Claudia Dain Read online

  "Of course," said Cuthred, "but why does he stay? The battle is won. The enemy dead."

  "Because," said Cynric, "he does not believe that all of the enemy is dead. Wulfred is more and more certain that there is a woman hiding somewhere, a woman of this house. A Roman woman. He will not leave until he sees her cry for mercy."

  "He will grant a Roman mercy?" said Cenred.

  "I did not say he will grant it, just that he would see her beg."

  "Placing my foot on a Roman neck would give me great satisfaction," Wulfred said, entering the library holding an ornate woman's comb in his right hand. In his left he held a pot of face powder.

  There was a woman. He had proof of her existence. All that was left to do was to find her. Never would he give even one Roman a chance to escape. It did not matter that she was a woman. All that mattered was that she was a Roman.

  Ceolmund entered the library silently, dragging a slave, Greek by the look of him, by the back of the neck. Without a word he tossed the slave at Wulfred's feet.

  "Name," Wulfred said in hesitant Latin.

  The man, of average height among his own kind, stared up at the colossus before him. "Theras."

  Wulfred nodded in affirmation. It was a Greek name.

  "Duty."

  Theras swallowed heavily and struggled to keep his breathing regular. Wulfred saw all this. He understood the man's fear—and his struggle to contain it.

  "I was companion to the master of this place and also assisted him in—"

  "Slow," Wulfred interrupted, his Latin stiff from disuse.

  "Companion. Helper."

  "Slave," Wulfred added.

  Theras bowed his head and said in submission, "Slave."

  "The Roman is dead," Wulfred said.

  "Yes," Theras said, his expression unchanging.

  "The woman hides."

  Theras remained silent, his face a mask of blank submission.

  "Woman of Rome," Wulfred said. "Wife, daughter."

  "There is no woman," Theras said calmly, his dark eyes as blank as a starless night.

  But there was a woman. Wulfred knew it. He sensed her. She was close, close enough to cause the skin on the back of his neck to tingle, but where? The room was devoid of hiding places, sheathed in tile with simple wooden shelves for the remaining scrolls.

  "Tell me," he commanded the Greek slave. "Tell me. You are mine."

  The Greek lowered his eyes, waiting for the death blow. He lowered his eyes, yet his eyes were not still. Wulfred looked down. In the looking, he found his answer.

  On the floor was a vent, a black hole surmounted by grillwork. A perfect hiding place for a Roman, slithering around in the dark of the dirt like a rat or a snake.

  "Go," Wulfred commanded the Greek.

  Alone, the Saxon warriors said nothing as they looked at the vent and understood. At a gesture from Wulfred, they filed out of the small room. Still silent, they circled the villa.

  It was Wulfred who found the furnace hugging the rear wall of the dwelling.

  It was Wulfred who smiled when he saw that the stone was cold and that the ashes had been swept clear.

  And it was Wulfred who gave the command. "Light the fire."

  Chapter 2

  Attack, loot, and kill; that was their method. Never did they stay. Never. But this time they did. This time, because there was a Roman who had eluded them. She had hidden herself away, knowing that they would not linger after their victory. She had been so sure of what they would do.

  But a Saxon would never do what was expected, not when a Roman had been counting on that expectation.

  Wulfred did not bother to stay and watch the building up of the fire in the furnace, though most of his men and all of the slaves of the villa remained to watch in smothered horror. He could feel it. Not from his own people, but from those who dwelled here. They had thought her protected. Wulfred smiled coldly, fondling his blade. There was no protection for Rome from Saxon fury, and there would be no protection for her from the fire. She would die in the blast of scorching heat or she would beg for release from her tomb and find death in the blade he carried.

  But she would die. She was Roman.

  He would not have long to wait for her bleating wails. He would not have long to wait for total victory in this place that smelled of Rome.

  * * *

  Melania heard the crackle of fire before she felt the heat of it on the soles of her bare feet. She knew immediately what was happening. Somehow they had found her out. Somehow they thought to force her from her pinched cocoon. They had blocked her escape with the very fire that now warmed her, and so they must expect her to call for help, or release, or mercy.

  Melania smiled coldly in the growing heat.

  As if she would ask mercy of a Saxon.

  If she stayed, the heat of the fire would kill her eventually and the hypocaust vent where she had gone for reluctant safety would become her tomb. Melania sighed as deeply as the walls of the vent would allow.

  There were worse tombs.

  At least she would die untouched by their foul hands, and they would not have the satisfaction they so obviously wanted of finding her and killing her in some bloody Saxon way. So she would die.

  She would die.

  All that was left to her now was the means and the method, and she far preferred to die inviolate than to have a Saxon lay his hands upon her, even if it was only to hold her throat ready for the knife.

  Melania crept forward, digging her nails into the clay of the hypocaust, toward the library vent. Yes, she would die, but there was light coming from the vent, and for all her bravery, she did not want to die in the dark.

  * * *

  Wulfred paced in front of the vent, his impatience growing at a pace with the heat in the room.

  "More wood! Now! Build it till it blasts her out of her hole!"

  Cynric hurried out of the room to relay his message, just in case they hadn't heard him outside, which was unlikely. Wulfred had rarely been in such a rage. Leave it to a Roman to be so obstinate, so imbecilic, so perverse. Safety, cool safety, awaited her if she would just call out for help. The vent grille was set in tile and plaster; it would come free easily at a blow. He would have her out in moments, if she would just open her arrogant Roman mouth and scream in terror as any normal Roman would.

  * * *

  Gyrating her hips, she edged closer to the vent. It was cooler there and the light brighter. Mostly it was brighter. The heat came in dry, crackling waves that sucked the moisture from the air she was forced to breathe. It flowed over her in a caress that scorched and blistered. Her eyes were dry and it hurt to blink. Not much longer now. Not much longer before the burning air would char her lungs.

  She would die soon—an honorable death, eluding an enemy's grasp. She would die untouched by Saxon hands. Her body would not be mutilated by a Saxon seax. Her eyes would never behold the filthy barbarian who had murdered her. She would be as inviolate as a murdered woman could be.

  It was inevitable that she would die; each searing wave told her that, but she wanted her death to be as painless and private as possible, and dying here would accomplish that. But more than anything, she wanted to deny him the victory of her death. Here he would never know. Never be sure. Here she would win.

  * * *

  Wulfred could not remember having endured such heat; it coiled about him like a viper and tightened, squeezing out all memories of ever being cool. Snatching his cloak off his back, he flung it to the floor and stood, naked to the waist, watching the vent with glittering eyes.

  How could she stand it? Was she dead already? Dead, without a whimper for release? Impossible.

  Striding to the wall sconce, he ripped it from its base and carried it to the vent, wanting to see what his senses told him was there. Dropping to one knee, he thrust the flickering light down toward the floor. From the deeply shadowed darkness of the hypocaust, hate-filled eyes sliced into his with unblinking hostility.

  N
o tears, no hysteria, no pleading. Impossible.

  Perhaps the hidden one was not a woman. And certainly not a woman of a defeated race.

  Wulfred scowled into those eyes even as he gestured for her to come out. Not even a blink in response to his encouraging beckoning.

  The heat was so terrible that he was light-headed; how much longer could she survive? It was a small hole she had wedged herself into; perhaps she was trapped. Yes, trapped and unable to escape, for certainly a creature of Rome would run toward any escape. She could not move forward and would certainly have no desire to move backward toward the blasting heat. He would help her achieve her destiny and her most certain desire; he would help her find her escape.

  He grabbed the bars and pulled. The plaster crumbled easily and the opening was clear. No excuse now. She had to come forth. She would die by his hand and she would do so now.

  Still, she remained embedded in the earth. Demented woman, could she not understand the escape he had given her? The Romans were a perverse people, but this went beyond normal. Perhaps she was a true imbecile.

  Wulfred reached into the small dark hole to pull her out, his patience burned up by the heat of the furnace blast, and was bitten on the hand for his pains. He grunted an oath. Definitely an imbecile. But imbecile or not, she would come out.

  "Hand," he called in Latin as he held his hand out to her. Could she understand even such a simple word, such a simple concept?

  "Ass," was the response. He knew the word and understood the insult; even if he had not, he could have read the meaning in her eyes. Ass? She had called him an ass?

  With a strangled and throaty roar, Wulfred attacked the floor, his seax a gleam of moving metal. He had waited. He had coaxed. He had been insulted. Now he would take her by force. But he would not kill her where she lay, half-buried in the dirt. No, he wanted her at his feet and begging. She was brave when protected by the hypocaust; he would see a different side of her when she lay exposed and vulnerable at his feet. She would beg and cry and he would laugh, as they had laughed.

  The floor was a mass of broken tile and powdery plaster. He pulled her free easily and dumped her on the rubble-strewn floor.

  No doubt now: she was very much a woman, though slight of build. Her hair was dark and long and straight, covered in dirt and a dead leaf or two. She was too small to have stoked such a fire of anger in him; the heat of his anger rivaled the overwhelming heat of the room. She did not beg or cringe at the sight of his battle seax or heave her shoulders in racking sobs. No, the little imbecile glared at him out of light-colored eyes with undiluted hate; not the look of a beaten foe, but more the look of a warrior plotting his next assault, even with the knife at his heart.

  He was looking at a woman who would have chosen to die by fire rather than call for mercy. But he did not admire her for it, of course not; here lay the woman who even now thwarted his dearest desire by not pleading for mercy. Even now, when he had her in his grasp, he had never been so angry. It pulsed through him like the heat waves that washed over him, consuming his reason, firing his passion to destroy and punish and defeat.

  Chapter 3

  "Why choose death?" he asked with Saxon bluntness, in bad Latin, and with an appalling lack of courtesy.

  Melania was enjoying the coolness of the tile against her skin and the soft quality of the air in her throat. He had, in brutal barbari fashion, ruined her plans for a pristine death; for that alone she would have gladly killed him. That he would kill her before she could even try was a certainty. Besides, her head was swimming and she was having trouble getting enough air. In such a weakened state, she was not quite a match for him, stupid barbari though he was.

  She was free of the scalding confines of the hypocaust, against her will; she might as well savor the relative comfort of her new position before he killed her. Her last moments were precious ones to her; did he have to ruin them with talk?

  "I do not choose to die, you oaf; the attack on my home and the murder of myself was your idea, not mine. I only chose to die alone, and since you have taken even that from me, at least kill me without the noise of your appalling Latin beating against my head."

  Wulfred stared in mild bemusement at the woman at his feet. The heat had obviously not robbed her of breath. For a beaten foe, and a mere woman at that, she was certainly combative. And talkative. Perhaps she truly was deranged; it would explain much and made more sense to him than attributing her with valor.

  "I pulled you away death, away fire," he stated.

  "A fire you started, monster. I am not an imbecile. Am I supposed to believe that you have no wish to harm me when it was you who destroyed my home?" Melania raised her head from the floor and glared up at the Saxon monster who dared to challenge her. "Should I take the hand of a murderer because it is held out to me?" Smiling spitefully and raising herself still further, Melania continued, "I would rather have faced my death without having to face a barbarian at the same time, and I would also have wished not to see my blood spill on your hands, for you, with your marginal intelligence, will think that you have won, but you have not! Better for the fire to have taken me than you, but it is still not your victory, for I will not die unavenged."

  "You also not die silently."

  "No, I will not," she said, inching into a crouched position. "You think, in whatever haphazard fashion you may, that Rome and its citizens cannot stand against you, but I know that you shall never stand long against the power of Rome. However, after seeing what you, in your savage ignorance, have destroyed here today, I would willingly choose death. Kill me quickly, barbarian, for I cannot bear to live in a world in which you have won the day and ravaged my home."

  He had understood only some of her diatribe, but it was enough. More than enough. She had dug deep into old and seeping wounds with her runaway tongue.

  Rome not beaten today? It was a lie. Rome died a little more each day from defeats such as this.

  She would prefer death to seeing him in command of her little Roman world? Looking at her crouched at his feet and ready to spring, he found he could believe it. She had inflamed him with every word, pressing to the limit his ill-used and much-hated Latin vocabulary trying to understand her. She was pushing him toward her own death with such proud and punishing words.

  Wulfred smiled grimly in sudden and perfect understanding. She had said it, stupidly revealing her motive: she wanted death because she could not bear to have her rotting Roman world shaken by uncivilized barbarian hands. If death was her preference, then death she would not have.

  The girl would live.

  "You have flushed her," Cenred said, entering the library. "She is a little thing."

  Wulfred did not glance at him, but kept staring at the Roman on the floor. "Snakes are little."

  Cenred laughed, studying the little Roman woman who had kept them all waiting. She was very small, even for a woman. And she was very dirty.

  Melania, though she could understand but a few words of their garbled language, sensed that they were not behaving in the way of men about to kill. Should they not be more enraged, more bloodthirsty? But then, they were Saxon; they probably killed as easily and thoughtlessly as they wet the ground with their water.

  She studied them as they talked. All the world knew that the Saxon barbari were big, but she had discounted much of it as myth. She still wasn't ready to discard her notion that tales of their prowess were exaggerated, but now she found it hard to dispute the truth of their monumental size. They were, without exception, at least three hands higher than any man she had ever seen. They were monstrous giants. A man had to be terribly awkward at such a size. Certainly she could see that they were well muscled, standing half-naked as they were and wearing their uncultured garb of leather covering each leg. It was so... so... primitive. They were each light of hair and covered in it; hair hung down their backs and swirled across their chests.

  Repulsive. Surely such backward oafs would kill her without a thought, killing being their
only skill. Still, studying the biggest one, the one who had dragged her from her pristine tomb, she could well believe that he would choose not to kill her out of sheer perversity. Every choice he made seemed to have her misery at its heart.

  "Wife, sister, or daughter?" Cenred asked, astounded by her flagrant animosity and apparent lack of fear. "She seems too bold to be an unwed daughter or unclaimed sister."

  "She is too bold for a wife," Wulfred said.

  "A widow?"

  "She has the bile, but not the age."

  "There's not much left that a woman can be."

  "She can be a slave," Wulfred said coldly.

  Melania's eyes did not waver from the one who had grabbed her from the flames; she found him the easier to read of the two, and she did not like the way he was looking at her with his unnaturally blue eyes, eyes of such intense blue that they seemed to burn. Why was he waiting? He must have meant to kill her; every action proclaimed it. She would rather die now than later; waiting made the whole thing more difficult to bear.

  How like a barbarian to delay so stupidly. He was little more than an unthinking animal; and as an animal he would react.

  With a quick lunge, she buried her teeth in the muscle just above his knee. The feel of his hairy leg in her mouth was disgusting, but the taste of his blood was very satisfying. He would kill her now, blind with pain and rage; she had only to hold on and wait.

  His blood filling her mouth, Melania felt a rough tug on her hair. Yanking viciously, he attempted to pull her off. She held on, biting harder. She would release him when she was dead and not sooner.

  She knew he was in pain and the knowledge fed her; he could not last. He could not hold back the primitive emotions running through his blood; he would have no desire to. Her neck was about to break and he was ripping the hair out of her scalp, but he would give first. And he would give her what she wanted.

  Eyes full of challenge glittered with unrepentant hatred into his, defying him, daring him.

  Cenred clubbed her from behind and she slithered down Wulfred's streaming leg to huddle in an inert mass on the tile floor.