, you idiot!” the old woman hollered.
He fumbled to get a better grip and pulled Delia back onto his legs.
“All right, dear,” she cooed to Delia. “I know it hurts. Look here, at my face. Concentrate. You are strong, healthy, and your baby needs you to focus. You must do exactly as I tell you.”
Delia nodded and scrunched up her face when another contraction hit.
Botilda reached back to Seneca. “I need a knife. Get one from the praetorian’s kit. Quickly.”
Seneca scrambled to the pile of armor and found a small dagger, which he handed to the woman. He was more than a little alarmed at her request, but trusted her explicitly, having little choice.
“Your Majesty, look at me,” she whispered to Delia. The eyes staring back at her were wide with pain. “I am going to cut the tunic away from you. Hold as still as you can. This young man will help you.”
She glanced up at the soldier and nodded. He wrapped his massive arms around Delia’s chest and held her firmly, pinning her arms down.
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