Beast of Caledonia (6 page)

She returned his smile and sat up, still straddling his
hips.

She began at his neck, her soft fingers caressing lightly,
sending shivers over his whole body. Then down his arms, tickling, and up his
sides, stroking him with the backs of her fingers. Soon he became aware that
she was tracing the lines and curves etched into his flesh by more weapons than
he could count.

“You have more scars than when I last saw you.” She bent
forward and kissed each one, her hands resting lightly on his shoulders.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the ragged pink line on
her right wrist. He took hold of both her forearms and held them up in front of
him, noting the matching scar on her left wrist. “As do you,” he said. A
distinctive notch in the line of the scar caught his eye. He knew the knife
that made that scar. A wave of nausea swept through his gut. “Sara, what did
you do?” She hesitated, so he urged, “Tell me.”

“I could not bear it when Septimius took you away.”

Annachie hugged her tightly against his chest. “Oh my love,
I heard you screaming…”

* * * * *

“
No, father, please! He didn’t do anything. We didn’t
do anything.”

“Take him,” Quintus shouted to Septimius. “Get him out of my
sight.”

“Father, no, no, please.” Sara grasped at her father’s arm,
but he shook her off. She fell backward onto the hard-packed dirt of the stable
floor.

“Go to your room. I will deal with you later.” Her father
stood over her, one arm extended, pointing toward the house.

A loud clang reverberated around the stable as Septimius’
men shattered the lock on Annachie’s chains with a pickaxe. Then, almost before
Sara could blink, it seemed, Annachie was in the slaver’s cart, moving along
the road heading south.

Sara tried once more. “Father—”

“Go!” Quintus roared.

Sara ran to the house, up the stairs and into her room. She
stood at her window watching Septimius’ train of wagons and the cart into which
they had shoved Annachie get smaller and smaller as they traveled farther and
farther away from her. When she could no longer see them, she turned and went
to the chest at the foot of her bed.

She took out a silk-wrapped bundle and a silk scarf. She
unwrapped the bundle, revealing the dagger she had taken from the armory the
day Annachie was captured. She laid the knife in her lap. She made a loop and
tied the scarf around her left arm. Holding the dagger in her right hand, she
pressed the sharp edge against her left wrist and drew it quickly across,
slicing deep. Then she pulled the scarf tight and held the end between her
teeth.

There was no pain yet.

With the dagger in her left hand, she cut her right wrist as
deeply as she could. She released the scarf on her left arm and watched as the
blood flowed out of her veins and pumped out of her slashed arteries. At first,
there was no pain, only a slight itching. The pain came after only a few
moments.

She lay down on the floor…and waited.

* * * * *

“The next thing I remember someone was screaming. I thought
for a moment it was me, but then I realized it was Thea. She was the one who
found me. I was very weak for a long time, then we came back to Rome. I don’t
remember much of the journey here.”

“Oh, Sara, with my own dagger. Why?”

“It was my fault my father gave you to Septimius. And I had
no wish to live without you.”

“Never take your life because of me, Sara.”

If you only knew, she thought. For a moment she was tempted
to tell him what she was risking to be with him, but she couldn’t. She knew he
would put an end to their meetings. Now that she was with him again, now that
they had made love, she would never jeopardize the times they could be
together.

Chapter Five

“Olivia is ill. You must guard the fire tonight, Sara.”

No, I cannot!
Sara hoped her reaction did not show on
her face. As always when she was with Annachie, she had gotten very little
sleep. They had dozed, but each time they awoke, they made love again. How
would she ever manage to stay awake all night to keep the sacred flame from
going out?

“Yes, Mother Sylvia.” Sara could not refuse, of course. She
had managed to sneak away to meet Annachie five times now over a period of one
month, and each time she had feared her luck would run out. If she gave any
excuse to the chief Vestal, it could arouse the woman’s suspicions and that
would be the end. Perhaps truly the end.

She went about her daily chores as usual, hoping to find a
little free time to nap. But as usual, she was kept busy, and there was no time
to rest. She drank water with her meals because wine tended to make her sleepy…and
she certainly didn’t need to be any drowsier than she was.

Night finally came and Sara entered the temple. She was
supposed to be on her knees, praying to Vesta, rising only to feed the sacred
flame when it threatened to burn out. Instead she paced, splashed cool water on
her face, and stood in the doorway of the temple to let the cool night breeze
wash over her. She wanted to take a walk, but she dare not leave the fire for
very long. Finally she returned to kneel before the altar and recite the
prayers as expected of her.

That was the last thing she remembered.

“Sara! Wake up.”

Someone was shaking her roughly by the shoulders. She came
awake with a start and found herself staring up at the angry visage of Mother
Sylvia. “What have you done, girl?”

“I am sorry, Mother, I only dozed off for a moment.”

“A moment? It is morning. And look—the fire is out!”

Sara slowly turned her head toward the iron brazier that
held the sacred flame.
Oh, gods, help me.
Her worst fear had been
realized. She knew the punishment she was in for and began to brace herself for
what was to come. She thought of the scars on Annachie’s back from the whipping
her father’s soldiers had given him. Now I will know how it truly feels, she
thought.

“Go to your chamber while I speak with the Pontifex Maximus.
Someone will come for you when all is ready.”

“Yes, Mother Sylvia.” The Pontifex Maximus, the head priest,
was the only one who could legally shed the blood of a Vestal. Sara hated the
sight of him. He was a withered old man who always smelled of garlic and who
stared at the young priestesses in a way he shouldn’t. Once before she had seen
him administer the punishment now awaiting her and he seemed to enjoy it. Her
only consolation was that she would be unable to see his horrible face. Her
back would be to him for the whipping.

With trembling knees, Sara made it to her room and sat down
on the bed. She stayed there all day, shaking in fear, fighting back the tears.
No one called her for meals—not that she could have eaten anyway. She heard the
other Vestals reciting the evening rituals and repeated the words silently, out
of habit.

Then she heard footsteps coming down the hall. Her door
opened and Ocelina stood there, her face pale in the fading evening light from
the window at the end of the hallway. With a shaky voice, Lina said “I-It’s
time.”

Sara rose and followed the younger girl down the hallway.
Ocelina walked ahead of her, occasionally glancing back as if she feared Sara would
attack her and try to escape to avoid the fate that awaited her.

It was a short walk to the side room off the temple, but it
was the longest walk of Sara’s life. The other Vestals were arranged around the
side walls of the chamber, standing with their heads bowed as if they were
afraid to look at her for fear they would have to share her punishment. The
Pontifex Maximus, stood in the center with Mother Sylvia behind his right
shoulder.

“Come forward,” the Pontifex commanded.

Sara took a deep breath, tried to stop shaking in fear and
approached the old priest. She could tell that he was trying to look solemn,
but there was a gleam in his eyes that confirmed all too clearly Sara’s
suspicion that he would enjoy what he was about to do. That made her angry.
I
will not scream. I will not give you the satisfaction.

“As this is your first offense,” he said, “the punishment
will be only fifteen lashes. If it happens again, however, it will be thirty.”

Sara nodded, her mouth too dry to speak. He stepped aside
and pointed to a low white marble altar behind him. His body had hidden it
while he had been speaking to her. Now, Sara could clearly see the brown veins
that ran throughout the stone. Or rather, what she had thought were veins. As
she drew closer, she realized they were stains of dried blood that the cleaning
slaves could not wash off. How many other girls had been subjected to this
punishment, she wondered. And did holy Vesta really require such bloodshed from
her priestesses?
Does she enjoy seeing us suffer?
That thought shook
Sara to her very core.
If so, why then am I serving such a heartless deity?

“Take your gown from your shoulders and kneel over the
altar.” Sara could almost hear the leer in the Pontifex’s voice.

The cold stone against her skin only added to the shivering
that was fast overtaking her. The edges of the altar were smooth but still dug
into her breasts as she tried to grasp the opposite side and brace herself. She
heard a soft scraping across the floor behind her, a whoosh, and the first
stroke hit her.

Despite her resolve not to, she cried out. Fourteen more,
she thought.
I will die. I cannot bear it.
But she forced herself to think
of Annachie, and she knew she would suffer anything to be with him again.

The second lash was not quite as bad because she knew it was
coming. She was able to only gasp and grip the altar tighter. By the ninth
stroke she was crying, by the twelfth she could no longer hold onto the stone.
She collapsed to the floor and tried to crawl away, but the priest pursued her
and gave her the last three lashes as she lay at his feet. She felt all fifteen
strokes of the whip before she fainted.

Sara awoke in her small chamber, face down on her bed. By
the light from the hallway, she could tell that it was nearing twilight. On the
table by her bed, someone had left water, some cheese, and a small loaf of
bread. She suddenly realized she was hungry. But when she reached for the food,
the dull ache in her back that had lingered at the edge of her awareness
blossomed into a pain so sharp it stole her breath.

At that moment, Mother Sylvia entered. “Ah, you are awake.
We were starting to worry.”

If you were so worried, why did you do this in the first place?
But, of course, Sara could not say that to the woman. “Have I slept all day?”

“Two days,” the chief Vestal replied.

Two days. No!

She was supposed to see Annachie the next night. And she
would go to him, if she had to crawl.

* * * * *

When Annachie entered the cell, the first thing he noticed
was a strange smell. He couldn’t quite identify it, but he knew it should not
be associated with Sara. She always smelled of flowers and the incense they
used in temples. He looked around the room and was surprised to find her
already in bed, asleep. He sat down next to her and touched her shoulder gently.
“Sara?”

She rose up on her knees, slowly, and threw herself into his
arms. “Oh, Annachie, I am so glad to see you. I’m so glad you are here.”

He smiled against her hair. “Of course I am here. Where else
would I be?” He wrapped his arms around her.

“Ah!” she cried.

He immediately loosened his hold on her. “Sara, what is it?
I hurt you?”

“No,” she said, but he knew she was lying.

“Tell me.”

“No, it is nothing, truly.”

He again placed his hand on her back and pressed, and again
she gasped as if in pain. “Lie down.”

“No, Annachie, it is all right.”

“Lie down,” he repeated. “Let me see.”

She reluctantly did as he commanded. He slipped her gown off
her shoulders and down to her waist. The sight of her back knocked the breath
out of his body and he reeled back in horror. In that instant, he identified
the smell that had eluded him—blood. “Sara, who did this to you? Tell me so I
can kill him.”

“No, I cannot tell you. And besides, I deserved it.”

“No one deserves this. Now tell me what happened.”

When she finished her story, Annachie said, “And they call
my people barbarians. We do not whip our women.”

“At least, now I know what you went through.”

He grimaced at the painful memory…

The morning after his capture, Annachie was given a slice of
bread and a strip of dried meat then, still shackled by his legs, was led out
of the stable by three soldiers—two held his arms in a death-grip while the
other led the way—and taken over to a grove of alder trees. The soldier who
apparently was in charge, a short man with black hair, handed him an ax and
said something in their language which Annachie, of course, did not understand.
So, the man pantomimed cutting down the tree.

Annachie felt a chill run down his spine. The man couldn’t
mean it. It was forbidden to cut down alder trees. His luck had already turned
bad by being captured but by cutting down these trees, he could bring bad luck
to his whole village—his family, his friends, everyone he had left behind.

He put his hands behind his back and shook his head
vehemently. They could shackle him, make him sleep in a cold, drafty stable,
and starve him but they could not force him to cut down alder trees.

The black-haired soldier shoved the axe handle into
Annachie’s belly. It hurt, but he only gritted his teeth and shook his head
again.

The soldier then reached for the whip in his belt, his hand
lingering there ominously as he stared into Annachie’s eyes. Annachie returned
the look, unflinching. The other two soldiers moved behind him and held his
arms in a tight grip. With a wicked grin, the man in charge had the whip out
and across Annachie’s chest before he could react.