by Claudia Dain
"I like your hair better the old way: loose and dusty." He smiled, pulling and tugging until her careful coiffure hung in a tangle down her back.
The very nearness of him jolted her. His touch almost brought her to her knees in a spasm of what she could only identify as nausea.
"Stupid, stupid barbarian!" she said in a snarl, backing away from him. "You have no culture and certainly no taste!"
"I follow my own tastes," he said, watching the distance she was putting between them, learning from it. "I like a woman's hair down her back, either loose or braided, but not twisted and tortured to sit atop her head."
"Uncivilized," she spat.
"Beautiful," he said softly.
Beautiful? Tickles of nervous fire swirled in her belly and her mind shouted alarm. This was not a word she wanted of him. This word, beautiful, was not adversarial, and he was her adversary. He would always be her adversary. She did not want to hear beautiful on his lips. She did not want to see his gaze of intense and impossible blue skim her body and pierce her eyes as surely as his sword had pierced her ordered Roman world. She did not want to see him close the distance between them. Did not want him to ease the tangles from her hair with his battle-roughened hands. Did not want him to run a gentle finger down the length of her left arm. Did not want him—what was he doing?—to touch the tip of her breast.
And she did not want to feel the fiery shiver that ran like a wild flame through her core as her nipple hardened in response.
She reacted instinctively. She hit him.
He reacted as always. He did not move.
She hit him again, a ringing blow across the face.
He did not move. He smiled. Slowly and confidently. Knowingly.
God, God, God, how she hated him.
"You never disappoint me," she said coldly, pulling away from the scorching nearness of him. The hauteur of Rome clung to every word. She walked away, leaving him, since he was so obstinately immovable.
"And you, little Roman, never disappoint me."
The worst of it was that he said it on a laugh.
Oaf.
Animal.
Imbecile.
Saxon.
Melania made her way as straight as the arrow flies to the kitchen. No more pretense. No more subtlety. Oh, yes, she had held herself in check with him. None could have done better. She had tried to get along with him, stupid savage that he was, but he was impossible. Untrainable. Wild. Savage. There was only one response to such a beast. Without a word to anyone, without a thought for the strange looks she was receiving, without heeding the gasps of dismay, she took a knife from the table. Let him touch her again. Let him touch her and he'd feel his own blood before he choked on it. Let him touch her again. Just let him.
Hiding the knife in the folds of her palla as she walked across the sunlit courtyard, she smiled her own smile, and her laugh more than matched his.
* * *
Later, at dinner, Melania stroked the cold reassurance of the knife hidden within her clothing. She had spent what remained of the afternoon sewing a small pocket into the vivid yellow stola she wore. By tomorrow each of her stolas would be graced with a hidden pocket. She would never be unprepared for his assault again. And how happy she was that she had a weapon.
His comitatus, never warm toward her unless under the charm of her seduction, was positively frigid now. What lie had the oaf told to provoke such a response? It was true that she didn't want their friendship, if the barbarians possessed the loyalty required for true friendship, but she did want their ease in her presence, and she had achieved it—until recently. Daily their reception of her grew more cold. It went against her plans. She did not want a suspicious, snarling band of barbarians prowling her villa when she killed their leader; better that they should be relaxed and pacified than armed and growling. They were all but growling now.
Obstinate, contrary savages.
The fact that Wulfred was behaving as usual, as relaxed in a hostile environment as only a barbarian could be, made it worse. What did he have to be so pleasant about? And if he said one word about touching her... well, his blood would flavor the wine.
Where to stick him? The throat was oh so appealing: such a lot of blood in the neck, such a lot of deceitful Saxon blood. But then the breast was closer. His back she had to discount because it was much too muscular; what could be worse than a flesh wound that would only aggravate him? Besides, she wanted him to see who wielded the knife. There would be immense satisfaction in that.
Melania stroked her knife and smiled. She would achieve satisfaction from the Saxon, and he would know he had given it to her. She would win. Rome would defeat the Saxons. She would defeat this Saxon.
If only he would proceed with his ridiculous marriage. Once married, they would be alone, in the dark, with her knife. Oh, yes, she was very eager for this mock marriage, because on that day he would die, as her father had died. But no longer would she content herself with killing him and letting his mob murder her in angry vengeance. No.
Now she wanted to live more than she wanted to die. He had given her that. If she killed him in the dark, in the quiet of their bridal night, she had a chance of escape.
Melania smiled coldly as Wulfred handed her the tray of meats. He had no idea what she planned. He had no idea what she was capable of.
But he would.
Yes, it would be in the dark. He would lie bleeding out his miserable life on the couch where he had planned to humiliate her, and she would flee west. Marcus had gone west to find Artos, the bear, rumored to be urging all men of Rome and Britannia to fight in concert against the barbarians invading their world of order. Marcus would have found Artos, heir to Ambrosius, son of Utha, and he would have joined with him because Marcus needed no urging to fight the Saxons. If Marcus could go west and find Artos, she could go, too, after she had killed her own Saxon.
She was no fool; it would not be easy to kill the Saxon beast. But she would kill him. She could even die happily if she beat the oaf at his own game, and he died knowing it.
"You are thoughtful tonight," he said, interrupting her contemplations.
"I am thinking of the future. Yours. Mine." She smiled and sipped her wine.
She had the great satisfaction of seeing his brows lower in a sudden frown.
Chapter 17
It was at the close of the meal when Theras began to cross the triclinium floor toward her. Since it was inconceivable that Theras would have voluntarily approached Wulfred, Melania rose to her feet in a graceful manner to join him. It was in the act of rising that Wulfred magnanimously announced, "You may go, but only so far as your bedchamber."
Melania looked down onto the top of his head, fighting the impulse to crack a dish over it. She reverted to the weapon of words, a cleaner weapon and one less apt to stain her palla.
"Are you, in your oafish way, attempting to give me permission? Permission to travel from one room in my home to another? Did I ask you anything?"
"No, you did not." He looked down into the murky liquid of his cup before adding, "But still, you may go. To your bedchamber only."
He was baiting her, and, because he was looking for a fight, she decided not to give him one. Whatever he wanted, that was what she would withhold. It was with great difficulty that Melania held her tongue, but she was learning to bide her time. After all, it would not be too much longer. The nights were cooler now, summer's heat was on the wane, and with the change of season, the Saxon horde would creep homeward to huddle into whatever caves they called home. Until the earth warmed again. Then they would return, a summer pestilence: deadly, swift, and inescapable. But they would not return to her. There was nothing left here to destroy.
Theras watched as Melania approached him. It was probably obvious that she was furious, but at least she had said nothing provocative. She didn't want Wulfred to suspect her of being any less than pleased that they were to marry. It would be a very short marriage for him, since he would be dead withi
n hours of it. It was with that vivid thought that Melania reached Theras.
"I have listened to them," he said without preamble. She had been waiting for this information for days. "It has not been difficult; it is all they speak of."
"How very flattering," she said, sounding not at all flattered.
"Perhaps it is," Theras said seriously, his eyes dark in the shadowed light of the broad portico.
"As a race, they take their marriage vows seriously. This is not lightly done for them."
"I can assure you that this is not lightly done on my side either!"
"Of course not," he softly agreed. "Yet they speak of this bonding as a permanent state. It seems that Saxons marry for life."
It was in her mind that Wulfred's married life would be extremely short, but she said nothing aloud. Theras would most likely try to talk her out of her plan. He had become quite conservative in his advancing years. Why, he must be all of forty.
"Just how long do Saxons live? I would think they would die like flies since they live off the destruction of others," she said breezily, looking over Theras's shoulder into the triclinium. The Saxons were a golden mosaic in the flickering light of the triclinium lamps: golden and large and solid. As she looked at them, for just a moment it seemed that they would last forever and that her beautiful Roman world would be crushed under their ponderous weight, but that was impossible, inconceivable; Rome would live forever.
"He will live long enough to make you his wife. And he makes you his wife for life. Think on that, Melania. He must feel something for you to make a lifelong commitment."
A lifelong commitment. A binding marriage. To be his wife. To have his children.
Melania chewed her lip gently and tentatively touched her belly as the words took hold. Wulfred was not one to act on impulse, so it was logical to believe that he had considered the weight Saxons put on the marriage vow. He must have realized that, once married, she could conceive his child. Melania ran her hands across the narrow span of her hips and the flatness of her belly; would any man kill the woman who might be carrying his child? Would Wulfred? Wulfred had the adoration of every boy in the villa and treated each with a kindness and gentleness she would never have attributed to a Saxon warrior. Would such a man kill his unborn child in an act of revenge against the mother?
Perhaps... it was possible... he might want more from her than the pleasure of torture. Perhaps he did see something in her, something more than an enemy. Perhaps that was what she felt when she was near him. It was possible that it was not disgust. It was possible that he was a handsome man who had enough civility to be gentle and enough intelligence to be humorous. And enough virility to make her lose her breath. It was possible that he was worthy of the leadership his men granted him. It was possible that he possessed some admirable traits and that he had seen that there was more to her than her hatred. It was possible... perhaps. And if so, if he did actually have a fondness for her, even an attraction for her... perhaps... perhaps she should not be planning to kill him on their wedding night. That was rather harsh.
Harsh? Melania closed her eyes against compassion and mercy and hope, forcing herself to remember just how this Saxon had hacked his way into her life. Was it not harsh when he raged into her life like a sweeping fire? Had he not demolished her home? Had he not been responsible for the death of her father? Had he not burned away all her dreams so that not even ash remained? Had he not told her repeatedly that he meant to kill her?
What would her father have said if he knew she was considering showing mercy to a Saxon? This was not the way of Romans. Her father had taught her better.
Melania shivered like a dry leaf in a scorching wind and opened her eyes. Truth faced her. There was no room for mercy in such a light. Yes to all of her questions about Wulfred. If he had tender feelings for her, so much the better; he would be easier to manipulate onto the point of a knife. He would find no mercy at her hand, as he had shown her none. The mercy her father had received stood only on the tombstone his killers had allowed.
Wulfred was Saxon, and Saxons were the enemy. There was no other truth.
"You will not soften toward them, toward him," Theras said, observing her closely.
She closed her eyes briefly before answering.
"No."
"He will be your husband."
"No!" she flared.
"Even for a Roman, marriage is a serious thing."
"It was not my idea."
"But you will be married nonetheless."
"Only until he dies," she said with as much lightness as she could manage.
"Melania," Theras urged, "you follow Christus, as do I. You know the teachings on marriage."
"He is no Christ follower." She snorted. "He worships the air."
"But you do not," he reminded her sternly.
No, she did not. How much easier if she did. If she did, she could kill him without a thought, husband though he be. Would Christus smile on her as she killed her husband of an hour? She knew the answer. It was a hard answer. She walked away from Theras, thinking hard on what she planned, thinking more deeply about what she had imagined doing than she had yet done. To kill, to murder, was forbidden.
But it would be justice, not murder, to kill the murderer of her father; even Jesus... even Jesus wouldn't object in such a righteous cause... Jesus who had let himself be killed by unrighteous men.
Yet Wulfred had said that he hadn't killed Melanius; he had no reason to lie to her. He had never lied. Melania twisted the end of her stola as her mind twisted on too many truths that had nothing in common except that each one increased her unhappiness.
Why couldn't everything be clear and uncomplicated, the way life had been before the Saxon descended? She hated all these confusions and shadings; things should be clear and straight, casting no shadow in one direction or another. That was the world her father had taught her; that was the world she struggled to regain. The Saxon should die, and it should be right to kill him. He should not have muddied the issue by not killing her father and by not being a liar, or a rapist. He should not have saved Flavius. He should not have treated her people with consideration. He should not be so... beautiful.
Melania grimaced in irritation so fierce it was almost painful. Saxons were not supposed to be like this. They were wild and uncontrollable, like untamed animals with no ability to reason. They were nothing like Romans, just as fish were nothing like flies. Except that one was food for the other, and the Saxons had been nibbling at the corners of Rome for decades. Wulfred was nothing like what she had been taught, yet her father could not have been wrong. Could Wulfred never help her by doing what she expected?
Still, he was ultimately responsible for everything that had happened. And she would have vengeance. There would be justice. That had to be right.
But... but perhaps it would be safer not to kill her husband. Jesus probably wouldn't forgive that. Better to do it before they were married. If Theras had accomplished anything, it was to convince her that she should kill Wulfred before the marriage ceremony and not after. The sooner the better. Tonight.
The decision made, she felt immediately better. It was excitement that made her hands shake and her mouth go dry, not dread. Melania slipped into the shadows and left the noise of the triclinium behind. Crossing the deserted courtyard, the dirt hard-packed and dry under her sandaled feet, she made her way to the stable. It was empty except for her father's horse, Optio. Optio was her horse now and would go with her.
Of course, Optio did not cooperate and it took much longer than it should have for her to get the mare saddled and ready. Unnatural animal to prefer the Saxon's touch to civilized Roman hands. By the time she left the stable her hands were shaking with both anxiety and fatigue—or perhaps it was only excited anticipation. The Saxon would die tonight. She would win the battle that he had begun with her.
The kitchen was her next destination, and though it was quiet, it was not deserted. However, because she had spent so mu
ch time in the kitchen in the past weeks, little notice was paid her. She found a large leather sack to hold bread, cheese, wine, and oil. It would be enough. It would get her to Marcus. It had to.
Melania walked quietly back to the stable, the sack held like a babe in her arms. Optio, true to form, tried to step on her foot as she positioned the sack behind the saddle. Moving away from the snorting animal Melania stood in the stable doorway and listened. The wind rustled the forest tree-tops, brushing branch against branch in enforced intimacy, and the leaves moaned in whispered response. The wind was cool and wet.
Rain. Autumn. The ending of one season and the beginning of another. The ending of one life and the beginning of another.
One more preparation and she would be ready. Melania once again crossed the empty and dark courtyard, saying a silent farewell as she did so. Good-bye to the safety of the villa walls. Good-bye to the rustle of manuscripts in the library. Good-bye to the familiar and ordered routine of a Roman household. Good-bye to all she knew and all she had known. And good-bye to the girl Melania; she would be a new person after tonight, a better person. A woman who had demanded justice and won.
In the room that had become hers with the coming of the Saxons, Melania opened a weathered wooden trunk and removed a stola of pale blue. Into this she wrapped a golden pin, a circular pin covered with tiny balls of gold. She had finished it. This would be her currency, should she need it. For this she had made it. She would not leave her home unprepared.
Melania stood in the dark of her chamber, stood with her hands idle and her mind oddly empty. Stood feeling the blood run through her veins, listening to the hammer of her heart and the moan of the rising wind; stood feeling time stop. There was nothing left to do. No more preparations to make. No arguments to voice. There was only... only... her mind flailed in frigid darkness, grasping and for a moment, lost... only the deed. And only she could perform it.
And she would. She had to. Didn't she?
