The Lion and the Lark (8 page)

     He had been dreading this moment, when his duty would force him to wed some unknown barbarian woman in defiance of his own custom or desire. He had never imagined that the girl he had encountered that late summer night near Scipio’s house, the girl he had been seeking by day and dreaming of by night, would be his bride.

     The Druid stopped talking and the woman wearing the cow’s head brought forth a loaf of brown bread and a bag of salt.  The Druid accepted these offerings, and the long sword which the man-god proferred ceremoniously.

     The Romans eyed it warily, but remained in place.

     The Druid said in his own language, “We teach that the gods must be honored, no injustice done and seemly behavior always maintained.”

     All the Celts present bowed their heads.

     “Truth in the heart, strength in the arm, honesty in speech are the principles of our people,” he continued, opening the bag and sprinkling the salt on the bread.  All watched him, breathless.

     He looked up at the young couple, then held the sword aloft and sliced through the loaf with one stroke. “These two are married in the sight of the
Tuates
, the first of our tribe, and they share this bread as they will share their lives,” he said.

     He gave a piece of the loaf to Bronwen, and then a piece to Claudius. Bronwen took a bite of hers.  Claudius followed her example, chewing the manchet slowly.  Then Borrus stepped forward, took his daughter’s hand, and gave it to Claudius.

     At this point in a wedding the Celts usually erupted into loud cheers and began the wedding feast right on the spot, bringing in whole roasted boar and pigs and wild deer, getting drunk on corma and, if the trade routes were open and the families could afford it, imported Italian wine.  Instead this time they glanced at one another uneasily and then began to file out of the hut slowly, as the onlookers outside searched their faces to see if the marriage had really taken place.

     It had.

     Bronwen emerged and was immediately surrounded by Iceni women and escorted to the home of her new husband.  Claudius, to whom this custom had already been explained, hung back with the other officers, watching the Celts depart.

     “You’re a lucky man,” Scipio said to Claudius, clapping him on the back, delighted that the two factions had made it through the ceremony without killing each other.  “Your bride is gorgeous.”

     Claudius looked at him.  “Don’t you know her?” he asked the general incredulously.

     Scipio shrugged.  “She’s Borrus’ daughter, that’s all I know or need to know.”

     “She’s been to your house, to escort a cook in your kitchens.  She said your wife arranged it.”

     Scipio sighed.  “My wife has many arrangements unknown to me,” he replied in a weary tone.  “Are you saying that you have met this girl before today?”

     “Just once.  I had no idea that she was Iceni royalty.  I thought she was some relative of the cook’s.”

     “She may well be.  These people are all related to each other, their family ties are as complicated as Caesar’s.”

     Ardus looked up at the night sky, heavy with snow and dark except for the torchlight surrounding them.  “Too many strange things happen here,” he said, in a somber tone.  “I sometimes feel their gods are watching us, gods  much older and more powerful than ours, and that they will triumph in the end.”

     “Stop it, Ardus,” Scipio said sharply.  “That kind of talk does no good, it smacks of superstition and it saps morale.”

     “They’re assembling to escort you to your wife,” Ardus said suddenly, looking through the door of the hut at the Iceni, who were lining up by twos, torches in hand.  “We have to walk you to your door.”

     The Romans stepped outside and were at once hemmed in by the Celts, which made Claudius uneasy.  His hand went to his sword hilt, but it was soon clear that the Iceni were intent only on providing him with the traditional escort to his marriage bed.  As the torchlit procession moved forward, with the people dressed as gods capering at the front of it, conquerors and conquered mingled peaceably for one of the few times in their troubled history.

     The gates of the fort stood open to admit them, with the Romans lined up inside and armed to the teeth, watching soberly.  The Druid led the way to the house Catalinus had abandoned when the British winter proved too much for his knees, beset by arthritis after wounds sustained in Spain and Gaul.  For the past week it had been cleaned and furnished by Scipio’s servants, and inside it now the Iceni princess waited.

     Waited for Claudius.

     The procession came to a halt, and the Iceni parted ranks to let Claudius pass to the front of the crowd.

     His heart pounding, he walked forward through the throng.

      “I told you the Roman’s destiny the first time I saw him,” Maeve said, strewing the marital bed with dried flower petals, preserved from the summer.  “I suspected then that his destiny would be you.”

     Bronwen sighed, wishing the old woman would be quiet.  Maeve had been harping on this theme since she saw Claudius at the ceremony, and it didn’t calm Bronwen’s shattered spirit to hear it again now.

     One of the other women unbound Bronwen’s hair as a third unfolded a sleeveless shift of thin Gallic silk.  Bronwen stood like a doll as the entourage undressed her, slipped the shift over her head and then tucked her into the bed.  She lay there staring into the flames on the hearth, which gave the only light in the room.

     Her face was flushed and her hands were like ice; there was a tightness in her throat that made her fear she would never swallow again.  She didn’t move as the women bustled about the room, setting out food and wine on a side table and replenishing the fire.  When there was nothing left to be done they melted away, as if by a prearranged signal.  Maeve was the last to go; she stopped by the bed and whispered, “They’re here.” 

     She rested her hand on Bronwen’s head for a moment and then left the room.

     Bronwen didn’t need the old woman to tell her the procession had arrived.  Torchlight shone through the Roman style strip windows of the house and she could hear the murmur of the crowd.  She turned her face to the wall and closed her eyes.

     He would be here shortly: in the house, in the room, in the bed.  She had expected to be dreading the embrace of some fiftyish widower, not sharing her body with the young Roman officer she had met just once but not quite managed to forget.

     It had never occurred to her that the man chosen for her might be the one she had encountered outside the general’s house.  Her father had said it would probably be the second in command, and she’d assumed that would be someone like Scipio, not the youthful officer with blue black hair and the sudden, unexpected smile she had seen the day the reinforcements arrived.  Now Bronwen’s sense of reluctantly performing a distasteful duty had been replaced by a feverish and conflicted anticipation she didn’t completely understand.

     She heard a step in the hall and swallowed hard, turning her head to look at the door.

     He knocked lightly and then entered, his helmet under his arm.  Bronwen thought she could hear her own heart banging under her ribs as he put down the headgear and took off his cloak, setting them on a chair and stopping to warm his hands before the fire.

     Bronwen watched him: her enemy, her husband, a complete unknown.  His limbs were slim and well muscled, his waist narrow, the dark hair so unusual to the Celts throwing back the firelight with an ebony gleam.  After a few moments he turned to face her, then walked over and sat on the edge of the bed.

     Bronwen recoiled involuntarily.

     He noticed the subtle movement and his face set into an expressionless mask.

     “Do you remember me?” he asked quietly.

     Bronwen didn’t answer.

     He waited a moment and then said, “I know you understand me.  I heard you speaking my language once before, the night in late summer we met outside Ammianus Scipio’s house.  Do you recall that meeting?”

     “One Roman is just like another to me,” Bronwen whispered, finding her voice.

     He saw that she was going to deny this common ground and sighed inwardly.  He knew she had every reason to hate him, but since the moment he saw who his bride was he had been hoping... hoping what?  That she would forget the cruel history between their two peoples and throw herself into his arms?

     That was clearly not going to happen.

     “I know that you are here to do your duty...” he began again, and at the sound of the last word,
pietas
, she threw back the muslin sheet and stood up, pulling the silken shift over her head.

     Her movement was so swift that Claudius could do nothing but stare as she dropped the garment to the floor.

     Her skin was flawless, glowing, her hair a molten stream over her shoulders.  Her breasts, partially concealed by the long tresses, were full and ripe, tipped with brownish nipples, which puckered as they reacted to the chilly air.  Her slim waist flared out to womanly hips which tapered to a russet pubic patch and then long, graceful legs.

     “I am ready to do my duty,” she said spitefully, watching him with sea colored eyes that slowly filled with tears.

     She was trembling and obviously frightened, but so lovely in the firelight that his hands curled into fists as he suppressed the urge to touch.  His mouth went dry and he looked away deliberately, snatching her shift from the floor.

     “Put it back on,” he said harshly, handing the gown to her.  “I’m not going to rape you.”

     Bronwen did as he asked, then said, “Why not?  Rape seems to be a common Roman practice.  One of your countrymen raped my mother before he killed her.  I was only a child at the time but I remember the scene very well.”

     He looked at her, not answering right away, as if searching for the correct thing to say.

     “We are not all the same,” Claudius finally replied quietly, feeling a little more in control with her covered up again.  But not much; the memory of her beauty was too vivid.  “No matter what you may think you know about us I am not in the habit of taking unwilling women, and I don’t plan to start now. However long this...arrangement between us lasts, I will never force you.”

     Bronwen didn’t know how to react.  She wasn’t sure what she had expected, but it was not this.

     “I’ve brought the pallet from my bed in the barracks and I can set it on the floor before the fire.  I’ll sleep there.”

     Bronwen was silent.

     He sat looking at her for a long time, then rose and went to the side table.

     “Do you want something to eat?” he asked, picking up a baked tart from the tray on the table.

     Bronwen still didn’t answer.

     He put it back down again.

     Apparently he wasn’t hungry either.

     He took the carafe of wine and filled two goblets, walking back to where she stood next to the bed and handing her one.

     Bronwen accepted it reluctantly.

     “You can drink it,” he said dryly, “it’s not poisoned.  This meal was prepared by your own women.  Unless you suspect them of criminal behavior too.”

     Bronwen ignored that and took a sip.  It was as bitter as aloes and she grimaced.

     “Yes,” he said, nodding, “it’s sour.  A fitting commentary on our union, don’t you think?”

     Bronwen said nothing.

     “I thought the Celts were loquacious,” he said sarcastically, “great rhymers and poets and bards.  You have very little to say.”

     “I wouldn’t talk to you at all if it were not necessary,” Bronwen answered in a low tone.

     He nodded again, then pulled a chair before the fire and gestured for her to sit in it.  She hesitated, reluctant to cooperate with him in any way, but then realized she was being childish and sat.  He went down on one knee next to her, putting himself on her eye level.

     “Neither one of us has chosen this fate,” he said, “but if we are to accomplish our mission and bring our two sides together, which will save many lives, we must behave as if this marriage is real.”    

     Bronwen’s gaze was locked with his; there was a faint scar on his upper lip and his dark beard was showing against his skin.  The clean shaven Romans often scraped their beards twice a day.

     “That means we live together in this house, share meals, sleep together in this room.  We must be chaste, no one must suspect that it is a performance, or offense may be taken on either side.  If you have a lover among your own people you must separate from him now.”

     “I have had no lovers,” Bronwen said, and saw the impact of that statement register on his face.  He stared at her, seemed about to speak, then bit his lip thoughtfully before saying, “Your father must have needed this truce very much.”

     He needed me to spy on you very much, Bronwen thought.  She looked down, unable to bear the scrutiny of his searching eyes, which were the color of the dark amber liquor the Hibernians drank.
Ouisce . 
His eyes were the color of whiskey.