To Burn Page 3

  They swooped low, and his eyes followed them as they disappeared into the wood bordering the overgrown fields to the south. As he did so, the Roman, with her train of slaves behind her, paraded across a corner of the courtyard below. Watching her, Wulfred felt his stomach tighten and his brows close in a scowl.

  Yes, the Romans had fallen far in their place in the world, but one Roman still had far to fall.

  * * *

  "Finn," Melania directed, "you'll need to use a basket of fine weave to get the bigger pieces of debris out of the cistern, and I'll have Dorcas bring you a sheet of linen for the rest. Drag it across the top and work your way down. That should clean off the worst of it, but we'll still probably be drinking ash water for the better part of two months."

  Melania didn't stop talking as she moved briskly around the courtyard, ignoring the Saxon pigs who watched her every move with open dislike. "Do the best you can, Finn, though it will be a difficult task. I'm certain that only a Saxon would be so stupid as to foul drinking water. Still, we must do our best to clean up after their oafish practices. Of course, it may be that they do not understand that sweet water is necessary for good health, since they consume salt water as a rule, I've heard. And when they can't get that, blood must do. I'm certain that depraved taste must explain their penchant for wanton killing; they but feed themselves. We, however, must have clean, clear water."

  Finn had long since bent his head to his task, flustered and frightened by Melania's prickly speech. He did not know that the Saxons could not understand her barbs. Nonetheless, they had no trouble understanding her meaning. It was written in her every expression and mannerism.

  Just as easily read was Cynric's fury. His anger fed Melania's spite enormously. The rage to die had dimmed with the day, but not the desire. She wanted it just to spite the monster. If she could goad the Saxon who watched her to kill her, she would have a double victory: the monster would lose her and he would not have had the pleasure of the dispatch. A small corner of her mind declared such logic irrational, but she was past caring. She hated the monster, the oaf, that much. She would do anything to thwart him. Anything.

  As if drawn by her hatred, he appeared, striding across her courtyard as if he had built the place himself. Arrogant oaf. But the one who watched her was red with fury, and that pleased her hugely.

  "I cannot understand a word of what she says, but I know she insults me with every breath! She is beaten. She does the work of a slave. Can you not kill her now so that we can be gone from here?"

  Wulfred clasped Cynric on the arm in support. He knew well what rage the Roman woman could fire in a man; he battled it himself.

  "She is a snake without teeth," he said calmly.

  Cynric all but shuddered. "But venom enough."

  "And no way of harming you with it," Wulfred said. "Let her rant. It is all she has. She cannot touch you. She cannot touch me, and I can understand her speech," he said, smiling.

  "Do I insult you if I say I pity you, Wulfred?" Cynric smiled in answer, calming himself at Wulfred's words.

  "Never," Wulfred said, clapping him on the back.

  Now it was Melania who could not understand a word of what was being said, but she was not a dim-witted oaf who did not understand when she was being belittled. The fury that had begun the moment her father had shoved her into the hypocaust vent roared higher at this latest affront.

  "Look at me, Saxon monster," she commanded, her hands fisted until her knuckles turned white, "and tell me that you do not find me a worthy adversary." By the telltale widening of his blue eyes she knew she had judged correctly the direction of his remarks. "Certainly I, a woman of Rome, am more than a match for the cowards of your land who call themselves warriors. Here, in the civilized world, when a man makes a vow and willfully breaks it, he is below contempt. And you, Saxon, are a vow-breaker. You and your kind came to Britannia for pay, to protect us from the Picts, and have turned on those you swore to protect. What kind of man turns on his vow the way the wind turns in the leaves? You have no loyalty and no honor, Saxon pig, to break a vow freely made. You are a wolf who runs with the pack, an unreasoning animal who thinks only of his stomach and how to feed his appetite. Come, Saxon, tell me I am wrong. Prove to me that you and all your kind did not break your vow to protect the people of Britannia."

  Her body, slight as it was, could hardly contain her fury, and her words about honor and cowardice were designed to drive a man to kill. She was a woman who demanded death as a child demanded a trinket. He saw all this clearly. He even understood that it was in the interest of her own honor that she sought to ignite him to bloodlust. Wulfred found it easy to turn aside from the knives in her words because he not only had understanding of her motives but truth on his side.

  "You are wrong, Roman," he said calmly, even cheerfully, "and this is why. A vow given to an enemy is not considered binding by Saxon law. And Rome has ever been an enemy of mine."

  For once Melania was dumbfounded. And speechless. Her silence didn't last long.

  "The horrible thing, Saxon, is that I cannot find it in me to doubt the truth of what you say. Only a Saxon would construct the world so and call it legal. Tell me then, is your vow not to kill me also false, since I am your enemy?" Melania waited eagerly; she wanted so desperately to catch him in a lie.

  Wulfred smiled complacently and said, "You are not so worthy a thing as an enemy, Roman snake. You are merely a slave."

  This time he saw her coming; also he was beginning to understand her style. She sprang at him with fists and feet flying, pounding against him with all the fury of her defeat. He had taken worse bruising in his tumbles as a boy, and caught her against him in a bear hug, unhurt. Still she fought and twisted, and he tightened his grip and lifted her from the ground so that her feet dangled. He squeezed her until he could feel her ribs and the slowing pace of her breathing. He was pressing the life from her lungs and would continue to do so until she either stopped fighting him or fainted for lack of air; he did not care which.

  She stopped fighting, but the eyes that stared unblinkingly into his were filled with frustrated hate. Imbecile. Did she not understand that he was fed by her hatred? When he met that stare and loosened his hold to allow her to draw breath, convinced that he had subdued her aggression, she spat in his face.

  Wulfred immediately released his hold on her and she fell in a tumble at his feet in the dirt.

  Looking down and wiping the spittle from his face, he said in a snarl, "Do not seek to provoke me."

  Melania stood and faced him, her neck arched back so that she could meet him eye-to-eye, straightening her yellow stola as she did so. "Why should I not? Have you not given me your vow that I will live? Am I to assume that you will be troubled by a little spittle on your face when your body has gone unwashed for a decade? Are you admitting that I have hurt you?"

  She was full of venom, this little Roman snake, and as dirty as one who lived its life with its belly on the ground. She ranted at him about a little dirt? She could not see her position, as he could. She was a slave, covered in dirt, disheveled and beaten.

  "Slaves do not attack their masters," was all he said.

  "That is obvious" —Melania smiled falsely— "but I am not your slave."

  "You are."

  "But I cannot be. Have we just not agreed that slaves do not attack their owners? And yet I have just attacked you. Without reprisal. Shouldn't you kill me, if I were your slave, for such an affront?"

  "By killing you, I prove my mastery of you. Is that your logic?"

  "Yes, Saxon dog, you have understood my reasoning very well. Perhaps there are other sophistications which you may be taught—given ample time and sufficient reward. I have been successful in training animals in the past—"

  Wulfred would hear no more of her vicious tongue; with the flat of his hand he knocked her down into the dirt again. She sat looking up at him, quiet for the moment. But not afraid.

  "I have determined," he began slowly, "
not to kill you until a time of my choosing. That is all. If you push me to anger, I will be angry." He bent from the waist and brought his face close to hers, so close that the breath of his next words moved her dark hair. "But I will not kill. There is much that can be done to you without the release of death, Roman snake."

  Melania ignored his attempt at physical intimidation and rose as gracefully as she could from the dirt. She would face him as an equal, not as a subjugated slave, which she was not now nor ever would be.

  "You can do no worse than what you have already done. You have destroyed life as I knew it and murdered my father by treachery. You have done your worst and have refused me the solace of death out of malicious spite."

  Wulfred's eyes flamed with blue fire as he spat out, "You expect benevolence from me, Roman?"

  "Not benevolence, not even mercy; from you and your kind there is only destruction and ruin and despair."

  Wulfred towered over her slight form, held so rigidly erect and so painfully proud. Her very posture was an affront to him. Grabbing her by the upper arm, he dragged her up against him and said hoarsely, "It is good you understand. For you and your kind there will be no mercy shown. I will drive you to despair and then destroy you. Your spirit will be ruined within you, and when death has become an empty dream, then it shall find you."

  Melania endured his vow in stoic and superior silence and then yanked her arm free of his grasp. She understood that this was a battle without quarter; none asked and none given. She also knew that he would not be leaving her home anytime soon; no, it would take a very long time to destroy her.

  Chin up and gaze level, Melania answered him with all the superiority of Rome at her back. "So be it."

  Chapter 6

  "You know, Wulfred, if you want to squeeze the breath and fighting spirit out of a woman, there are more enjoyable ways to do it." Balduff laughed.

  They were relaxing in the main room of the villa, the triclinium. Wulfred had no idea where the little Roman was, and he did not care at the moment. He needed time to get control of his anger, an anger that she had carefully stoked, and which was so hot that he had been within a hairbreadth of killing her. He would not kill her. Not yet. Not when she so adamantly wanted it.

  "Leave it to you, Balduff." Cenred chuckled.

  "What? Because I can see the pleasure in a woman?"

  "We can all see the pleasure in a woman," Cynric said, "but not this woman."

  "Why not this woman?" Balduff argued. "She is young enough, and shapely."

  "She is dark and tiny. It would be like mating with a mole." Cynric shuddered.

  "Especially since she always seems to end up in the dirt," Cenred said with a smile.

  "So take her in the dirt, since she seems to prefer it," Balduff said casually. "She is a woman. Her breasts are intact and her limbs are soft. What else is there?"

  "How can you tell she has breasts, covered as she is in that yellow sack?" Cenred asked.

  "Because I have a knowing and experienced eye, boy; I can always find a woman's breasts. Even in the dirt."

  "But they were small," Cynric said. "Everything about her is small, like a malnourished child."

  "Her anger was not small," Cuthred said. "She has a warrior's spirit, I think."

  "Ox dung," Cynric pronounced. "She has no valor. She is a child throwing a temper tantrum."

  "How old do you think she is?" Cenred said.

  "Old enough." Balduff grinned.

  "Of course, you would think so, but her hips were hardly wider than a boy's." Cenred's brow furrowed in puzzlement. "Are you certain she's a woman, Wulfred?"

  "You're pathetic, boy," Balduff roared. "Of course she's a woman!"

  "Wulfred?"

  Wulfred turned to his men. "She is a woman. Even without hips and breasts, she has a woman's spite."

  "Are you saying that she has no breasts, Wulfred?" Cenred pressed, more to annoy Balduff than anything.

  "She has breasts: small, round, and firm, and the swelling of hip needed for breeding. She is a woman," Wulfred restated.

  "A woman," Balduff repeated, "and shapely."

  "Well, you did have your hands all over her," Cenred said lightly.

  Yes, he had. Wulfred had not thought of the little Roman in physical terms before this. She was small, true, and young, but she had hips and breasts and long, thick hair. Had he ever asked for more in a woman? But she was a Roman, first and foremost; her being a woman was secondary. It was like Balduff to suggest mating with her to subdue her, but he could never do it. Not with her. It would be like joining with a serpent.

  "She is alone, overrun, her father dead," Ceolmund the Silent said. "I pity her."

  Now, that caught him unready. Pity her? Who pitied a hissing snake?

  * * *

  Theras and most of the people of the villa had retreated to the kitchen. It was familiar, warm, close, and away from the Saxons. Melania was with them. She did no work, as they did, but she was with them. None faulted her, slave though now she was; she hadn't been trained for kitchen labor. Those skills would come, in time, if they had to. Like the others, Theras was hoping that life might still go on as before—after the Saxons left.

  But would they leave? After Melania's last bout with the Saxon warlord, Theras was beginning to wonder. Couldn't she see that mollifying the giant's anger was the better way? Slaves, the defeated and powerless, did not fight back and expect their lot to get better.

  He looked over at her, sitting quietly, dry-eyed and remote in a corner of the golden-hued room on a small folding stool; perhaps she was thinking of a way to soothe the giant's animosity into a softer emotion, one that would serve her better. The Saxon was a striking man, big and fair-featured. Melania was shapely and a classic beauty. Surely she could win some favor from him with a smile and a soft reply. Defying him was a fool's route. She had no power as a slave, she had only her rage, and that would do nothing to placate Wulfred. Melania was an intelligent woman; she would see the error of her tactics.

  Perhaps. With his help.

  Theras crossed the room to stand beside her. Looking down on the top of her head as she sat upon the stool, he could see dust on her scalp. Never had he seen her so dirty, or so deeply in thought. If he could only nudge those thoughts toward pacification...

  "If he won't kill me, I shall kill myself."

  Theras sighed in momentary defeat. Melania was intelligent. She was also strong-willed and passionate.

  "Kill yourself?" he repeated.

  "Yes." She looked up at him, her eyes glittering and hot. "Kill myself. That will show the beast that I will have my own way and he cannot stop me."

  "You plan to defeat him by killing yourself?" Theras said slowly. "What victory is that?"

  "I don't want to die, Theras; you know I don't. But I can't let him have this power over me. You know he plans to kill me anyway. That he hasn't done it already is only because he wants to make me suffer first and take all control away from me. Then when he kills me, in what awful manner I can't conceive, I will have lost both my life and my power of choice, and he will have won it all! Can't you see that?" Her tone was desperate, strident, and, worst of all, strong.

  "Killing yourself is no answer," Theras argued. "He is angry; appease him. Perhaps eventually he will lose this desire to punish you, and then you will be both alive and free. Dead, you give him what he says he wants."

  "He doesn't want me dead, Theras. He wants me alive until he decides to kill me. There is a difference."

  "There is no difference once you are dead."

  "The difference is that I can die happily the one way and in complete and miserable defeat the other. The only way to win is to take my own life."

  Theras paused to consider his strategy. On the surface, there was logic to her argument. But there was more to life than what lay on the surface. Melania was set like a boulder in the earth; only something celestial could move her.

  "Have you considered what the Lord of hosts has to say abo
ut taking your own life? To be murdered as an innocent victim leaves you blameless. To commit suicide goes against God's law."

  Melania slumped down on her stool. She had worked it out so perfectly, but she hadn't considered that. She was a Christian. She couldn't commit suicide. She was called to suffer whatever the world threw at her; unfortunately, she wasn't skilled at suffering.

  "But in this situation—"

  "Does not God know all situations in advance? Are you the lone exception because you have been made a slave by a people abhorrent to you?" Theras said gently.

  He had been bought to teach the children of this house and stayed on as companion when they had outgrown the need for a tutor. He had been given his freedom by Melania's father many years past, as had all who lived here. The Saxon had named him a slave and he had acknowledged the term, but it was the Saxon who had again made him one. Yesterday he had been free.

  He understood the workings of Melania's mind, a mind never still, never at rest, though she was seventeen and should have settled down by now. Certainly he and her father had struggled through the years to teach her moderation and restraint, with limited success. Melania had not yet achieved the calm control that her father had so highly valued; she had been a volatile child and she had matured into a passionately tempestuous woman. Melanius had not despaired, however. She was a Roman child who had received a sound Roman education in a firmly Roman home. Melania would, given time and training, achieve the dignity of her race. Her father had determined that it would be so. But her father was dead and Melania was now a slave. Though her place in the world had changed, Melania more urgently than ever before needed the discipline and order of a civilized mind.

  "You know that Jesus spoke specifically of a slave's obedience to his master, Melania. Are you exempt?"

  "Oh, Theras," she whispered, her raised eyes dark and her lashes spiked with tears, "I want to be."

  Theras said nothing, knowing he had made his point for the moment, praying that she would accept it.