To Burn (32 page)

How wild everything had become in the years since her childhood. This path had once been wide and clear all the way to the orchard; the orchard itself had been clear of tall grass and weeds, the trees pruned of crossing limbs once a year. The orchard was too far from the villa for that now, the servants too few.

Eventually she found it. She didn't dare step into the open upon reaching the orchard, so she tucked the bundle into a tight space between two rocks. One rock was covered with lichen and the other was deeply embedded with reflective crystals. She would find this spot again.

Preparing the bundle, hiding it, planning an escape; it was too reminiscent of her own attempt to flee the villa. Pray God, Marcus would be more successful than she had been. And pray God, she would know how to answer Marcus about the escape from Wulfred that he offered her.

Marcus wanted her with him. He loved her. He wanted her to be safe, and safety meant being as far away from the Saxons as possible. She could not argue against any of that; she had argued for it all of her life. She had sat at her father's feet and listened to him expound upon civilization's curse: the Saxons. The legions would not have left Britannia if not for the need to fight the Saxons on the continent. Taxes would not be so high if not for the damage incurred by the Saxon raids. Travel would be possible if not for the danger of the Saxons. If not for the Saxons, it would be a perfect world, a world populated and controlled by Romans. Marcus shared the same beliefs, as had she—until Wulfred.

Wulfred had been made a slave of Rome when he fought to protect his own land. Rome had invaded his homeland, as Rome had once invaded Britannia, changing her, renaming her. It had been hundreds of years ago, but still, it was true. Rome had a history of enlarging itself and, in the process, conquering. Perhaps she could understand Wulfred's rage; she could certainly understand his need for vengeance, since she shared it. Or she had.

Wulfred had taken her to wife by Saxon custom. Wulfred protected her. Wulfred reminded her of the binding force of a vow and of honor, be it Roman or Saxon. She could find no argument against honor.

Marcus was what she had known, the world as it had been.

Wulfred and the world he had brought with him were what she knew now.

But what did she want to know?

The weight of her honor pressed against her, confusing her.

She knew Wulfred was relying on that honor and on the strength of her vow.

What was Marcus relying on?

Her love.

Melania turned away from the orchard, wishing she could turn as easily away from her thoughts. She had until the dawn to decide what she would do, which path she would walk and with whom. She would take that time, needing every moment of it.

She returned to the villa and went to her chamber. The day was mostly past, the roar from the triclinium had quieted; she wanted to be alone. She had much to consider.

Wulfred awaited her.

She did not want to see Wulfred. She was quite sure her feelings were visible on her face.

"Why are you here?"

He raised his eyebrows and grinned somewhat comically.

She did not smile in return; it was his smiles that confused her the most.

"Why aren't you with the others, in the triclinium?"

"Because I have a wife," he said, crossing his arms over his chest, dependably naked, and grinning at her. Or was it a leer?

Melania fidgeted nervously. That grin of his.... She had felt more comfortable with his open hatred than with... this.

"You're not afraid of a knife at your throat?"

"Am I not safe with you?" he countered.

"Am I not still Roman?" she practically hissed, reminding them both.

"You are my wife," he stated, typically unmoved by her anger.

"You married me to hurt me," she reminded.

"I have said so, and openly... however..." He paused and she felt her triumphant expression falter. "I also know that marriage is for life." He looked as awkwardly confused as she felt.

"Are you saying that there was some other reason for your manipulating me into a marriage ceremony? Something other than blind hatred?"

"Melania," he said softly, "women, Saxon wives, are honored. They are held in honor by their husbands and respected by the community. Saxon daughters are able to inherit. There is no divorce."

No divorce. In Rome divorce was rampant, and for almost any reason, or for no reason at all.

Of course, that was not true for Christians, but it disturbed her that the Saxons would have marriage practices closer to the Christian ideal than the Romans did. She was hardly eager to admit that to him; in fact, she silently cursed him for giving her yet another point of confusion.

"That's barbaric," she mumbled. "No divorce. Only a barbarian would conceive of such a thing. A marriage is a contract, and any contract can be broken. Many things could happen..."

"Nothing will happen."

But things could. Jesus the Christ had even allowed divorce on the occasion of adultery. True, the world of Rome took a broader view of the issue, but even a follower of the Christ had a path of escape from marriage.

"What of adultery? Is there no divorce even for adultery?" she asked, somewhat panicked. How was she to get out of this barbarian marriage if there was no divorce?

"Nothing will happen," he repeated. He had not answered her question, she noticed.

"So says the barbarian," she said.

Wulfred smiled and walked toward her, backing her into a corner of the room. The light was just a golden memory now and the first few stars were out. She hadn't even eaten yet. Wulfred didn't look as if he cared.

Placing his hands on the wall and trapping her in the cage of his body, Wulfred grinned. It was definitely a leer.

"You can trust me to be a barbarian in certain ways, always."

"I don't need you to tell me that, Saxon oaf," she said. She had meant her words to be more tart, but the correct tone was difficult to achieve when he was brushing his lips against her throat.

"Probably not," he said against the soft skin of her neck, "but don't you want to know how and in what ways?"

"Absolutely not." Her denial had come out as a whisper and sounded almost seductive. Shameful.

"I will tell you anyway," he said as his lips moved to the curve of her breast. Even through the cloth she felt the burn. "Every night you will meet the barbarian. You will meet him on your back." Her stomach dropped to her knees and rolled helplessly. "He will be rapacious, demanding, insatiable, like all barbarians."

He kissed her nipple through the fabric, and the flame of his tongue lit her like an autumn fire. She threaded her hands into his hair and held him there, willing him to push aside the cloth, unwilling to degrade herself by asking that he do it.

"And when the barbarian comes through the door, what does a Saxon woman do?" she asked. She had to get his mouth off her. He couldn't win her desire this easily.

Wulfred lifted his head, his eyes blue and flaming, and kissed the tip of her nose. "She submits to him."

Melania pulled his head back by her grip on his hair and smiled triumphantly into his face. "And there is the difference between Saxons and Romans. A Saxon woman would submit. I will enjoy!" And she brought his mouth down to melt against hers.

* * *

She awoke before dawn and watched Wulfred in the weak light of morning. His body lay sprawled on the couch, his limbs long and straight and corded with muscle now relaxed in sleep. His head was thrown back, his long throat exposed, and one muscular arm supported his head as a pillow. He was naked and he was beautiful.

He was a great mystery to her.

He was gentle and he was a warrior. He could be funny when he was not being stern. He came from a barbaric society that had more finesse in its structure than she would ever have imagined. He had defended her against his own. He had married her and he believed it was for life.

But what did she believe?

She believed that she was very, very confused.

And Marcus waited.

There was no confusion in that; Marcus waited and she would go to him. He deserved at least that from her. He deserved so much more.

Melania left Wulfred sleeping in her chamber. The triclinium was quiet, except for the sound of sporadic snoring. She went to the stable and collected Optio, who, for the first time, gave her no trouble other than to spit on her palla. Optio she would give to Marcus. Marcus had need of a horse. No one saw her and no one followed her; she left freely and went straight to the apple orchard thinking not of the days of her father, but of today. Today the legions were gone. Today Saxons camped in her villa. Today she had left a Saxon warrior, a husband, asleep on her couch. And tomorrow?

The sun had risen above the horizon when she reached her destination. Marcus waited for her, tall and straight and proud. She knew, in that moment of first eye contact, that he would not beg for her to come, and her own sudden sense of relief shamed her.

Melania tied Optio to the worn fence of the orchard and retrieved the bag from between the two rocks. She carried it to Marcus as if in ritual, and it was a ritual of sorts. They both knew that.

"Will you come?" he asked quietly.

Her throat closed around sudden tears and she could only shake her head no.

"I knew." He smiled sadly. "It was in my heart that you would stay, though I cannot fathom it. Oh, Melania," he whispered, and took her in his arms. "How can I leave you? I don't care about the villa," he whispered fiercely, holding her tightly against him, "and I care more for you than for revenge. What holds you here?"

"It is not the villa that holds me, and it is not revenge," she answered, putting into words for Marcus what she had struggled to understand for herself. Saying it made it clear, and she gained strength with each word. "It is the Saxon. I... belong to him in a way I can't explain."

"I can explain it," he said roughly, without releasing her from his embrace.

"Oh, Marcus!" she flared, backing away from him so that she could stare into his eyes. "You understand nothing and condemn everything. How can you explain it when I cannot? Do you think I would ever have planned such a moment as this if I were given the authority to plot my own destiny?"

"Melania"—he smiled, pulling her back against him—"all fire and spark. Tell me, are you as fiery with your Saxon?"

"I am." There was defiant pride in her answer.

"Does he object?"

Now Melania smiled. "He hasn't yet."

"He must be an unusual man."

All she knew was that Wulfred accepted her, without censure or disappointment. What more was there? Had her father ever given her as much? She could not answer Marcus for her silent tears.

They rocked in gentle rhythm, arms around each other, in as much peace as there could be in such a moment of sorrow.

"His name?"

"Wulfred," she said.

"Wulfred," he repeated. "I will remember it."

"And what of you? What of the west? Will you go there?" She was desperate to keep some part of him in her present; he was going into a future she could not see and would not share.

"You have heard of Artorius, who is gathering men to fight. He is now in Segontium, where the Saxon threat is the least. Artos, as he is called, the bear cub, is forming a cohort of companions to fight against the barbari darkness."

"You will fight." She looked up at him, so dark and straight in the weak light.

"Fight the Saxons?" He smiled grimly. "Yes, I must. I will not stand idle while a civilization is eaten by wolves. It is my life I fight for, Melania." He looked down at her, his eyes gentle for a moment. "But I will not forget the name Wulfred. I will not seek to fight the man you love."

"I don't love him!" she protested, her color rising to match her outrage.

"You don't love him" —he nodded, smiling— "yet you stay with him, in his world, leaving your own. Of course, Melania."

"You don't understand," she mumbled, irritated and uncomfortable.

"Perhaps not," he said easily. "Lately there is little that I do understand."

"Nor I," she whispered, and buried her face against the fine wool of his tunic.

"What will you tell me of Hensa and what he plans?" he asked over the top of her dark head.

Melania stopped rocking within the circle of his arms.

"I know nothing of his plans." It was the truth, fortunately.

Marcus rubbed his hands up and down her back, soothing her, sedating her. "And his men? You must know their number since they abide with you. How great is his force?"

Melania stepped away from him, out of the warm safety of his arms, to stare him in the face. It was the largest step she had ever taken and she knew it. This was the point on which rested her honor. Surprising, but now that it had come, the moment was almost effortless, the way sharply clear.

"He leads Wulfred, Marcus."

"He leads many, all enemies of Rome."

How calmly they faced each other, how clearly they understood the meaning of this confrontation. A path that had been one, shared by them in love, was diverging.

"He is my husband."

"He is a Saxon."

Each sentence was a stone thrown at a love that was bruised with each toss, but they stood tall against the pain and the loss, their features calm and resolute. They were Roman, the two of them.

"He is my husband, Marcus," she repeated. "I will not betray him."

"He has betrayed you, Melania," he urged, his voice becoming urgent. "He has not protected the Romans from the Picts, as he swore to do."

Melania waited for the way to become cloudy and confused, but it did not. The path of honor was clear. She had learned much in her summer of the Saxons.

"He did not turn from his own honor, Marcus, which is what you are asking of me."

"How is this of honor? This is of love, our love, Melania."

It was true that the bond they shared was of love, a love so sure and strong that she did not doubt it, not even now. But she had a bond with Wulfred, too, and that bond had been forged daily on the anvil of honor with the hammer of truth. That bond had come to mean much to her somewhere during the passage of days spent in heated battle with him.