The Centurion and the Queen

by Minnette Meador

  Marius closed his eyes for a moment and finally came to a decision.

  “Leonius,” he said, keeping his voice formal.

  “Sir,” Leonius replied.

  “For attempted rape, you will receive ten lashes at the hand of the blacksmith.”

  Leonius paled under the sentence, and a barely perceptible quiver began in his lip. The blacksmith was the most powerful man in the century. One stroke of the lash in his very capable hand could flay skin from bone. With ten, he could kill a man.

  Marius signaled the man sitting at the end of the table to write down the sentence. “Quartermaster, the blacksmith is to be instructed not to kill or permanently damage this man. I want him back on duty tomorrow.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “In addition,” Marius said, regarding Leonius. “This will be entered on your service record. One more breach, of any kind, will result in demotion. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” he replied, and Marius thought he caught a hint of anger in his tone. Leonius would bear careful watching in the future. He blamed himself for this man’s lack of discipline.

  “Finally, the second is to lose four month’s pay and can be taken from his tent after the flogging. Two thirds of that pay is to go to the girl and one third to the queen for her troubles.”

  Delia went to rise in protest, but Marius simply shot a glance at her, and she sat down.

  “Leonius, you will present yourself to the blacksmith and then to the pole.”

  “Yes, sir. Right away, sir.” Leonius turned and formally walked out of the tent.

  “Aelius,” he said more quietly. “You will see that Leonius’ tent is cleared out and prepared for these women, and his tent mates moved to other quarters. He will more than likely be in the medico’s tent for the night, so his gear can be stored there. You are to see to it the blacksmith does not disable him from his duties tomorrow. Take care of it personally.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Also, find the girl something to wear temporarily, have the medico see to her injuries, feed her, then make certain she is comfortable and settled for the night. I then want you to go to the village to purchase a new a tunic and cloak for her. One of the girls at the tavern should have something that will fit her.”

  “This evening, sir?”

  Marius regarded his aid and clamped his jaw tight. “Of course, this evening.”

  “Ah—yes, sir.”

  “There were two sentries caught yawning this morning on duty,” Marius replied as he initialed tablets that his scribe slid over to him.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “They will accompany you to the village, all of you in full packs, armored, and on foot. That should be about ten miles altogether, if I am not mistaken. You should be able to do it in—two and a half hours.”

  “On foot, sir?”

  Marius’ voice was again quiet. “Was the order unclear, soldier? Fifteen miles then. You will circle the village twice. Is that clearer?”

  “Yes, sir,” Aelius replied, the disappointment in his voice unmasked.

  “Good.” Marius stood and dismissed the scribe with a wave of his hand. “If you ladies will join us.”

  Delia rose slowly and stared at the centurion. “Am I to understand you are taking us to watch that man being flogged?”

  “Yes,” Marius said, meeting her eyes. “That is Roman law, Your Majesty, and I think it is important you see that I keep my promises.”

  “Glenys is very young, perhaps…”

  “It is important you both see this. I am afraid I have to insist.”

  The Breton queen shot him an irritated look. “I think it highly improper to make a young woman watch this torture, and I formally protest this request.”

  Marius took in a forced sigh and glared at her. “She is not that young, Highness. It is time she learns what the world is about.”

  “I will be the judge of what my ward needs to learn and not learn,” she said, taking the sobbing girl into her arms. “You have no idea what this girl has experienced at the hands of men, Breton and Roman, nor are you a judge of what is best for her. I decide that, not you!”

  Marius was having trouble holding back his irritation and that surprised him. He was unused to having his authority challenged and this haughty queen was beginning to chafe his last nerve. “Your Highness,” he replied with some effort, “I will not…”

  The queen held up a hand to stop him and closed her eyes. “Forgive me, Centurion,” she said, obviously curbing her anger with an effort. “This has been a difficult night. I do not wish to argue with you. For the sake of my men, we will do as you ask.”

  “Good,” he replied. “You need to understand me. I do not do this to torture you or the girl, and where I think it is very important you see that Roman law applies to everyone, it is more important that Leonius see his victims when he receives his discipline. If he does not, this man may rape again and possibly murder. Leonius is a skilled and trained killer. He could have easily broken this child in two with his bare hands. We do this to protect our charges, and whether you realize it or not, the people on this island are our responsibility. Leonius must learn this.”

  “I honestly pray, for all our sakes, that he does,” she said. “It has been my experience that torture and pain only breed contempt. I sincerely hope I am wrong in this case.”

  She put her arm around the shaking girl and exited the tent.

  C hapter Four

  At the edge of camp was a clearing with a single post buried in the ground; freshly cut with the green still showing in places where they hacked off the bark the day before. The fire twisting at the tops of the wooden torches caused shadows to dance against the gathering men. Every soldier was there as required, most with stony faces.

  The blacksmith stood several feet from the post. His immense, naked arms and chest blackened by the forge’s fires and glistening in the wavering light. He wore only a clean loincloth, leather studded wristbands that disappeared into the stains on his arms, and grim concentration on his face. The blacksmith twisted his neck and shoulders, and then picked up the long leather whip from its stand. He stood at attention, waiting for the centurion’s command.

  Delia watched Leonius; his wrists locked into bronze bands at the end of a shortened chain and nailed to the top of the post. Because of his height, his hands positioned barely above his head but high enough to keep them from being damaged by the whip. He stood naked with a piece of wound leather clamped in his teeth to keep him from damaging his tongue or mouth in the throes of pain. He remained rigid; his body gleaming with sweat in the cold flickering torchlight. The only sounds were the crackling fires and the breathing of the eighty-one men and two women.

  The centurion lowered his eyes and nodded to the blacksmith.

  She held Glenys close, and her ward buried her head against Delia’s chest, curiosity making her peek from behind splayed fingers from time to time. Delia was grateful Glenys did not make a sound.

  The giant blacksmith took a deep breath, and the first crack of the whip shot out of his hand, leaving a fine line of blood across Leonius’ shoulders. He handled the instrument with such precision it did not even hit the ground before he brought it back. Leonius’ body contracted violently at the first strike, but he barely made a sound when he bit down on the leather. Sweat saturated his face and damp, dark curls fell unattended into his eyes. Each man in the circle counted silently on his fingers. One. The hit was perfect, enough so that the pain was excruciating, but not enough to do permanent damage.

  Delia bit her lip to keep the tears out of her eyes, feeling the sting of the whip wrapping its way through her awareness. Inwardly, she screamed. Besides the horror, there was a terrible feeling of satisfaction, witnessing the man who had hurt her writhe in pain against the pole. The conflict of emotions left her feeling sick, and she hated herself for her weakness.

  Glenys jumped violently in her arms at the first loud crack and closed her eyes tight, forcing tears down
her flushed cheeks. Delia held her closer. Somehow craving a moment of compassion, Delia shot a glance at Marius, hoping to catch that gentleness she had seen in the forest. All she saw in his eyes was cold, emotionless control. The sight chilled her and hardened her resolve. Her men would not stay in this camp one more night; no matter what it cost her.

  She knew she could not trust him. She knew he would not let her men go anymore than he would spare his second. She could see it in his eyes; heartless imperial rules were the only thing driving the centurion. Delia would have to do something else—the prospect of what she planned terrified her but there was little choice. When she rested her hand on her waist, it brushed the tiny, hard object tucked in her sash, and a pang of guilt suffused her face. She covered it up by wrapping her arm around Glenys.

  Again, the crack of the whip filled the night air and landed in almost perfect parallel to the other. Delia knew the precision it took to land a whip without causing permanent damage. She shuddered when she realized why she knew it but pushed the thought back. The blacksmith would have to be careful not to cross the whip lines, as the damage to the skin would be unacceptable. Damaging muscle and tissue was not the goal; pain was the goal.

  The blacksmith was incredibly skilled with the whip and she realized how much practice it must have taken to reach this level of expertise. Again, Delia felt very isolated in this camp of hale, grim killers.

  In rapid succession, he landed the lash four more times, again, making certain they did not cross.

  The medico, a tall gray-haired soldier with a deeply lined face, held up his hand.

  “Halt.”

  The blacksmith stepped back, wrapping the whip around his hand so it would not touch the ground, ensuring the wounds not be contaminated by dirt.

  The medico lifted Leonius’ chin to examine his eyes and signaled for water, which was quickly brought to him by an aide. Taking a rag from the bucket, he wiped Leonius’ face with the soaking cloth, bringing him back from the edge of unconsciousness. Delia knew the gesture was not one of compassion; it was the medico’s job to make certain a man flogged was fully aware of the experience. Roman law required a man feel the complete extent of his punishment. It was a wasted effort otherwise.

  Leonius lifted a strained face to give the man a single bleak nod, and the medico took his place among the crowd.

  The blacksmith watched for the silent command from Marius and then finished the rest of the blows. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. When he was done, Leonius slumped against the bronze manacles and passed out.

  Delia watched Marius for any sign of compassion, but all he gave her was a hard stare of satisfaction. She was not certain why but she held Glenys closer.

  The medico, and his aide, unlocked the officer’s bonds, washed the wounds quickly, and then wrapped Leonius’ back to staunch the flow of blood. The doctor signaled to two men standing nearby with a litter. With obvious practiced skill, they turned Leonius onto his stomach and rushed him out of the torchlight with the doctor and his aide following behind. The rest of the soldiers wandered away and the camp became very still.

  Aelius pulled a weeping Glenys out of Delia’s arms and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, leading her from the circle to get her settled for the night. Glenys took a few tentative steps then collapsed against him. With little effort, he lifted her into his arms and carried her from the clearing.

  Delia did not protest when he took Glenys away. She was somewhat relieved knowing her ward was in good hands. Her own strength was dwindling, and she could feel herself weaken. With great effort, she pushed the frailty back and stared at the flickering torch light, without moving. Marius glanced over at her and signaled to a soldier.

  “I want you to go with this man, Your Majesty,” he said to her.

  Without another word, the centurion bowed crisply and left her standing there. Delia, while shaking her head, watched him leave, and then turned to follow the soldier to the center of the encampment.

  A frigid wind stirred as they walked, making her shiver when she gazed up at the black sky. Through the clouds, she could see a misty quarter moon with an occasional star peeking through the blanket of gray. Otherwise, the sky, like her mood, was desolate and featureless. They stopped at the smaller tent behind the headquarters.

  “Please wait for the centurion here, Your Majesty,” the soldier said formally. As Delia nodded, folding her arms against the chill of the night, the soldier bowed and went to join his men, leaving her alone with her misery.

  Delia took a deep breath and searched the area to see if anyone was nearby, then swiftly stepped into the darkness at the side of the tent.

  When she was certain no one was around, for the first time in so long she could not remember, she allowed her eyes to fill with tears. Delia gave into the events of the night. For a precious moment of self-indulgence, she let silent sobs shake her body, her jagged breath coming out in stormy white patches. The flood of sorrow helped ease the pain of what she just witnessed and the horrible memories it kindled. Placing strained fists in front of her face, she fought the urge to cry aloud, the intensity of the emotions overwhelming her. Delia had to struggle to keep the shriek locked in her throat. The effort made her ears ring.

  A kind voice came out of the shadows, causing her to step back into the tent ropes. “Lady sad?” Kuna asked, approaching her.

  A sob caught in her throat, and she wiped a sleeve against her face to soak up the tears. She sniffed to cover her lapse. “I am fine,” she said in a quivering voice, “thank you, Kuna. It has been a very… long night.”

  The odd little man tilted his head to the side. His hunched back appearing even more deformed in the shadowed light coming from the center of camp.

  “Lady sad,” he repeated, his eyes shining, and his lips skewed in a strange half-smile.

  “No, really. I am fine.”

  He shook his head and glanced over his shoulder. Leaning into her, he placed a hand on his face. “He like you,” he said.

  “What?” She did not fully understand why he was telling her this. At first, she thought he must be a lunatic. However, there was something in his ugly, sweet face that changed her mind.

  “He not know, but Marius like you. Like pretty lady.” He frowned, looking down at his hands a moment. “I not know words,” he said slowly, staring at the ground. “But Marius strong—good man. Like you. Strong and good. Marius like horse, hard and—hmm.” He shook his head again. “Stubborn, like lady. Need calm—peace.” He crinkled his face again in concentration. “Patience.” He blinked up at her. “Like lady. Understand? Like horse.”

  Delia shook her head, but she thought she did understand and for some reason it frightened her. “I am not certain what you mean.”

  Kuna nodded with an endearing grin. “Lady know,” he said with a sparkle in his eye. “Marius know, too. Patience, pretty lady.” He lifted his head to a sound she did not hear.

  Delia turned toward the front of the tent, but when she turned back, he was gone. A soldier came around the tent searching for her. “Your Majesty? Are you lost?”

  “Uh, no.” She let him help her out of the ropes, and she brushed off her clothes. “I just got turned around.”

  He took her by the elbow and led her back to the front of the tent, obviously not believing her but letting it go. Another man was standing outside the tent entrance at attention.

  “The centurion asked that you wait inside for him, Your Majesty.”

  Delia nodded and stepped through the opening while the soldier took up his station on the other side of the entrance.

  She stopped two steps into the tent and thought this must be someone else’s quarters. Her eyes adjusted to the brightness cast from several finely carved lamps.

  In sharp contrast to the headquarters, the decorations in this tent were opulent, almost decadent; with large pillows, an elevated soft bed, warm flowing blankets, and comfort everywhere. Inside the entrance was a magnificent small table with a top made from one ex
quisitely carved piece of veined wood, polished to perfection. She had seen these in Jerusalem when she visited years ago and thought the lumber was called Myrtus. It had to be worth a fortune. There were intricate eastern artifacts spread tastefully around on smooth leather tables, rich Egyptian statues, and golden ornaments sat on top of an elaborate woven rug. It reminded her of the nomad tents she had seen in Syria . The effect was breathtaking.

  Delia had never thought about how the Roman soldiers lived. She assumed they were as stark and bare as their discipline, as precise as their marching. She had been wrong. Here was a man who lived in obvious comfort, a man of taste with a fine eye for art and beauty. Here was a man who, at each turn, seemed to show her something else of grace, charm, and culture. It irritated her to no end. Delia was finding it very difficult to dislike him. She desperately needed to.

  Marius stood at the entrance to the medico’s tent to confirm that the second would be back on duty the next day. The medico assured him the blacksmith had done an excellent job.

  That was not what was worrying him. As he stared at Leonius while they worked on him, an opiate was being administered to keep him unconscious, the centurion knew the punishment, though severe, was probably too late. Although he did not want to give up on Leonius, he was certain he had another enemy. Marius knew that the arrogant aristocrat, who already thought he was better than anyone else in the camp, would not let this pass. Marius would have to double his watch on the second, for everyone’s safety. It was discouraging, and he knew it was his own fault. He had few failures in the thousands of men he trained over the last twenty-five years, each one crushing. It was like losing a son. He turned away from his current failure and headed to his quarters.

  When Marius entered his tent, the Breton queen’s shaply figure was bending over a trunk. The sight of her shapely derriere tugged at his desire. She had removed her cloak and the worn, saffron colored, Egyptian tunic that accentuated her slim figure and fair skin. He found his eyes following the subtle curve of the woman’s hips, the delicate arch of her back, and could feel his body responding uncomfortably. He chided himself, knowing he had to concentrate on the interrogation. Marius was finding that increasingly difficult. He cleared his throat, and she rose abruptly.