The Lion and the Lark (18 page)

     “I will do it,” she agreed.  “Anything else?”

     “Continue as you have done,” the Greek said hesitantly in flawed Latin, and smiled, displaying a tiny emerald embedded in his front tooth.

     Bronwen looked triumphantly at Scipio.  This was the confirmation she had sought that she and Maeve had done well by their patient.

     “Thank you for coming,” she said to the Greek, taking his hand between both of hers.

     He bowed from the waist graciously and then turned to the general.

     Apparently, his examination was at an end.

     Scipio ushered him into the hall and then came back into the bedroom.

     “I think you brought him here for nothing, General,” Bronwen couldn’t resist saying to him.

     “Would you have wanted me to take a chance?” Scipio asked her challengingly.

     They stared at one another, the seasoned campaigner and the young girl, evenly matched.

     For the moment.

     “Please send the old woman to the barracks as soon as possible.  Pallas is obviously eager to learn from her,” Scipio said.

     “I’ll send her, but she speaks only Celtic,” Bronwen responded.

     “One of my tribunes speaks both Greek and Celtic,” Scipio said.  “He can translate for them.”

     Scipio nodded at her and left; Bronwen returned to her seat next to the bed and looked down at the sleeping man.

     Claudius’ hair had grown out since his illness, and it now spilled over his forehead and ears, giving him a raffish appearance, as did the heavy beard the women barely managed to contain with daily shaving.  He was thinner, his cheekbones prominent, his lips pale and dry.  But nothing could detract from the stark male beauty of his exquisitely chiseled face, the like of which looked out from the friezes on the old Etruscan tombs Bronwen had read about but had never seen. 

     What would happen when he rose from this bed and took up his life again?

     For the next several weeks, while December became January and the snow piled against the houses and collected in drifts beside the paths through the fort, Claudius recuperated from his wounds.  When he was well enough to sit up he followed Bronwen around the room with his eyes, but never spoke to her.  She was beginning to think he had lost his voice when one day, while Maeve was off concocting a potion and Bronwen was alone with him, he suddenly grasped her wrist as she bent over him to neaten his blanket.

     “Why did you save me,” he asked, his voice hoarse with disuse, “when you despise me so much?”

 CHAPTER seven

     Bronwen sat gingerly on the edge of the bed, her arm imprisoned by his fingers.

     Judging by the strength of his grip, he had recovered.

     “I don’t despise you,” she said softly.  “I wouldn’t have spent the last several weeks trying to keep you alive if I did.”

     He regarded her expressionlessly.

     “You don’t believe me?” Bronwen asked.

     “My memory of our last evening together is far too vivid for me to believe you,” he said flatly.

     Bronwen could not meet his eyes.  “I regret my behavior on that occasion,” she said to him softly.  “I spoke hastily, Claudius, I was much too harsh.”

     “But you meant the essence of what you said?” he asked, still holding on to her.

     Bronwen continued to stare at the floor.

     He released her.  She looked up at him, his face hollowed with illness and shadowed by his beard, his eyes burning.

     “I understand,” he said dully.  “A person in my condition cannot be exposed to so ugly a truth for a second time.  It’s one thing to tell a healthy man that his touch defiles you, but another to repeat such a thing to an invalid.”

     Bronwen winced when he voiced her regrettable words.

     “You don’t like hearing that?” he said bitterly.  “I didn’t like hearing it much either.”

     “Claudius...” Bronwen began.

     He held up his hand.  “Don’t say anything else.  Just go away, Bronwen. I’m tired.”

     “But it’s time for your medicine...”

     “Leave it there,” he said shortly, gesturing to the bedside table.  “I’ll take it.”

     “Claudius, I want to explain...”

     “I don’t want to hear it,” he snapped.  “Go.  I’ll take the noxious brew the old crone cooks up, it hasn’t killed me so far.  And if there’s one thing I discovered the night your kinsmen jumped me, it’s that I do want to live.  You may not love me, but someone else will.  I just want to get away from here and forget I ever saw your face.”

     Bronwen stared at him, listening to his cracking voice, feeling absurdly as if she were going to cry.

     Wasn’t this what she wanted?

  “I’m going to ask Scipio for a transfer the next time I see him,” Claudius added.

     “To where?” she gasped.  “It’s the middle of winter!”

     “I don’t have to go overseas to get away from you,” he said. “I can go to Londinium, I’m sure the empire can find something useful for a bright young tribune like myself to do there.”  His tone was flat.

     “But what about our marriage?” she demanded.

     He gave a short bark of laughter, then coughed and grabbed his abdomen.  “Our marriage?” he said sarcastically.

     “I mean the reason for our marriage, the treaty.  If you suddenly go off to Londinium everyone will know that...” She stopped.

     “That our union was a miserable failure?  That the whole thing was a  ridiculous sham?” he inquired, raising his brows.  “That the bride can’t stand the sight of the groom?”

     “The sight of you was the one thing I always could stand,” Bronwen murmured.

     His expression changed.  He watched her closely, waiting for her to go on.

     “No man of my own tribe ever stirred my blood the way you do, Claudius.”

     He swallowed, still silent.

     “If you think it cost me nothing to sleep alone with you in the same room, think again.  You must know from my response the last night we were together that I find you as beautiful as the famous statues in your temples.  I have from the first moment I saw you marching through the woods on your way to the garrison.”

     “You saw me then?” he asked in surprise.

     She nodded.  “I watched from a cliff with my brother and saw you give the order for your troops to rest.  You turned to your companion and smiled, and my heart turned over in my breast.  I think I knew then, though I denied it to myself.”

     “Knew what?”

     “That you would be the one to change my life.”

     “But not for the better,” Claudius said quietly.

     “Do you believe in destiny?” Bronwen asked him, after a long, thoughtful pause.

     “
Fatum
,” he said in a low tone.

     “Yes.  My people have great faith in it.  Maeve made a prediction the night we met and I ignored it.  To my cost.”

     “I remember that she said something to both of us.  It seemed to upset you.”

     “I should have listened to her, about a number of things.  It was she who healed you, not me.  She has the knowledge.”

     “I know that you were here.  I saw you.  And when I couldn’t see you, I sensed you.”

     Bronwen nodded.  “I was helping her.  Scipio sent for that Greek he has used before for his troops and even the physician had to admit that Maeve had saved you.”

     “That must have come as quite a disappointment to the general,” Claudius said.

     Bronwen smiled, and his face relaxed.

     “Do you really have to go?” Bronwen whispered, sensing an softening in his manner.

     He looked away from her.  “Yes.  It is senseless to continue as we are, neither one of us needs one more moment of unhappiness.  When I thought there was some hope for us I was willing to do anything, but...”  He spread his hands.

     “Do you think Scipio will let you go?” Bronwen asked quietly.

     “He won’t want to, but he owes me.”
     “For the marriage?”

     “And for coming here in the first place.”

     “Did you have a choice?”

     “I was the veteran of many campaigns when I was ordered here.  Scipio knows that I was doing more than my share in coming without protest.  My family is influential, I have two uncles in the Senate and my mother’s brother is a consul.  I could have had the orders changed if I’d complained.”  He shrugged.  “I think he will honor my request.”

     “What will we say about our...wedding?”

     “Nothing.  It’s acceptable for me to go to Londinium without you; the weather alone is sufficient excuse for a woman not to travel.  We’ve been together long enough for appearances to be preserved.  As long as there is no dramatic renunciation,” he concluded, with a deprecating smile.  “I trust that will not be necessary.”

     “You seem to have given this matter a lot of thought, Claudius,” Bronwen said.

     “I had little else to do but think while lying in this bed.”

     “Are you satisfied with your decision?” she asked.

     He smiled thinly.  “Satisfied?  No, I wouldn’t say that.  I still wish it could have been otherwise, Bronwen.”

     The sound of her name on his lips made her go weak with longing.  She wanted to tell him that it COULD be otherwise, that there was time for them to repair the damage they had done to each other, but then she remembered the communiqué that she had read.

     How could she take this any further when she was betraying his trust every minute of every day?  In the beginning it hadn’t mattered, her desire to hurt the Romans was so overwhelming, but now that she cared about Claudius, it did matter.

     Very much.

     Maybe he was right and it was better to end it now.

     “I just need to know one thing,” he said suddenly.  “Why did you take care of me?  You could have kept me here in the house but left me to the care of others, no one would have known the difference.  Was it just a sense of guilt on your part, or obligation?”

     Bronwen hesitated, unsure how to reply.

     What could she say that wouldn’t be a lie?

     Maeve came through the door with a steaming bowl of soup, saving Bronwen from a response.  The old lady paused and smiled when she saw Claudius.

     “Ah, our handsome tribune is looking much better,” she said to Bronwen in Celtic.

     “Yes, he is,” Bronwen replied.

     “Now drink some of this,” Maeve said to Claudius, holding the bowl under his chin.

     Claudius surveyed it with distaste and then turned his head.

     “Come now, you must eat,” Maeve said to him chidingly.

     He understood the tone if not the words.  “I don’t want any more of that gruel,” he said to Bronwen.

     “What would you like?” Bronwen asked.

     “Solid food,” he said, putting his head back and closing his eyes. “Anything, as long as it’s not liquid slopping around in a bowl.”

     Bronwen smiled to herself.

     “What is it?” Maeve asked her.

     “He wants something else to eat.  No more soup.”

     Maeve grinned her toothless grin.  “Well, get him something, then.  Boiled chicken and soft vegetables, manchet bread without the crust.  No alcohol, goat’s or cow’s milk to drink.”

     “I’ll go to the kitchen and see to it myself,” Bronwen said, walking to the door.  She glanced at Claudius, who was following her progress with his eyes.

     “I’ll be back soon with your meal,” she said to him, and then left the room.

                                            *****

     Brettix watched Lucia walk outside through a light snow and talk to her bodyguard, who was waiting to escort her home.  She dismissed the Helvetiian and then came back into the paddock to take Stella’s bridle and lead the horse around the ring.

     “Are you sure you want to do this again today?” he called to her.  They were running late into the afternoon after a long lesson and she was insisting on continuing the practice, even though they were both drained and tired.

     Lucia planted her hands on her hips.  “I am going to make that jump today or die trying.  Larsendt said he would give me a little more time.”

     Brettix walked over to her and lifted the hem of her tunic.  He pointed to a large, purpling bruise just above the waistband of her woolen trousers.  “You just might die trying.”

     Lucia yanked the material out of his hand and said, “That happened two  days ago.  I’m going to get it now.  I can feel it.”