Claudia Dain (46 page)

Stupid barbari.
They would move on, attacking some other poor villa or town, as was their barbaric way, and she would emerge and build her life back to what it once was. They had most assuredly damaged the villa—they were just the sort of stupid oafs to do such a thing—but that meant only that she would have the freedom to rebuild in a more aggressive fashion.

Let them come again. Just let them. She looked forward to it. But they had to leave first.

* * *

Cuthred threw another one of the library scrolls onto the fire. The satisfaction he received from the act was minimal, but all of the bigger items had already been hacked and burned.

"We are finished here. Let's move on," he said.

"You may be finished, but Wulfred is not," Cenred said lightly.

"This place is finished. There is nothing left to take or destroy. I want more fun out of this isle before we return home."

"Cuthred, you have absolutely no ability to entertain yourself. Must there always be a battle found for you? Can you not find other ways to amuse yourself?" Cenred said on a laugh.

"No," Cuthred answered.

"He says no," Balduff said, "and yet I have tried to get him to see the pleasure that a woman can provide. Look at the process as a battle if you must; she has defenses which must be overcome, terrain which must be explored, secrets and hidden places to be revealed. I tell you, a woman can entertain a man for hours before she wears thin."

"I like battle," Cuthred said.

"Yes, you like battle, as do I," Balduff said, "but women are more plentiful."

"There cannot
always
be a battle," Cenred said.

"There is no more battle here. Let's go to a place that can provide one," Cuthred said.

"We will stay until Wulfred says we go," Cynric said.

"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.

No 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.