by Claudia Dain
She had thought the same, felt the same, but it was strange to hear it from Marcus's lips. "What of the west? Have you been to the west?"
"I..."
Ceolmund climbed the hill, his long hair swaying and blowing in the wind. He stood in clear view at a distance, giving her privacy, but watching her all the same.
"Go, Melania. Come to me here when the moon is high and I will hold you in my arms while you feed me to your heart's content. I will even let you put new shoes on my sore feet."
"I'll come," she said, walking away from his beautiful voice, still trying not to grin like a fool. "But you can put on your own shoes."
Ceolmund waited for her. He did not speak to her as she neared him, not unusual for him, but she was unusually grateful for his silence. She had much to think on.
Marcus was here! At last, at last he had come for her. Marcus would make everything right. Oh, he could not defeat all the Saxons who had invaded Britannia, but he could take her away from here, away from one particular Saxon. If she were only away from here, her marriage vow would mean nothing. If Wulfred were not always in front of her, she could forget him and his ridiculous talk of vows and laws and honor. Away from him, she could forget passion.
She was still high above the villa when she saw the men come. Barbari. More barbari. Her heart sank as her temper soared. More? Was she expected to adjust herself to more? More pillage? More death?
Never.
Melania stormed down the hill, hardly noticing that Ceolmund followed at her heels. Hardly caring that Dorcas came running up to meet her. All she could see were barbarians streaming through her gates and into her courtyard, dropping their filthy belongings on her tiled portico, drinking from her cistern with their dirty cupped hands. It was more than any civilized woman could be expected to tolerate.
"Melania," Dorcas huffed, having finally climbed the hill from the villa. Melania did not break stride, and Dorcas fell into step behind her, bumping into a grim-faced Ceolmund as she did so. "Melania," she repeated. "Important Saxon leaders have come. Wulfred wants you. Immediately."
"He'll get me immediately, as will all of his dusty friends, though I don't think he'll be cheered by my presence."
Dorcas cast a worried look at Ceolmund. He did not return her glance. He merely unsheathed his short sword and stayed a half step behind Melania.
What this would mean for Marcus she could only guess, and all her guesses were unpleasant. Why did there have to be so many more of them right now? Couldn't they have stayed in their holes until she had left with Marcus? Whatever happened to her or the villa, she had to make sure that Marcus escaped them. Marcus must survive.
The courtyard was almost empty by the time she reached it; they had all swarmed into the triclinium to eat her food and drink her wine and drop lice on her floor. Entering the triclinium, hot with rage at this latest and unexpected affront, she saw Wulfred at the far end of the room with his men fanned out behind him. The new horde, filthy to a man, were fanned out in direct opposition.
Pushing through them, she had one target: Wulfred. Someone reached out and patted her bottom as she surged through; she turned in righteous anger, but Ceolmund was there before her. The man, a redhead, fell to the floor.
Elbowing her way into them, a most revolting endeavor, she felt a pinch on her breast and spun in the direction of the attack, filled with fury and fear. Ceolmund sliced the man's finger and he howled before putting the grimy thing into his mouth and sucking on it. Before another of them could touch her, Wulfred was there at her side, filling her eyes and crowding out her vision of the horde in her home. He surrounded her, his huge body a shield that encompassed her completely as he walked her to the front of the room, one hand firmly on her shoulder and the other on her waist. He declared his possession of her and his determination to protect her with every step they shared. None dared touch her with Wulfred at her side, and she was ashamed at the thankfulness she felt at being so clearly rescued.
He was a Saxon, one of them. She was a Roman, able to take care of herself. Yet she had needed him and he had come to her defense without a word having been spoken between them. There had been no need for words.
"Is this why you have been so absent during our forays?"
"She's not much, is she?"
"Let me have at her and I'll let you know!"
"Have you all been doing her or—"
Melania whirled within the shelter of Wulfred's arms, fire on her tongue, but Wulfred spoke first.
"Enough!" he said abruptly, his voice the throaty rumble of a wolf's. The room slowly became silent and still. Wulfred, taller than most of them, scanned the room with his eyes full of challenge and command. Melania knew the look well. "This woman will receive respect from you and nothing less. She is my wife."
Wulfred pulled her tightly to his side, his body a vibrating fortress as they faced the Saxons together; she watched their faces register shock and even horror. Standing beside him, strangely allied with him, she faced this new threat to her home; more Saxons, more strangers. Invaders.
One stood out from the rest. His clothing was richer than any she had yet seen, far richer than the plain leather garb Wulfred wore. His cloak was dyed red and lined with fur, and his boots were well-tanned leather. A leader of sorts. Wulfred's leader? A man in mastery over Wulfred; it was difficult to imagine.
"A wife," the stranger said. "Now it is clear why you kept your distance this summer. But was it profitable?" He looked her up and down. She held herself erect and stared back. She had unwillingly absorbed enough Saxon to understand the gist of what he said. If he wanted to take her measure, she would use the opportunity to take his. He would find much to commend Rome in her.
"She is a beauty, Hensa," Wulfred answered, "with enough spirit for ten warriors. She is a worthy wife."
Melania reeled inwardly; Wulfred thought her beautiful, spirited, worthy. He had said little enough of such admiration to her, not that she needed praise from a Saxon warrior.
"The villa was hers?" Hensa asked pragmatically.
"Mine then, mine now, mine stay," Melania spat out, staking her claim with her limited Saxon vocabulary.
She eyed Hensa in return, evaluating his worth as an adversary. He was a large man, taller and thicker than Wulfred, and older. Were no Saxons of normal proportions? His hair was grayed brown and just past shoulder length, and his eyes were thin slices of grayish blue. He had the look of a man who was comfortably in command and one who was uncommonly observant. That was unfortunate for her and for Marcus.
Wulfred stood at her side in silence. He did not speak for her. He did not apologize for her. He did not try to overshadow her. He stood stalwart and immovable at her side and he lifted his brows in silent comment: she was a woman of great spirit and fire, a wife of whom to be proud. He was proud of her. Melania felt the breath go out of her and had to remind herself to breathe again.
Hensa laughed in reluctant approval and said to Wulfred, "She will give you strong sons."
Wulfred crossed his arms and nodded, his smile pleasant if not warm.
Melania understood the difference. Hensa was a Saxon, but Wulfred was not at ease. She did not understand the nuances of the interaction between the pair, but she understood enough to be wary. Also she understood that Wulfred had not belittled her in front of his kind, but had shown her respect and demanded that all others respect her. Without hesitation, she aligned herself with Wulfred.
She would not disgrace him in front of Hensa and his men, not when he had done his best by his Saxon honor. She would show him that her Roman honor was more than a match for his and twice as just. Whatever battles they fought were between them; it would hardly be right to make their battles public, especially in front of one who had authority over Wulfred. Shaming him in front of his leader would hardly classify as a victory, not to her logical and unemotional Roman mind. She stepped nearer to Wulfred so that her shoulder pressed against his arm in an unemotional show of support.
Wulfred's men had watched the encounter with hands on weapons; they would have killed to save Wulfred's honor. Because of Melania's loyalty they would not have to. She had proven herself a stalwart wife, if only this once.
Now that possible conflict had been avoided, manners dictated that the visitors—she would not refer to them even in her own mind as guests—be served a meal. These barbarians would not find Roman hospitality lacking, not in her home. Deftly, Melania directed Theras in the choice of foods and in their presentation. Their resources would be stretched to the limit, but they would never show a lack to this rabble. Never would she show weakness to a Saxon.
Her servants moved among these pagans, hiding their uneasiness in exemplary service. Melania sat in her usual place and monitored everything, her eyes missing nothing, including the scrutiny with which Hensa regarded her. Wulfred sat between them, a welcome and, she suspected, intentional barrier.
The second course had been served when Hensa spoke. Melania had the uneasy sensation that he spoke to her as well as to Wulfred.
"You found rich and fertile land, Wulfred. It needs only strong men to make it produce as it should. Saxon men."
Wulfred set down his cup and picked up a chunk of bread soaked in spiced olive oil. The oil ran over his fingers. He did not seem to notice.
"I agree. The land is good. It will take much work and many years, but it could flourish again."
"Perhaps not as many years as you imply," Hensa argued pleasantly. "And there are many slaves here to help."
"The destruction and decay of years takes years to correct," Wulfred said, abandoning his bread to the table.
When Melania leaned forward to argue that her home had not been in decay for years, that the lack of anything in her home was the result of Saxon mischief, Wulfred quietly reached out and placed his hand on her knee. It was a plainly conciliatory gesture. She was plainly puzzled by it. She decided to hold her tongue. For now.
"The buildings," Hensa continued, "are in sound condition. A rare thing, these days, to find anything still intact that is of Roman construction."
And whose fault was that? But she said nothing; the pressure on her knee increased before his hand slid up to her thigh. His hand was a warm weight that held what was left of her world in place; his touch soothed her.
"All of the rooms have damage," Wulfred countered, "some more than others. The walls are useless, the location indefensible—a poor strategic choice. The place smells of Rome."
Perhaps because the place was Roman? Her anger shot upward in silence and she literally bit her lip to keep it that way. Wulfred had a reason for his disparaging words, she was certain, but...
It was when she turned away from Hensa, turned away to try to control her anger, that she looked out over her "guests" and understood. They looked with greedy eyes upon all they saw; fingering the plates, rubbing the goblets, breaking off into groups of two and three to explore the rooms of her home. And the way they looked at her people, as if they were standing gold. The Saxons were famous for their love of slavery and the profit to be made by it. Hensa was talking about her home as if he were ready to carve it up for his pleasure. Was Wulfred just going to let this dirty barbarian snatch it away from him?
"You are a gracious and efficient hostess, wife," he said quietly in Latin, his eyes studying her and apparently reading her outrage. "You have added honor to my name."
Praise? From the Saxon oaf? And even stranger, she felt herself flushing with pleasure at his words, as if his approval meant something to her. Oddly, her anger all but disappeared beneath his approval.
Melania frowned in panicked confusion. This was weakness, weakness as her father had explained it. The need for approval was the evidence of weakness; the need for comfort and loving words of kindness, the measure of a damaging loss of control. Romans did not lose control. Romans were ruled by logic, not emotion. Melania was Roman. Wulfred was Saxon. His approval should mean nothing.
"He caught me unawares," she mumbled, troubled by her own response. "I fell back on my training without thinking. Don't get used to it."
Wulfred smiled briefly and picked up his goblet to cover his own loss of control. "I won't."
But Hensa had noticed.
"Speaking Latin, Wulfred? And smiling as you do so? That shocks me more than your sitting in one poor spot all the summer long."
Now her land was poor? The man would say anything to make his point. Or to cause trouble. No wonder Wulfred was so cautious.
"It is a skill I needed to revive," Wulfred said simply.
"Yes, because you found a place populated by Romans, but I do not understand why any were left alive after the first encounter. And I would never have gambled that you would take a Roman wife. She is your wife?"
Wulfred set down his goblet as he answered. "Yes. And I have witnesses."
"Your men would lie for you."
"But hers would not. Ask them."
Hensa chuckled and drank again. "No need. I know you would not lie to me."
Wulfred said nothing, but his hand tightened on her leg. She put her hand over his and squeezed his fingers. It was not to comfort him. She could just barely make out what the two men were saying; the Saxon tongue came at her so fast, too fast. But she knew that Hensa was challenging Wulfred in some way and that it concerned her. She stopped eating and tried to concentrate more on their garbled and uncivilized tongue.
"Why did you marry her?" he asked.
"Did I not already answer that?" Wulfred said.
"But there are spirited Saxon women, women who understand our customs, women who speak our language." Hensa leaned forward to look intently at Wulfred and bring Melania into his line of vision. "There are many women. She is a Roman above all else."
"She is a woman first."
"Spoken like a man who has been long from home." Hensa laughed. It was not a pleasant laugh. "Look at her. She smells of Rome. Her Roman pride radiates from her like a fire. You, of all men, to have mated with a Roman ..."
Why "of all men"? Was it her imagination, or was Hensa slowing his speech so that she could keep up with the conversation and the insults?
"She becomes less of Rome with each passing day."
Even Wulfred insulted her? And with such a lie? It had to be a lie. Lord God, let it be a lie.
"But still of Rome," Hensa argued. "Always of Rome."
"She will bear Saxon sons."
Hensa paused in his attack, if for nothing else to eat and drink. Wulfred did not relax. Melania sensed his tension and trusted it. Clearly the subject was not ended.
The third course was served. Wulfred ate and drank sparingly. Melania matched him. For once he did not make an issue of her portions.
"Did you ever think that you would one day choose to marry a Roman?" Hensa said suddenly. Melania could feel the tension in Wulfred escalate. There was something more, something coming that Wulfred could feel and she could not. She reached out a tentative hand and placed it lightly on his shoulder; the muscles bunched beneath her fingers and then stilled. "Would you ever have thought that you, a slave of Rome, would marry a Roman landowner? And by choice?" Hensa laughed loud, his men joining him. Wulfred's men did not. "The gods play with us, do they not, Wulfred? The gods play and laugh."
A slave. Wulfred had been a slave. Of Rome.
Her hand did not move. She could feel his breathing quicken, could feel the quivering heat and tension of his muscles; she could feel his rage. And she understood it. So much explained by just that one bit of information.
"How long was it, Wulfred?" Hensa prodded. "How many years were you enslaved by the mighty, crumbling Roman Empire?"
"Long enough," Wulfred answered tersely.
Perverse and destructive man, would he never stop? He obviously thought to cause friction or an open argument; he would get no such cooperation from her. Never would she give a Saxon warlord what he wanted; never would she attack Wulfred for another's spiteful pleasure. Never had that been the way between t
hem. He poked at Wulfred with the spear of bad memories; he prodded her in slowly communicating that she had married a Roman slave. She did not care; she cared only that Hensa be denied his perverse pleasure. He had caused trouble enough; since he was little more than a beast, food would distract him.
"Theras! Bring Hensa a joint of pork and a cup of beer; he has traveled far today and is hungry."
If she could just keep him busy putting food in his mouth, he might leave the topic of Wulfred's Roman slavery in the past, where Wulfred obviously wanted it. But there were a few things she wanted to know, and a few more that she had to say on the subject of Wulfred's slavery.
"You could have told me!" she whispered in angry Latin while Hensa guzzled his beer.
"Why?" Wulfred mumbled, pausing in the drinking of his own beer. "So that you would know why I hate all things Roman?"
She was Roman. It was all he called her. Every insult he threw had the hatred of Rome at its core. It was not shame at his slave state that Wulfred had hidden from her; it was his motive.
"It was for revenge, wasn't it?" she asked in a hiss, crushing a crust of bread into a moist ball. "It was all revenge."
He paused and put his cup down. Looking at her out of the corners of his eyes, he said softly, "It was."
Of course it was. She had known it. He had made no secret of it. And she had made no secret of her hatred; she was ready to take whatever revenge she could on him, too. He had killed her father, made her a slave, destroyed her way of life. She hated him with every drop of her blood. She hated him with every breath she took. She hated him with every glance and every word and every touch.... Such passion was hatred, could only be hatred; she could not allow it to be anything else.
"I can't sit here for one moment more and watch that beast fill his face. Tell him what you will. I'm leaving." She rose and walked out, walked out on all the Saxons, every single one. It was the happiest exit she had ever made.
Her bedchamber was her only refuge, and she walked straight to it. And then she walked all around it. She couldn't be still. She couldn't sit and she couldn't sleep. She couldn't stop thinking.
