The Lion and the Lark (13 page)

     “None of this is a laughing matter,” Claudius said.  “I never felt less jovial in my life.”  He paused.  “I guess I don’t know how I feel.”

     “Don’t you think it’s time you figured it out?  You’re distracted and irritable, often you don’t even hear me when I talk to you.  I see you reading the dispatches over and over before you can compose a reply.  I thought you entered into this marriage as a formality...”

     “It’s still a formality,” Claudius shot back at him.

     Ardus paused.  “You mean...”

     “That’s right.  She’s as virginal as the day she was born and I’m the biggest idiot in the imperial army.”

     Ardus’ expression cleared. “Then THAT’s your problem.  Men are always driven wild by an elusive woman.  Just sleep with her and get it over with, you’ll feel better.”

     “It’s not as simple as that.”

     “Why not?”

     “I won’t force her.”

     “Is she unwilling?”

     “I can’t tell.  Sometimes it seems she wants me, and other times...I don’t know.  She has a bad history with us, a centurion raped and killed her mother during Caesar’s invasion.  I thought once she got to know me she would forget, but these Celts...”  He shook his head.  “They take their grievances to the grave.”

     “She has become that important to you?” Ardus asked in a concerned tone.

     Claudius opened his hands.  “Something about her called to me from the first time I saw her, Ardus.  And now, living with her, talking to her every day, smelling her hair and her skin and her clothes...”  He closed his eyes and swallowed.

     Ardus walked over to his friend and put his hand on the tribune’s shoulder.  “You have to do something, Claudius.  You’re preoccupied and hobbled by this tortured situation, and meanwhile the Iceni are coming over the walls at night and murdering our officers.”

     Claudius nodded dismally, though he could not imagine what he might do.  To reject the marriage now would be folly, not to mention that he would never see Bronwen again, an idea which now loomed like the prospect of doom.

     Ardus saw that Claudius was at a loss and said in a more businesslike tone, “You should know that Scipio has appointed me quaestor in Cato’s place.  He kept good records so I should be able to take over without too much trouble.”

     “Good.”  That, at least, would be a help.  Ardus was dutiful and reliable; he did his job and wasn’t interested in sniffing for tidbits of gossip like Cato.

     “I’ll go now,” Ardus said quietly.  “Please think about what I have said.”

     “I will,” Claudius said.  When the door closed behind the aide Claudius sat and looked at the notes he had made on a wax tablet regarding the winter grain allotments.  The list had to be checked again before being transferred to a scroll, but he had no heart for the task.

     Ardus was right.  He couldn’t concentrate on his duties.

     He never thought he would be longing for combat, but anything was better than being trapped in this snowbound boot camp doing graphs and charts while waiting for the supposedly placated natives to erupt. They would not be content with sneak attacks forever, and Claudius almost welcomed the day when that contentment vanished.

     At least it would give him something purposeful to do.

     In Britain winter sunset came at a time of day when Rome was still flooded with light.  The early dark gave the Celts plenty of time for their covert activities, and Claudius strapped on his weapons carefully before he left the barracks to walk home.  He had declined the escort Scipio recommended; it made him feel as if he were living under a state of siege, and he had more faith in his ability to defend himself than he had in the brute force of two thuggish guards recruited from Germany.  He acknowledged the salutes of the soldiers he passed, their metal appointments gleaming in the torchlight which blazed from every available niche: darkness was the friend of the natives, who knew every nook and cranny of the terrain.  By the time he reached his door, also ablaze with torches on either side of the entry, he was ready for food and the sight of his wife. 

     He liked to look at her.

     Bronwen was not in the dining room waiting for him, and he went down the hall to the bedroom.  He tapped lightly and then entered, thinking to find her at needlework or reading one of his books.  She was fond of the history of Rome, and left the previous scrolls piled on the floor while she perused the latest one.

     But she was not reading; she was washing.  She didn’t hear him and continued her ritual, absorbed in the process.

     Romans did not wash with soap and water.  They oiled their skins and then scraped them with a
strigil,
a rounded stick which removed dirt and oil together.  Their famous baths were for swimming and soaking and steaming, not the removal of soil.  By contrast, the Celts cleaned themselves like the, Parthians and Judeans of the east, with a soap they made from lye they leached from wood ashes and the sap of pine trees.

     Claudius would always associate the scent of pine with Bronwen fresh from a bath.

     He stepped back, meaning to call out to her, but something stopped him.  She was so lovely, with her gown pulled down to her waist, soaping her arms, her back to him.  The firelight played across her lightly defined muscles and ruddied her creamy skin.  She turned slightly and he saw the outline of one firm breast, the nipple rising from the chill in the air, the flesh puckering as she raised her hands to brush back her hair.  He watched her lift it off her neck and smooth the soap across her throat, dipping the cloth back into the basin to rinse, her movements as graceful as the flight of a fawn in the forest.

     Claudius was riveted.  He could have stayed there forever, watching her, but a sound from behind him signaled the approach of a servant.  He stepped back into the hall and closed the door.

     “Master, dinner is waiting for you,” the servant girl said, stopping when she saw him.

     “Thank you.  I was just going in to get my wife.”  He knocked loudly, his pulse still racing, a trickle of sudden sweat running down his back.  He waited, then entered, calling Bronwen’s name.

     She was just pulling her sleeves over her arms as he came in; she turned to face him and then glanced at the slave behind him.

     “Am I late?” she said.  “I lost track of time.”

     “Tell the kitchen to hold dinner.  I’ll let you know when we want it to be served,” Claudius said to the servant.

     The girl disappeared.

     Claudius closed the door behind him.

     “If you’re hungry, please start without me,” Bronwen said, picking up her shawl and draping it over her shoulders.

     “I can wait.”  Claudius sat in the chair by the fire, watching her move around the room.

     “Actually, I thought you might be taking
cena
  with the Scipios.  You’ve been going there every night anyway,” Bronwen said.

     “The general and I have been planning the food allocation for the rest of the winter.  Some of the supply boats were lost in a storm and we want to make sure we don’t run short...”  He stopped talking when he saw that she wasn’t listening to him.

     “I thought maybe you were visiting Lucia Scipio,” Bronwen said, not looking at him either.

     Claudius was nonplused.  “What?” he finally managed.

     “I’ve seen you talking to her.  She walks you home with that hulking Helvetian bodyguard her father employs.  I’ve seen the two of you from the window.”

     “We talk about home, Bronwen.  She has no friends here and her mother is not a companion.  She’s lonely.”

     “And I’m not?” Bronwen countered, whirling to face him.

     He saw by her expression that she was serious.

     “Bronwen, why are you angry?  Lucia’s father is my superior officer, our families have been friends for years...”

     “Precisely my point!” she fired at him.

     He stared at her. 

     “She’d make a much more suitable Roman wife for you than the redhaired barbarian just down from the trees, wouldn’t she?”  She spat the words
barbaria rufa 
as if they were the description of a cesspool.

     Claudius moved toward her, but she backed away.

     “Do you think I don’t know what they say about me?” she asked him.  “What your men say about me?  I heard him, you know.  I lied about it, but I heard what that centurion said, the one who came to this house with his friend for the dispatch.”

     Claudius was silent.  If she had heard that remark there was nothing he could say to mitigate the damage.

     “
Meretrix Brittaniae
, the British whore,” Bronwen said flatly.  “And he was right.  You’d be better off with a respectable woman like that little Scipiana.”

     Claudius took hold of her upper arms, trying to speak reasonably. “Bronwen, if I wanted Lucia I could have had her years ago.  Her father offered her to me when we were both in Rome but I found an impediment because we just weren’t suited.”

     “And now I suppose after this time with me you’ve changed your mind,” Bronwen said nastily.

     Her face was pale; tears were standing in her eyes.  It took him several long moments of gazing at her in consternation before he realized what her problem was.

     She was jealous.

    He closed his eyes and pulled her into his arms.

     “I want you, only you,” he whispered into her ear, stroking her hair.  “How can you think otherwise?  I’ve been going mad all this time trying to keep our bargain and stay away from you.  I can’t think, I can’t eat, I can’t work- do you know how many sleepless nights I’ve spent on this floor fighting to keep myself out of your bed?”

     She drew back and looked up at him.  “I have wanted you in my bed,” she whispered, reaching up to touch his cheek.

     He bent his head and kissed her.  Bronwen had imagined it so often that she thought reality would pale by comparison with her fantasies, but she was not disappointed.  His lips were firm and cool, warming as he drew her closer and her mouth opened under his.  When his tongue touched hers his sigh of satisfaction was so heartfelt it was almost a groan, and she realized how much it had cost him to stay away from her. 

     Bronwen ran her hands down his back, feeling his muscles react to her slightest movement.  He kissed her more deeply, tangling his fingers in her long hair and bunching it in his fists.  She clung to him fiercely, the only stable object in a spinning world, and when his mouth moved to her cheek, and then her neck, she tilted her head back to allow him easier access to the creamy expanse of velvety skin.  He nibbled the soft base of her throat and she moaned softly, holding his head against her, her eyes shut tightly to concentrate on the delicious sensations he was evoking.  Bronwen had never been subjected to such a direct and concentrated sensual assault, and she was so overwhelmed by it she could barely stand. 

     Claudius wrapped one arm around her waist and pinned her between his body and the wall, and she felt him hard against her.  Inexperienced but ardent, she surged back into him, and he responded wildly, almost lifting her off the floor.  He was incredibly strong, and it flashed through Bronwen’s mind that if he had decided to force her at any time during their relationship she would have stood no chance against him.

     Claudius was voracious; after holding back for so long he was unable to check himself.  He pulled the shawl from her shoulders and ran his tongue inside the neck of her gown, leaving a trail of wet fire wherever he touched.  She swayed in his arms, almost in a trance, as his lips moved from her bare skin to the thin cloth covering her breasts, and his mouth was so hot it seared her skin as if she were naked.  She whimpered helplessly as he sucked her through the gauzy barrier of the gown; when he dragged it aside impatiently and took her nipple into his mouth she gasped and clutched at him, digging her fingers into his shoulders.  He held her up with one arm, the other hand propped flat against the wall, caressing her until she was limp and pliant, silently begging for more.  He bent suddenly and slipped one arm under her knees, straightening to carry her to the bed.    

     Bronwen’s head dropped to his shoulder as he crossed the room; his scent, a combination of heated male flesh and his body oil, intoxicated her.  She rubbed her nose on the fine material of his tunic, inhaling deeply.  When he sat with her on the edge of the bed she undid the clasps at his shoulders and kissed the smooth, bare skin she exposed, running her hands down his chest as the woolen blouse puddled at his waist.  He closed his eyes and let her explore him, his respiration increasing as she traced his flat nipples with a searching finger, then rubbed her palm across the fine black hair on his chest.  When he could take no more he pushed her flat on the bed and loomed above her, his dark eyes filling the room.

     “Why did we wait so long?” he said thickly, bending to embrace her again.  “Why did we allow our pasts to come between us, when we could have had this from the beginning?”

     He felt her stiffen in his arms and realized that he should not have spoken.  When he drew back to look at her he saw that her expression had changed.