Love's Blazing Ecstasy (33 page)

“My name is Wynne…and I thank you for your kindness.  There are few who are compassionate here.”

“I too have felt the lash,” he said, stroking the cool ointment upon her skin. It was as if she were bathing in a cool mountain stream. The hurt melted away with his smooth fingers stroking, touching, healing.

“Where are you from?  How do you come to be here?”  She wanted to know all about him.

As Ibu worked his magic he told her all about himself. That he had once been a prince in the land of Numidia and was loved and cherished by his parents. He revealed how his uncle had become jealous of Ibu’s father and arranged his murder, then sold the boy to the Romans.”

“I am so sorry….!” Closing her eyes she told him how the
Romans had slaughtered her people and how she had been taken into slavery by the tribune Severus.”  “He is a vile man.” She opened her eyes quickly to make certain that one of Severus’ spies was not in the tent.  “But tell me more about you.”

She learned that Ibu was twelve years of age and that he had been a slave for over four years. At first he had tried to escape, but now was resigned to his lot in life, for even if he was able to break free there was nowhere to go.  He couldn’t go home.  If he did, his uncle would kill him.  Besides, he had been told pointedly that were he caught trying to escape again he would be tortured, then killed.

“I hate these Romans!” Wynne said between clenched teeth. “They are all evil.”

Ibu shook his head. “No, they are not all bad. Master Burrus is kind.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “He is, but he is the only one.”

“Oh no, indeed he is not!” Ibu argued. “My friend the centurion was also a very kind man. He tried to save me from being whipped and later kept me with him as a stable boy to stop Severus from abusing me. If only he could have been my master. I would have not minded slavery so.” He stopped massaging Wynne and stared off into space. “I only pray that now he is safe wherever he is.”

“He is not here? Wynne asked.

“No. Severus was angered with him, imprisoned him and would have had him beheaded. I helped him to flee. I owed him that for his kindness to me.” He smiled sadly.

“So he managed to escape.” Wynne was intrigued. Perhaps it was not impossible to get away from Severus’ clutches after all.

“Meghan and I helped him to do so,” he whispered. “If Severus were to find out, we would both be punished.” His eyes suddenly held fear, as if he knew he had said too much.

Wynne hurried to assure him.  “I will never tell, Ibu.”  She reached out and touched his face in a gesture of friendship. “I think you were both very brave to do such a thing.”

“We both loved master Valerian very much,” Ibu said with a sad smile.

Pulling back her hand, Wynne stared at him. “What did you say?”

“I said that Meghan and I both loved master Valerian very much,”
Ibu repeated.

“Valerian. Your..your centurion was…was  named Valerian?” she stammered.

“Yes. Valerian Quillon Tullius.”

Wynne got to her feet, heedless of her pain. Grabbing the boy’s tunic, she gently shook him. “What did he look like?”

Ibu broke away from her, afraid, staring at her as if she posed a threat to him. He backed away from her. Still he answered, “dark hair. Brown eyes.”

“Is his hair curly?” Ibu nodded yes. “Are his eyes the color of amber?” Again he nodded yes. She pressed her finger into her chin. “And his chin—like so?”

“Yes. Yes. It is all as you say. The centurion Valerian is very handsome.”  He was wary of her, his eyes squinting with suspicion. “How do you know him?”

“He murdered my father,” she accused.

Ibu shook his head in disbelief. “No. No. He would not do such a thing unless he was forced to do so to defend himself.”

“He did! He took my father’s life—a man who could not walk. Your centurion murdered him!” Her legs were trembling so from weakness and from her emotions that she could no longer stand. She sank down upon the pillows and looked up at him.

“I know that you must be wrong,” Ibu argued. “Master Valerian could not be guilty of such an loathsome act.”

She shook her head.  “No, I am not wrong. I saw his sword caked with the lifeblood of my father, and for that he will pay….someday…..” her voice trailed off.  Valerian’s face hovered in her mind’s eye and for a moment she was lost to her memories of happier times.

Realizing that she would not change her mind, Ibu fled from the tent to escape the accusations against his friend. He would have to watch the Celtic girl carefully if Valerian were to return, to make certain that she did not harm him. It was strange the way she had acted. Her words spoke of her hate, yet her eyes gleamed with another emotion, as if she were at war deep within her soul.

Alone once more in the tent, Wynne tried hard to shut out the memory of Valerian, his lips, his face, his hands. He had been here in this very cam
p. Had he slept on a bed such as this one? She wondered what had happened to bring him into disfavor. No doubt he and Sevrus had quarreled over who was to be the lord over the vanquished.

She had thought that Valerian was all the way to
Rome by now, perhaps seeking the favor of his emperor, but instead he had been held prisoner. A voice inside her head told her to question Meghan—he had been her master. Perhaps the girl had heard what had happened. She started to call out for the guard, to tell him to bring Meghan to the tent, but then she remembered what Edan had told her and her heart hardened once again.

“I will not let Valerian’s name pass my lips again until he has paid for his treachery!”

Later that night when Wynne dreamed, she beheld the handsome Roman through the mists of a fog and stretched out her arms to him. He came to her, kissing her, caressing her, stroking her hair. Together they rolled about, locked in an embrace as they made love. She called out his name over and over again as she was shaken by swirling pleasure.

With a start Wynne opened her eyes. She had been dreaming, yet it had all been so real. In shame she covered her face with her hands. She had yielded to him in her dreams, had wanted him to love her, had dreamed that he indeed did. And why did this image seem less like a memory of their joining than a premonition?

Weakness, such a weakness. She still loved him. What could she do?

“Will I never be free of you?”
Putting her hands over her eyes, she knew that the torment she felt because of Valerian’s betrayal was far worse than any torture she might face at Severus’ hands.

Chapter Forty-Nine

Tossing to and fro, the merchant vessel forged onward through the raging storm, destined for Gaul and then Rome itself. Aboard the ship Valerian Quillon Tullius, centurion and fugitive, lay on his pallet in the ship’s cabin. The rain drummed hard on the cabin roof.

So I am finally on my way to Rome
, he thought, rising from his bed. It was so stuffy in the cabin with the humidity of the storm. It was as if there were not a breath of air left.

At last the rain stopped and Valerian went out on the deck. There a single horn-shielded lantern hung from the rigging, shedding its light on the deck. He walked along a little farther and leaned over the rail to watch the water froth and foam below him. He had been aboard the
Vesta
for three days now and was finally becoming accustomed to the rolling of the deck beneath him. He thanked the gods that he was not prone to seasickness.

The wind slapped at his face like a hundred small fingers, stinging his skin. A sudden clap of thunder split through the sky like a fire, one of Jupiter’s lances, no doubt.

As he had so many times before in the last few days, Valerian thought about Wynne, and the memory of her caused him physical pain, like a knife thrusting into his heart. He wondered if he would ever be able to love again, and knew the answer was no. No doubt his father would marry him off to some Roman girl of fine family, but he would never be able to feel for any woman what he had felt for the golden-haired Celt. He looked down below him at the figure of Vesta on the prow. The figurehead’s blond hair, her ice-blue eyes surveying the sea ahead, reminded him of Wynne.

“Oh, how I loved you,” he whispered softly, wondering if Wynne had entered on another life as she believed.  He prayed that she had.

Valerian stared off in the distance, recalling his journey to Deva. He had come close to being caught by Sererus’ army. It had not taken them long to realize that he had changed direction and was heading toward the sea. Sloan had been magnificent, however, keeping up a fast pace and leaving the Roman soldiers far behind. In Deva he had been able to book passage on a merchant ship, leaving the shores of Britain far behind.  The first few days of the sea journey, however, Valerian had scanned the horizon for any sign of a ship following behind the
Vesta
, but so far had not spotted any. Still, he would not feel safe until he reached Rome.

On his journey he had been befriended by several of the people of Wynne’s kind—Celts. The words Wynne had taught him, the ability to make himself understood, had  helped him communicate.  Some had given him shelter for the night, or food. Although fighting seemed to be the heart’s blood of the Celts, although they were often savage warriors, he found the honesty and straightforwardness of their spiritual outlook compelling.

The Celts honored their women more than the Romans, who viewed them as property. They were hospitable to strangers, sharing food and drink, telling their stories around the fire. Perhaps, having no large cities they had not become corrupted by luxuries or the decadence that material things could bring. They were an outdoor people, loving and understanding the ways of nature.

A touch on his shoulder startled Valerian out of his musing.

“Can’t sleep, eh, centurion?” a tall elderly sailor asked him kindly.

“No. I can’t. The pitching of the ship made sleep impossible for me.”

“Well, this storm should be over shortly, and then we will see smooth sailing ahead of us. What worries me is pirates, though. They have been spotted in this area.”

“The pirates?” Valerian asked with surprise.

“You haven’t heard of them? Ex-gladiators, they are rogues who have taken to the sea in order to survive. We will be lucky if we don’t have to flee from them, or worse yet, fight them.”

“Fighting doesn’t frighten me,” Valerian answered.
“I am used to such dangers. It is the killing of the innocent that haunts my soul.”

The old sailor grinned. “Well, then, you don’t have to worry, son. The last word I would use to describe these pirates is ‘innocent.’ They are truly bloodthirsty.”

As the wind shifted, abruptly swinging the square sail around to catch the breeze from a different direction, Valerian was nearly sent flying overboard. The ship pitched and rolled as the waves tossed it about like a toy. The spray stung Valerian’s eyes and drenched him to the bone.

As if the storm were not enough burden, Valerian looked into the old sailor’s eyes and read fear clearly written there. His eyes followed the old man’s line of vision.

“There, look there,” the old sailor said, pointing with his long bony finger.

Three ships, their sails billowing in the wind, were silhouetted on the horizon.

“May the gods protect us!” the old man shrieked. “It is the pirates!”

Chapter Fifty

Valerian’s heart sank, for more than the pirates he feared Severus. “They are Roman ships,” he shouted. “They fly the purple sails of a Roman galley.”

“No, they are pirates, all right,” answered the old sailor. “Purple used to be used for only galley ships, but now more often than not such sails signal pirates. Their oars are silver-plated, I am told, and their masts gilded.”

The captain was now barking his orders; the crew swarmed on deck readying for battle. Valerian himself clutched at his sword. If he had to die, it would be while fighting.

Below him Valerian could hear the sounds of wood striking wood as the oars were put in
place. How many oars were there? He wondered.  A dozen, twenty, or more? The wind was blowing against them from the south. It would take all the manpower available to outrun the pursuing ships.

“We will be killed, a young sailor cried, his eyes crazed with fear.

Valerian had no doubt he was right, for not only did pirates capture and loot merchant ships but killed both crew and passengers unless the captives were rich. Would he be held for ransom if they fell to these thieves?  And if so would they ransom him to Severus? Or his father?

“Will I never get to
Rome!” he exclaimed in frustration.

The captain of the vessel scanned the horizon, and Valerian stared with fascination at the ships in the distance. “We are outnumbered,” the captain confided to his passenger. “If only the wind would change. It is blowing against us, holding us still, and our oarsmen number too few to be able to outdistance the pirate ships with their many manned oars.”

From below the deck the rowing master beat his drum so that the oarsmen would row in rhythm. It was a nerve-racking sound and Valerian fought the urge to cover his ears with his hands, but at least the ship was moving now, and pulling off to the starboard away from the course of the pirate ships.