“Perhaps, sir, we should invite the lady…” Aelius said quickly.
A single glance from the centurion silenced the man. Marius leaned down against the neck of his horse as it again tried to bite her. Delia stepped back irritably and glowered at the animal.
“Perhaps I did not make myself clear.”
“No one could accuse you of not being precise, Centurion,” Delia answered sardonically, then quickly lowered her head and took a deep breath.
“I… I came here in good faith,” she stammered, trying hard to force down the unwanted feelings, to make her voice sound contrite. Instead, it came out harsh, and she had to bite her lip to control it. “I wish to discuss the release of my men.”
He sat up with an air of self-assured satisfaction and looked down at her, apparently intending to press his authority and his advantage. It was obvious this was something the centurion was used to; obedience, supplication—control.
But all at once, Marius stopped. For several heartbeats, his eyes softened and Delia could feel a ripple of excitement run through her when the shade of a smile touched his lips.
The centurion quickly cleared his throat and took a deep breath.
“Very well,” he said, the coolness returning to his face. “You and the girl will come with us, so we can see to your injuries and then we will discuss your men. It is nearing the evening meal. If you will dine with me, we can pursue it. Is that acceptable?” He reached down to take her hand.
Delia appeared outwardly calm, but inside she was a raging chaos of conflicting emotions. Her heart told her to take his hand, enjoy his warmth, his touch, to melt into his arms and surrender to those amazing eyes. The scent of the horseflesh, leather, the soldiers, and the forest mingled, making her head swim. She could hear a voice inside screaming vehemently to run in the opposite direction. Her heritage was appalled that Delia would even consider it—she could hear her father’s voice swearing behind her ears. But it was her duty, in the end, that won out. She had a responsibility to her people.
The centurion smiled, and she found herself wanting to yield to it. Delia bit her lip to keep it from trembling.
“Please,” he said awkwardly as if it was a word he seldom used.
With a soft nod, she took his hand—the heat of it shot lightning down her arms and legs—and allowed him to pull her up behind him.
The animal reared, and she threw her arms around his waist to keep from being thrown. When she hit her chest against the metal armor at his back, she could feel the cold through to her breasts and took an audible gasp. The thrill of the movement and the feel of the segmented metal against her took her breath away. Delia could feel the arrogant authority in the stiffness of the centurion’s back and it stirred warmth deep in her center. A sudden clarity of sensations made Delia’s heart pound against her eardrums. His buttocks tightening against her thighs as he turned the horse, the flash of muscles peeking from beneath the crimson wool, the musk of his smell, and the glint of his large eyes when he turned his head, all merged into her awareness. Fear nagged at her stomach when an overwhelming desire rose to pull her body closer to his. Delia resisted the urge. She yanked her arms from around his waist and rested them on the sides of the armor instead, feeling awkward and self-conscious.
She tilted her head. Did his face just light with a satisfied smirk?
What am I doing?
The echo in her head made her lip twitch. Delia had spent her life learning to control, command, and successfully live in a world ruled by men. The respect she garnered from her people came with years of dedication, manipulation, and diplomacy.
In the presence of this man, none of that mattered. Her earlier ambitions to mediate the release of her men crumbled into doubt; the handsome centurion did not seem like a man who negotiated. She would have to think of another way.
The jangle of the horse tack and a distant boom of thunder set her shattered nerves on edge. Delia clamped her teeth together and allowed him to take her away from her world. She was certain she was going to regret it.
C hapter Three
The group made their way to the camp, two soldiers carrying torches, the haloes of their fire hissing in a heavy spring mist, and the rest of the company following behind them.
Aelius was bringing up the rear with the small woman carefully tucked sideways in his arms as he held the reins of his horse. She had not made a sound since they left the clearing and he was becoming concerned. “What is your name, girl?” he asked.
“Glenys,” she whispered.
“A very pretty name. You are shaking, Glenys. Are you cold?”
“No,” she said in a small voice.
He put the reins into one hand and adjusted the heavy cloak tightly around her. “Well, let me see if I can make it a bit more comfortable for you.”
She was still shivering in his arms, and he thought he knew why.
“Are you afraid?” he finally asked.
Even in the limited light, he could see a tear fall down Glenys’ cheeks, lips quivering.
“Yes,” she said. “He frightens me.”
“Leonius? Listen very carefully, little one.” Aelius kept his voice low, a calm thundering baritone that echoed through his helmet. “I promise you, he will not hurt you again.” He smiled broadly. “Actually, he will be lucky if he can walk tomorrow, if I know the centurion. I doubt the venerable second will be troubling any more girls for a while.”
“Not… him,” she stammered, hugging her arms under the heavy red wool and casting frightened eyes at Marius. “Him.”
“The centurion? You have nothing to fear from him.”
“He is… he is so… terrifying…”
“Many a recruit would agree with you there.” Aelius laughed aloud. The sound seemed to ease Glenys. He could feel her relax in his arms.
“He is no threat to you or your mistress. He is one of the most honorable men I know. The centurion is tough but extremely fair.”
“Will he hurt her?”
“Hurt her?” Aelius asked, scowling down at the top of her dark head. “Why would you think that?”
“They do sometimes.” Her voice was such a soft tremor he could barely hear her. “When she gets angry or defiant or does not do what he wants.”
Aelius lost his smile and shot a quick glance at the back of the proud Breton woman riding behind the centurion.
“Who does?” he asked guardedly.
Glenys lowered her chin and then shook her head.
“No one,” she answered, her voice evasive. “I am sorry, I did not mean…”
Aelius could feel her tense against his arms and take an unsteady breath.
“What is your name?” she asked.
He knew it was a feeble attempt to change the subject but decided to let it go.
“They call me Aelius. I am the centurion’s aide.”
“Oh,” she said with a touch of awe in her voice. Her sweet blush glowed even in the muted torch light.
“Well, you could not be safer than under the protection of Marius,” he replied in a grand manner to help relax her. “It has been my good fortune to know the centurion for a very long time. Would you like me to tell you something about him?”
“All right,” she said, her tone soft.
He pulled in a profound sigh, preparing for the legend he was about to share with the young woman. As if she were a queen, he cleared his throat with a grandiose flair, making Glenys giggle in his arms. The preparation for the tale was almost as important as the telling itself. Aelius was a master. In a comical imitation of an old Greek orator, he shaped his words like a virtuoso.
“Marius was an untried soldier in a brutal war. At seventeen, he was named standard-bearer to the famous centurion, Gaius Suetonius Paulinus, now governor of this very island. During a long campaign against skilled barbarians, Marius watched his comrades die around him. Standing alone on a bloody hill, his centurion wounded at his feet, he fought the hordes single-handed. For many long hours, he us
ed nothing but his sword and his guile to protect his fallen commander. He was wounded time and again, each blow more crippling than the last. His armor pierced in so many places it was nothing more than a sieve for his streaming blood. However, the standard he carried stood straight and tall, showing the beleaguered Roman army where, ultimately, to bring the battle.
“When the enemy finally reached him, Marius threw himself over Suetonius, saving his life by nearly sacrificing his own. It was by a hair’s breadth Marius survived, his blood almost gone and his wounds almost mortal. Because of him, Rome won the day—and the war. It took Marius over a year to recover from his injuries, but in the end, he was appointed to the elite Praetorian Guard of the Emperor Gaius Caligula, the youngest appointee in history.”
Aelius sighed deeply.
“He is one of the greatest men I have ever known,” he whispered sincerely as he watched the silhouette of the centurion, shadowed by the glistening torchlight. “It has been my great pleasure to serve him.” Aelius smiled, pleased with his narration and thankful for the attentive audience.
“So you see, little one, the centurion is not to be feared but honored and respected.”
“But, he seems so—cold.” Glenys stifled a yawn and turned her head to catch his eye.
He smiled down at her and brushed a lock of hair from her face.
“You mistake discipline for coolness,” he replied, wrapping his arms around her and adjusting the reins.
She shifted herself closer to him. It felt good to feel her in his arms. Glenys closed her eyes and laid her head against his chest, spreading a spark of pleasure through his loins and an almost irresistible urge to fondle her breasts. He refrained from doing so by taking in a lungful of the cool night air.
“Without the centurion, we all would have died long ago. His training protects us. I suppose some would think it cruel, but we stay alive because of it. Years go into our conditioning. Marius is like our father. Almost every man here would die for him, a tribute to his leadership and his skills. The centurion only punishes to maintain discipline. Discipline is what keeps us strong and wins us wars. Do not judge him too harshly. He does what is necessary to ensure survival for all of us and a better future for those places we occupy.”
When Aelius looked down, Glenys’ head was nestled against his chest and her delicate shadowed eyelashes closed in sleep. He chuckled to himself.
“Ah, my audience,” he whispered. “Enraptured, as always.”
The group rode in silence through the large Roman camp. Delia watched Marius dismiss his troops with a hand signal. They peeled off to join other soldiers eating their evening meal. From the relieved expressions on their faces, Delia could see that none of them regretted their exclusion from the proceedings with the centurion, throwing conciliatory glances at Leonius. Delia had never been in a Roman camp before and was amazed by how immaculate it was, especially, given the fact that they had probably moved into the area the day before. It appeared as if they had been clearing the ground for months. Everything was at perfect right angles to everything else. Surrounding the camp were deep trenches with men stationed evenly inside them. Behind the guards were long posts with tethered horses and within this were ten tents, spaced equally around the encampment. Everything in the camp laid out like an intricately woven basket; weapons stashed in tall iron racks, the horse tack put away neatly, the horses themselves groomed beautifully, and nothing out of place. Even the worn leather tents, lined with exact precision, were flawless in the abundant torchlight. The deep brown goat leather was so soft and highly waxed that it gleamed in the firelight.
When the horse stopped abruptly, she jumped at the deep rumble of Marius’ voice calling to one of his men. “Tell my guard to report within the hour. Let the cook know there will be two for dinner.”
“Sir!” The man saluted his commander and ran to do his bidding.
To cover her unease, Delia opened her mouth to speak, but it was forced shut when Marius pushed his horse forward with a jolt, causing her to smack into the centurion’s armor again. She narrowed her eyes at his back, knowing he was doing this on purpose to make her nervous. It was affective; Delia felt completely immersed in his world. The awareness caught in her throat, and she swallowed to dislodge the feeling. To take her mind off it, she watched groups of soldiers sitting around campfires, eating off wooden or bronze plates, comfortable in only their tunics. They laughed easily as they talked together, and many threw a curious smile when the group passed. Delia was amazed at the diversity of these soldiers, the variety of skin colors, from midnight black to palest white. Unlike the past where only citizens of Rome could enlist, she knew Rome recruited from all over its provinces. The echoing cacophony of nearly a hundred voices and a dozen languages drifted around her, and she felt, for a moment, a part of the world. At least, until she realized what had brought these men together. They were the most valuable asset of Rome ; a weapon that could guarantee empires. The thought made her glare at the bright torchlight. Delia felt suddenly vulnerable. With a sickening realizaton, she knew she could not just walk—or run away.
The centurion’s headquarters was a large tent at the center of the encampment. He easily dismounted when they arrived and lifted Delia off behind him. The horse unexpectedly reared and the centurion threw his body in front of the animal when it attempted to take another bite from Delia.
“Brutus!” He swore at the beast, trying to calm him down, but the animal pushed him to the side by using his massive head.
“Whoa!” Marius cried, causing many heads to turn.
Appearing out of the night, a little leathery man snuck in under all the towering soldiers. Even though he was small, he expertly stole the reins from Marius, and then swung under the beast’s throat, managing with a little magic to land on Brutus’ back. The odd little man squeezed the animal’s chest between his thick, short thighs and pressed his malformed lips against the animal’s ears to talk in a strange language. The horse calmed down at once.
“Thank you, Kuna,” Marius said. “I do not know what has gotten into him tonight. He was fine earlier.”
The old man ignored Marius and cast a twinkling Asian eye at Delia, then bowed his head low without taking her out of his sight, giving her a crooked smile.
“Pretty lady,” he slurred in an accent that was so thick it was difficult to understand without concentrating. “Horses no like you, yes?”
Delia smiled, infected by that marvelous wrinkled face, and shook her head. “No. Horses do not like me.”
“Hmm.” He stuck out his bottom lip and furrowed his brow. With hardly a movement from the man, Brutus bowed his head low to Delia and ruffled his lips in acquiescence.
“Pet him,” the man urged as the horse stood still.
She shot a frightened look at Marius, but he simply nodded. She reached out a tentative hand and touched his silken ears. Brutus ruffled his lips again, making her jump, but he did not move until she pulled her hand away. Delia had never petted a horse before without it biting her, and she was amazed at how soft it was.
“Kuna teach pretty lady.” He laughed loudly, sending echoes through the camp that made nearly every man chuckle in reply.
Marius scratched Brutus between the ears. “Goodnight, Kuna.”
He laughed again and goaded the stallion into a run to return to the outlining posts. As he and the horse shifted through the light of the fires, he sang in an odd language. The sound drifted behind him and then faded as he did.
When Marius escorted her into the tent, Delia was amazed how sparsely decorated it was, with only a very large table at its center and several folding wooden stools. On the table were stacks of wax tablets, also exceptionally neat. Several terra cotta oil lamps brightly lit the tent, casting undulating shadows against the waxed walls. The air reeked of leather, smoke and sweat, the oily smell making Delia a little light headed. Marius crossed behind the table and motioned toward two stools for the women to sit on. The scribe immediately took a seat
at one end of the table, crisply pulled out tablets and a stylus, and waited for the centurion to speak.
With great formality, Marius took his seat behind the table on an old leather, folding chair that fit him perfectly, and examined the two men standing at attention. He placed his elbows on the worn wood, folded his hands, and put two fingers against his lips, scrutinizing the men for a long time before saying anything.
The difficulty Marius faced was not in the punishment for Leonius; the law was quite clear. It was in what he would do to Aelius for lying to a superior officer. Flogging was the usual penalty for such a breach. Marius knew the aide was trying to protect another officer, even when the other man’s reason had gone to hell. It was obvious he was trying to turn a bad situation around. Never-the-less, Marius was struggling with whether his love for this ward was imparing his judgment or not.
Aelius, now twenty, had been Marius’ ward since he was a boy and followed his mentor into the legion when he turned seventeen. Of course, he did not always comport himself as soberly as his guardian would wish. Sometimes he would spout awful, hysterical puns for hours. He often instigated elaborate practical jokes, usually at the expense of Leonius who did not appreciate the pranks as much as the other men. Everyone else prized Aelius, dubbing him their specialis paleasso—their special clown. That had its advantages; Marius knew more about his men than most commanders did, only because Aelius was a skilled listener and reported everything he heard to him. Something General Suetonius had taught Marius long ago was to strive to get to know his men as well as he knew himself. Marius tried to live by those words and all his men respected him for it; well, almost all.
The Optio Centurion was another matter. He studied the tall, aristocratic officer as Leonius stared straight ahead and did not move. Even though a skilled and capable officer, Leonius had always been a difficult man to read—to control. He was an excellent soldier, overly confident in his own abilities, and an adequate second, though sometimes a little rough on the local citizens which he had been punished a number of times. Even still, Marius watched him carefully, never completely trusting him. The son of a well-placed family, Leonius had many followers and very high ambitions.
The Centurion and the Queen Page 3
