The Centurion and the Queen

by Minnette Meador

  “I want to, Marius. I need to tell you before my courage fails me. You need to understand—about my silence. It is important you know.”

  Marius kissed her temple and then pulled her up on the bed to hold her in his arms. “When the Romans invaded, I was twelve, Conall, sixteen. Father gave resistance to begin with, but he was no fool. He realized early, the hopelessness of fighting the inevitable. The tribes were quarrelsome, often killing each other. They killed more Bretons than the Romans. Nothing could unite them. Thousands died. He struck a bargain with the empire and never looked back, that was what killed him. The other tribes would not let it pass, so they drew him in, butchering him on the field along with many of his best men. Ironically, in the end, the Romans had to protect us. We found ourselves their unwilling, if grateful subjects, ashamed of our dependency. I think, ultimately, this is what drove Conall mad.” She paused for a moment and watched the muted light from the entrance.

  “Father was dead, and Conall was king at barely seventeen. The responsibility did something to him. It made him angry at first, but over that year, his anger turned to bitterness, then drink, then cruelties.”

  “The first time…” Her voice faltered, and a single tear fell against the coverlet, leaving a dark circle in the wool. “I was fourteen.” Delia bit her lip and forced herself to continue. “Conall and I had never been close, but he began… watching me. I thought nothing of it at first. I was young and innocent, but his attentions became—more aggressive. A simple kiss to the cheek became a caress and then impassioned. I tried to avoid him, but he sought me out, often ordering his men to find me and bring me to him. I was terrified of his advances… confused and did not know what to do.

  “Finally, I confided in Sofronio and told him everything. He arranged for my cousin Rheydyn and me to go to Egypt and then Syria , thinking if I were away, Conall might calm down, find a bride for his pleasure. But he never did. He took women at taverns and many willing girls from the villages, but he never married.

  “When I returned, he was furious that I had let Sofronio send me away. That night, drunk, he broke down my door, and he took me for the first time—brutally, horribly. It was a week before I could walk again.” The memory choked her voice to a murmur, and she could not stop the sobs that shook her body.

  When the sorrow passed, Delia had to force herself to continue. “He was contrite that first time, apologetic, swearing that he would never touch me like that again, and, of course, I believed him. Two months later, he did it again but only once more. After that, the madness set in.

  “He accused me of treason, of trying to kill him. Conall tried to have me arrested, accusing me of… terrible things, but his protests were ignored. In retaliation, he beat me.” Delia turned her head against Marius’ chest and took a moment.

  “I never knew what sparked it. I fought him, Marius,” tears welled in her eyes, “every time. It did not seem right not to. Had I bowed to him, begged him for mercy, I think he would have stopped. However, my pride would not let me…I am my father’s child. The more I fought him, the more it fanned his anger. I told no one.

  “One night, when I had cut him deeply across the face, Conall tied me up and whipped me. Sofronio burst into the room, hearing my cries, and stopped him. He accused the king of madness, telling him how ashamed our father would be, that what he was doing was lunacy.” A trace of a smile came over her lips as she stared into the darkness. “You should have seen this little old man standing up to that brute. He was magnificent. Conall even backed down at first, but then that fire entered his eyes.

  “He became blinded with fury and struck him again and again. When Sofronio went down, my brother was not satisfied. He kicked him in the face, in the stomach, and in the groin. Finally, guards broke in and at my insistence stopped him. Sofronio was taken away. Without waking up, Sofronio died two days later from his wounds.” Delia let the sadness wash through her, taking several minutes to find her voice.

  She laced her fingers through Marius’ strong hand, feeding off the heat to sustain her. He ran a large thumb over each brow and then cleared the tears from her face. When she looked up, Marius kissed her forehead and held her head against his chest. The beating of his heart gave her courage to continue.

  “A tribunal was called and an investigation launched, but nothing was conclusive,” she continued. “Conall told them it was Sofronio who had attacked me. It was a valiant fabrication, but they knew… everyone in that house knew.” Her voice became a jagged accusation. “Like me, their silence sealed our fate.” Delia closed her eyes against the guilt clinching her throat and shook her head to dislodge it. “What were we to do? I was fifteen and a woman—the Romans would not answer to a woman. The chiefs were already clamoring for our land. Conall had men who would fight for him, fight for our clan. We needed a king to save our dying culture, to keep the Romans from stealing our lands and make certain we survived… to keep our people together.”

  She played with the back of his fingers.

  “Conall threatened, of course, told me that it was my fault Sofronio was dead, that others would die if I told anyone what he had done to me. He could have saved his breath. I knew the necessity of him, even if he did not realize it himself. We all held our tongues, letting the madness continue.

  “The king was contrite after that. For a while, the abuse stopped. There were no more suspicions and no more beatings. In fact, he avoided me for many years after that, much to my relief. The drinking stopped as well, and the unsavory royal friends disappeared. We enjoyed a small prosperity, but it was short lived.

  “When I turned eighteen, we had a celebration—a new queen had come of age. I was no threat to Conall. His position secured, but the madness lingered in his eyes as the days past. The tribunal had been pressuring him to find a bride, to father an heir. I think that was what started it. He had been with many, many women, but there were never offspring from any of these joinings. At that point, they would have welcomed a bastard, had there been one. The pressure was too much and Conall started drinking—with the drink, came the stares, the ardent caresses in the hallways, the poundings at my door at night. It became worse with time.”

  “Did he…”

  Delia closed her eyes and allowed him to place an arm around her chest. “No. Not then… not ever again.” She could hear the staccato determination in her voice. His arms protectively pulled her into his body, but it did little to smooth the ache of the memory.

  “Conall had delusions when he was a child,” she continued, “something we kept very quiet. It had been years and we all thought it had passed, but the aberrations came back, very powerful, very frightening. He became suspicious of everyone, me most of all, and worse, he told his confidants that I was… his wife, not his sister, and that he would force me to produce an heir. I left Hillfort immediately and escaped to one of the villages with the help of some of our servants.

  “Three weeks after my eighteenth birthday, his friends caught me alone in the woods outside Hillfort and almost killed me trying to take me back to him. Fortunately, my father trained me well, and I escaped.”

  The memories flared painfully in her head and she had to shake it to loosen their hold.

  “I continued to run from him. Sometimes I was successful—sometimes not. You were right last night. He found me many times. In fact, he has become very good at finding me. I have become very good at hiding. It has been a twisted game with Conall and me, for years. Though Conall has not…been able to force me into his bed again, the desire is there in his eyes… he fights it, but he is losing that fight. I think that is why he beats me.”

  She shook her head and laid her chin against his arm. “I could have left… the opportunities were certainly there. My Aunt Boudiga and Uncle Prasutagus begged me to come to the Iceni. I could not bring myself to leave my family, so I stayed in the villages and avoided Hillfort altogether.

  “Those years were rich for me. I traveled from village to village getting to know our
people, helping them when I could, learning to love them, and to receive love in return. Love I have not had since my father died.

  “This last winter was bitter. Too many children and mothers died from the frost, disease, or starvation. I was helpless. I had no money, no real power, nothing I could barter to get the things we needed. I could not ask Conall and he had no desire to help them himself.” Delia threw her head against Marius’ shoulder and closed her eyes, sighing in his arms. “So, I came up with a plan.

  “There was a Roman who worked in the surplus silos of the procurator in Londinium. I sent word of our plight and he offered to send us supplies, medicines, and food in exchange for gold. There was only one source of gold in our kingdom—Conall’s treasury. I had little difficulty stealing it, and I took it all. The bargain was struck, the supplies delivered as promised two weeks later, and Conall found out.”

  She opened her eyes, turned in his arms, and buried her face in the hair on his chest, his scent making her head whirl when he wrapped his arms around her.

  “That was almost three weeks ago. He found me himself this time, furious, careless. I was prepared and he was alone. It is the only reason I survived. He caught me by chance outside the nearest village, chased me down with his horse, and nearly crushed me under the beast’s hooves. He caught me and tied me to a tree. I knew his intent immediately…it was clear that Conall had finally succumbed to the madness. He called me his wife…swore he would force me to…” The loathing in her voice stopped her. Delia pulled a shaky breath in and then out of her lungs. “He was slow, hung over, and the hidden blade I had sliced him across the neck and buried in his shoulder. I missed his heart, but only because I had use of only one hand at the time. Had I two, he would be dead now.” Delia clamped her jaw down on the bitterness that surged from her heart.

  Marius stiffened behind her as she spoke, could feel the muscles at his jaw harden as they lay on the side of her head. The restrained anger was evident in the way he held her so securely, so forcefully, his hands making fists from time to time.

  “He forced the blade from my hand and finished lashing me to the tree. His fury was… overwhelming and had he decided to kill me outright, I would not be here now. He laid my back open with three clumsy passes with the whip. Fortunately, a group of hunters from the village came along. He escaped before they could see him. Concerned, frightened, they took me down and searched the forest for my assailant. Of course, he was gone. I told them it was thieves.”

  She remained silent for a long time, listening to his slow breathing in the darkness.

  “So, here you find me, Centurion.” Delia held him closer, keeping her voice low. “I was mortally wounded and thought I would never recover. Yet here I am—a woman again.” Warm tears fell from her face onto his chest. “Make this moment last forever, Marius. Please. Never let me go, I beg of you.”

  He kissed her head, her brow, the tears from her cheeks, and finally, lifting her chin with one finger, her lips. When he broke away from her mouth, Marius searched her eyes. The sun slanted its first beam of light across his face and she had never seen anything more glorious.

  “He will never hurt you again as long as I live.”

  “How?”

  “Shh,” he murmured against her lips. “We will deal with it in due time.”

  Light flooded the chamber when the tent flap was thrust aside. Marius protectively held Delia closer to his chest and shaded his eyes against the glare as a silhouette stood against the brightness.

  “What the hell?”

  “Sorry, sir,” Aelius stammered, turning his back respectfully, but not leaving the tent. “It is Leonius. He is on his way back.”

  “So? Have him report to me as soon as he arrives.”

  “He is not alone, sir.” Aelius shot a surreptitious glance at them. “The king, sir. Conall. He is with him. They will be here within the hour.”

  C hapter Twelve

  They were stunned silent for a moment. Delia’s eyes widened in fear, and she shook all over.

  Marius lips stretched into a wide grin.

  “Tell Leonius he is to report to me as soon as his horse hits the camp. Make certain he understands my displeasure, Aelius. I leave that to your devices. I want him terrified when he comes before me. Am I clear?”

  The aide raised his brows at him. “Yes, sir. But, what of the king?”

  “The king,” Marius said, pursing his lips. “He can wait for my pleasure. Tell him I have duties and will deal with him when I am ready.”

  Aelius bowed his head once. “As you wish, sir.”

  Without another word, the aide disappeared through the entrance.

  “Marius,” Delia breathed. “Do not underestimate my brother. Despite what I have told you, he is a very powerful man.”

  “So am I.”

  He kissed her again on the forehead and released her from his embrace. Marius took her hand, helped her from the bed, pulled her against his body, and took her lips a second time. The stirrings were deep, but he ignored them and reached to the floor for the discarded tunic. Gently pulling it over her head, he brushed his lips against her forehead as the garment fell to her feet. Delia reached for the tattered top and tied it behind her neck.

  “Go to Glenys and get cleaned up. I will see that new clothes be brought to you, along with food. When the king is escorted to my headquarters, I want you to come to me with Glenys.”

  Delia nodded; her face lined with worry. “I am so afraid, Marius,” she said, and it was the first time he had seen the extent of her fear, accentuated by the soft morning light. He took her into his arms and rested his cheek on the top of her head.

  “I swore he would never hurt you again. You need to trust me. I keep my oaths. Now go. I have a lot to prepare.”

  Delia nodded. Without another word, she left the tent. The sentries secured the tent flaps open. He smiled, watching her pick her way carefully over the muddy ground in her bare feet.

  When she disappeared, Marius quickly shaved, then covered his hips with a clean loincloth, and stepped into his sandals, lacing them securely around his feet and ankles. He stared out at the quiet camp. The dawn was beginning to gray the Roman standards buried deeply in the ground. The tall poles with their rounded plates of bronze deities, emperors and generals rose like markers for the dead in the early light.

  He had done this same ritual before battle for twenty-five years. While this was not a traditional fight, it was one waged before. Lifting it smoothly from its shelf, he unconsciously brushed the neatly folded, formal red tunic in his hand,and took in a breath of morning air. He noticed additional white hairs on his chest and had to smile to himself. Age was one of his more galling enemies; the black and white hair on his chest distinctly highlighted the scars of that particular battle.

  Marius ritualistically unfolded the tunic and pulled the garment over his head, sliding his arms through the holes together and the luxuriant ruby wool fell down his body. The material was rough and well known, worn, bloodstained, and glorious, like an old soldier. He closed his eyes when he smoothed it into place. Marius reached for the ornate belt and tied it around his waist, the balteus dangling over his loins. Many silver coins dazzled in the first rays of sunlight, which filtered through the tall trees, into the open tent flap.

  The music of the studs jingling together sent a satisfied rush of familiarity through him. The worn belt had been a gift from Drusilla, the dead emperor’s sister. Marius valued it more than money, jewels, or even weapons; it was his most prized possession. He cinched it tightly around his waist, noting dismally that the holes seemed to be going out further and further with each successive year. A wave of satisfaction coursed through him when the previous evening of pleasure flashed through his mind. He was not that old—not yet.

  His segmented lorica stood in a corner of the tent, the armor gray in the subdued light of the morning, looking like a man’s torso without arms or legs, resting in the shadows. Marius grabbed the silver and leather leg
guards from the floor and wrapped them around his calves before hefting the armor and shrugging into the cold metal. The frozen iron shot an involuntary spasm through his spine when it hit a bare spot on his neck, making his skin tingle, charging into his buttocks. Flaring his nostrils at the sudden rush of exhilaration and taking in a startled breath, he pursed his lips to expel it.

  With an expert hand and absolute precision, he quickly laced the armor, watching the first stirrings of his men through the tent opening. Aelius appeared blurry eyed at the entrance and stopped short, surveying Marius from toe to hair.

  “Well?” Marius said with authority, taking his gladius from the simple leather stool where it always rested, thankful Delia had not seen it the night before. He slammed it into the sheath.

  “It is taken care of, sir,” the aide replied.

  “Good. Fall in, soldier.” Marius ran his fingers through his hair, and then pulled the red crested helmet from its stand and tucked it under his arm. Aelius in tow, he marched from the tent as immaculate as he had entered two nights before.

  C hapter Thirteen

  An hour later, Leonius and Conall arrived at the camp. What greeted them was a formal line of soldiers standing at attention along the perimeter, their polished armor, gleaming headdresses, and bright red tunics, startling in the early morning light. All of the soldiers, with the notable exception of a few, gathered in ranks at every side.

  Leonius slowed his horse and frowned at the troops. At their head, directly in front of him, Aelius stood in full battle regalia. Kuna stood at his side, leaning casually on a javelin, giving them a lopsided smile. The centurion was nowhere visible. More importantly though, neither were any, of the ten or so, of Leonius’ own cohorts, men who had secretly sworn an allegiance to him, and usually served as a bodyguard of sorts. Leonius stopped his horse and raised a restraining hand to the king and seven royal guards riding behind them.