To Burn Page 8

  She was gaining weight steadily, and she knew she was the source of his increased good humor.

  She was miserable.

  Of course, he not only accompanied her on all her tasks, but forced her to accompany him. Odious oaf. They stood now in the courtyard watching his men practice with their clanging weapons. He did not touch her; he did not have to physically force her to stand by his side; they had passed through that phase of their warfare. At first she had fought him, fought his constant proximity, but he was bigger and stronger and more primitive. He had held her to him, along the hard and unyielding length of him, held her until she was painfully aware of every bump and bulge, held her until she thought she'd vomit from the heavings in her belly. His touch had been worse than anything, and so she had relented. To keep him from touching her. To keep him away from her.

  Balduff, his perpetual grin firmly in place, faced Wulfred in the courtyard they had claimed as their place for mock battles. Their sword tips touched briefly in metallic salute before the battle dance began. These Saxons were so battle-hungry that they fought each other when no other foe was at hand. She had seen such play many times now. She had watched Wulfred countless times raise his sword above his head and charge down upon his opponent. She had noted the play of muscle beneath his golden skin. She had seen his biceps bunch at the contact of steel to steel and traced with her eyes the sweat that ran in a languorous trickle down his breastbone to soak the waist of his leather leggings.

  Melania ran a hand across the sweaty line of her collarbone, suddenly very hot in the treeless courtyard. She had seen him perform in the sun of the courtyard day upon day but only because he had forced her to attend him. Only that. She would not be here now if not for his bullying, as he well knew. It was not for love of looking that she waited now, not when the sun beat down and her knees felt weak with the heat.

  He was an oaf of a man to keep her waiting for him while he played away the day.

  Balduff blocked Wulfred's blow and swung in, throwing an elbow to connect with Wulfred's belly as he spun out of sword reach. It was a devious and dishonorable move: a Saxon move. Wulfred absorbed the blow without even a catch in his wind and stuck his foot between Balduff's feet, tripping him neatly. Melania smiled in spite of all her best intentions and watched as Balduff rolled to his feet, covered in dust and still grinning like a fool, sword in hand. Wulfred also grinned as they continued their sparring.

  It was almost intolerable for him to have such a knee-buckling grin and to throw it so casually at Balduff.

  The circle of spectators around the courtyard was growing, as it always did when the Saxons played their barbaric games. Melania had abandoned all ideas of trying to stop them.

  Balduff was backing away from Wulfred, his brow sweaty and his cheeks red. Wulfred, the oaf, looked much as he had when they began. He clearly had the endurance of an ox. Melania could hardly let herself be impressed by that; he was an animal. All Saxons were animals.

  Wulfred charged boldly, his sword gleaming white-hot in the sunlight of the summer day. Balduff blocked, metal rang, Wulfred twisted, and Balduff's sword whizzed through the still air.

  Flavius watched, mouth agape, as the sword flew at him like a hurled missile.

  Before Melania could run more than a handful of steps toward Flavius, Wulfred threw himself into a roll that raised a cloud of dust, lifted his sword, and blocked the flying blade. Metal clanged and echoed as Balduff's sword dropped to the dirt near Flavius's bare feet.

  Flavius looked down at Wulfred, crouched at his feet. He began to shake, the tears rising to fill his dark eyes. Before they could fall, indeed, before any of them could think what to say or do, Wulfred pulled the boy down into his lap.

  "I've got you," the Saxon said gruffly, his hands rubbing the boy's slender back. "I've got you now."

  Flavius snaked thin arms around Wulfred's neck and clung, his sobs smothered against Wulfred's chest, his legs curled upon Wulfred's lap.

  None spoke. Balduff walked softly near and rubbed a hand across the boy's head before retrieving his sword and edging his way into the circle of people in the courtyard, disappearing, as had his smile.

  When Flavius had settled somewhat and his legs had uncurled, he wiped frantic hands across his reddened eyes. Wulfred continued to rub his back, his movements measured and supremely unhurried. His expression showed no embarrassment at Flavius's emotional display.

  Melania frowned in confusion. Such had not been the way with her Roman father. Such a display of fear would have elicited brusque rebuke or poorly masked distaste. But for Flavius there was tender compassion and a warm embrace. From a Saxon.

  "Swords are fearful things when they come at you," Wulfred said easily. "It is why a warrior trains, to learn to defeat his fear of them in mastery."

  "I... I was not afraid," Flavius whispered, his voice full of unshed tears.

  "I was afraid," Wulfred admitted with a small smile.

  "You were?" Flavius said with another swipe across his eyes before looking up at the man who held him.

  "Yes. Weren't you?"

  "Well," Flavius said, holding his shoulders stiff as he took a shaky breath, "I am Roman."

  Wulfred smiled. "I think even Romans are allowed to be afraid... sometimes."

  "You do? But... but Melania is not afraid. Melania is never afraid."

  Wulfred turned to look at her, and she hoped her frown was still firmly in place; she knew her confusion was. Wulfred bent to whisper something to the boy held within the curl of his arms. Melania watched Flavius shake his head as Wulfred shrugged and nodded, his smile a gentle gift to the child.

  "Then you will continue your training," Wulfred said firmly, raising the boy to his feet with one hand, the private moment and their whispered words over. "It is a good lesson for a warrior: beware the sword not in your own hand; it seeks your life."

  "I think I knew that before," Flavius mumbled to the dirt at his feet.

  "But now, I think, you will never forget it." Wulfred chuckled, raising the boy's chin with his hand and looking into his eyes. "And stand farther off when you watch us train. I will let you know when you may enter into the circle for your own game. For now, use the stick and the club given you, strengthen your arm, train your eye, and tame your fear. These are the lessons for now."

  "Yes, Wulfred," Flavius said, walking off. He was without shame and it showed in his walk. Wulfred had given him that.

  It was not what her father would have done. It was nothing like what her father would have done. But Melanius, her father, had been a wonderful man, an honorable man, a Roman. That was the important thing, the only thing. The only thing worth remembering. The only thing worth knowing.

  But she would love to know what it was that Wulfred had whispered to Flavius.

  The courtyard, once a place of refinement and peace, was now a place for arms practice. It was a sight that physically pained her. Her father had so loved this place, this home of theirs. He had cherished it as a bright jewel of Rome in a land that was coming to forget its heritage. Rome had flourished in Britannia for hundreds of years; Britannia was of Rome, yet some now, in these uncertain times, had lost the use of Latin. Unthinkable, yet true. But it would never be so with her. She was Roman. She would remain Roman. As her father had remained Roman.

  Her father... it was better he was dead than to have lived to see this occupation of their home. He had died fighting while she had lived on, well fed and well rested, thanks to the Saxon. It felt almost a sacrilege to have survived. She hadn't thought much about her father since... since the moment she had seen his bloodless face and mutilated body. And seen the Saxon's face just behind it, greedy to feed off of her grief and despair and defeat. She had pushed her sorrow for her father to the depths of her being, focusing instead on outwitting the Saxon murderer and stealing his ultimate victory, but now... now she had time.

  She had believed in the beginning that her own death was hovering over her like an angel, ready to pluck her
from this horror and carry her to God's arms; but she had already lived longer than she had planned and might live longer still. It seemed the barbarian wasn't quite as stupid as she had hoped. Suddenly she wanted to say her farewells to her father, even if only in her heart.

  The Saxon was absorbed in watching his men play with their stupid weapons, smiling his approval, grunting in that pagan language of his.

  "Where is my father?" she demanded.

  Wulfred turned to look at her over his impossibly large shoulder, his eyes very blue against the pale gold of his skin. He was shirtless—again and always.

  "Where do your beliefs tell you he is?" he asked mildly.

  "I know where he is, imbecile. He is in heaven with the saints of God and where, I am thankful, no barbarian will ever touch him, but where are his remains?" She asked it fearfully and hated knowing that Wulfred could detect the emotion in her voice, but she was so afraid that her father had been burned or dumped in a heap of slaughtered bodies. Christian she was, but she had a Roman's sense of burial.

  His eyes clouded with something she would have named sympathy in another man, and he turned away from his sport, taking her arm to lead her away. Melania pulled her arm away from him, never wanting his touch and certainly not now when she felt so painfully exposed. He let his own hand drop and said softly, "I will show you."

  She followed him, positioning herself just slightly behind his left shoulder; it was a position that kept him in view and yet made it unlikely that he would touch her. They left the walled courtyard by the side gate and walked slowly over the parched grass. It rustled beneath their feet, heralding their arrival to the birds and the wind. After only a few paces, she knew where he was leading her; all of her people had been buried here. This was Theras's doing, and she thanked him in her heart for his thoughtfulness. Her mother was here, as was her mother's sister and a brother of her own who had died in infancy. And now her father. The stone was new and the lettering crude; still, it was a respectable monument to the man.

  Here in

  This tomb lies

  Melanius.

  In peace.

  In peace. Yes, now he was in peace, and she was left behind to battle their common enemy. She who had no peace and would find none until she joined her family in heaven, where Jesus the Christ had promised his followers that he had a place prepared for them. At least she had a place somewhere; the villa seemed less hers and more pagan every day.

  She turned away from her melancholy thoughts, refusing to be crushed by the knowledge of her father's peace and her lack of it. Her time would come. Either way it would come.

  If she won against the Saxon, she would die. If the Saxon defeated her, she would die. Oh, yes, she would be with her father soon. It couldn't be too soon.

  Melania sighed and glanced at the golden animal who stood silently beside her, blue eyes scanning the treetops. Was he giving her privacy in his barbarian fashion? It was possible—he had the ability to surprise her—but she found it inconceivable to believe that he would do anything that touched upon kindness. He was Saxon, an animal.

  "Is he really there?" she asked suddenly.

  "Yes," he answered simply, looking down at her.

  "Why?" She did not know what had happened to the others, but she had seen no other stones. They had not received this treatment.

  "He fought well," he said.

  A Saxon answer. Oddly, she found she could understand it.

  "He was not so very old," she said softly, touching the rough stone with her fingertips.

  "No," he agreed with an answering softness, staring down at her.

  Lifting her eyes to the sky, she marked the flight of a pair of larks skimming the treetops. Birdsong caressed the air and the wind played in the trees. It was almost music.

  "He loved this place, his home."

  "He fought well," he repeated, his highest praise.

  "Yes," she agreed, knowing it must have been true. She looked at the trees as they were moved by the wind's invisible breath, ignoring the building tears behind her eyes.

  They stood a pace apart and said nothing for a while, watching the changing pattern of the clouds as they rushed across the sky. Was heaven as beautiful as this place she had known all of her life? Could it be?

  "He fought for you as well," he offered after a time.

  Melania smiled and ran her hands over the inscripted letters. "Yes."

  "He loved you," he said with the barest hesitation. How had he ever learned the Latin word for love?

  The tears rising, she choked out, "Yes."

  It was true: he had valued her, taught her, disciplined her. Fathered her.

  "Was it you... did you... did he...?" She could hardly ask, hardly get the words out, but she suddenly had to know. Was her father's death on this man's hands, this man who stood in solemn silence with her at her father's monument?

  "It was not I, Melania," he said without hesitation. He had understood her fear and her question without her having to belabor it. He understood so much about her—perhaps too much.

  And he had said her name. It was the first time. It sounded strange on his tongue, rougher and wilder, not the cultured name it was. She was suddenly glad that he was not the one who had taken her father's life.

  "Not you?"

  "No," he said solidly.

  Strangely, she believed him. For all of his barbarity, he had never lied to her. He would never see the need, but also she did not think it in him to lie. There was no lie in the blue eyes that blazed into hers now; there was sincerity, earnestness, even compassion.

  But there could not be compassion. He was too cold, too merciless, for compassion. The image of Flavius sobbing against his chest came instantly to mind, and she pushed it down; just because he could be kind to a child did not unmake him from the monster she knew him to be. A single act would not erase a lifetime of experience. She was no fool, and no Saxon was merciful.

  "Then who?" She turned to face him, her eyes clear now and as sharp as ever. Her tears were gone as quickly as they had come.

  He took a step nearer and said firmly, "It was not I."

  He would not tell her. He did not want her to try to take vengeance against one of his men. In the end, did it matter? Her father was dead. Wulfred had not killed him.

  "Did... he die well?"

  "He died fighting," he began. It did not mean to her what it did to him. "He died well."

  "He never gave up, did he? He fought until..."

  She stared up into his eyes of blue, searching for... something. Understanding? But that was the same as compassion, and she had already decided that he could not give it. He was Saxon. He stood before her, blocking the sky and the swaying trees with the warm gold of his body, and his eyes burned to give her... what? Comfort? Could she wrap her arms around his neck and would he hold her to his chest while she cried out her loss and her isolation in a world without parents? Would he hold her and whisper to her until the pain went away? Could he, who had thrown the sword into her world, make everything right again? Everyone was gone; the legions, the wool merchant, the tile setter... her father. Even Marcus was gone. She was so very alone. The tears rushed back.

  Who would whisper against her hair, "I've got you now"?

  "He died well, Melania," he said softly, his hand almost touching hers.

  He did not touch her; she was thankful for that. If he touched her, the tears would overwhelm her.

  "That was like him." It was all she could think to say.

  He had died well, as she had not.

  Chapter 11

  As she had not. As she was not. Starving herself to a skeleton out of spite was not dying well. Sticking a dirty finger down a parched throat was not dying well. In the thoughts she'd had of her father, thoughts born at his monument the day before, the last weeks shone with a disturbing clarity; what she was doing was not well done. There was no victory in this.

  It was especially demeaning that even the Saxon had seen her efforts as
childish rather than noble. Viewed through his eyes, she wondered if she looked more pathetic than anything else. She would die honorably, not pathetically. She would not have him think poorly of Rome because of muddled reasoning on her part. Better to die as her father had. Strong. Fighting. Clean.

  She rubbed her grimy hands against the filth of her stola. Dirt had been one thing when she had been near her own death; what had dirt mattered then? But she was well rested and well fed and was no nearer her goal of outwitting the Saxon than she had been when he had first arrived in her valley. All those comments he had made concerning her appearance and her desirability, or lack of it—she supposed there could have been more truth and less insult in them than she had thought at the time. Certainly it was no fitting way for a Roman to go into battle against the barbari.

  She was a disgrace. She was a far, far cry from her father and his valiant and noble effort, but it was not beyond her; she could honor him still. She was weak now and exhausted. It would take some time to build her strength. It would take strength to fight the oaf on the new terms she was just now formulating. Her path had been self-destructive—perhaps Theras had been right in that—but she would hack out a new path for herself.

  A path of destruction for the Saxon. A path of righteous vengeance for herself. It would take time, time to plan and grow strong. It would take no time at all to become clean.

  Not one to ponder a new resolution, Melania left her small room, the room that had been hers since the Saxon had first carried her there to sleep, and made her way across the courtyard to the three-room system of baths. She was ashamed to admit it, but she had avoided the baths since finding Dorcas and that grinning imbecile of a pagan stripped and tumbling together like a pair of animals on the floor. It was her house, but there were some things she preferred not to see. She didn't know if they'd ever been back, certainly she'd never been back, but, stiffening her spine against whatever awaited her, she was going back now. It was the first step on her new path and she strode firmly. She would own and command every inch of her home, and no copulating Saxon would get in her way.