The Lion and the Lark (12 page)

     His performance was the most effortless display of expert horsemanship she had ever witnessed.

     The Celt eased Stella to a stop and then dismounted, jumping to the ground as easily as he had done everything else.  He looked at Lucia, his face impassive.

     “Do I have the job?” he said.

     Lucia had a sudden, wild impulse to tell him no.  There was something about him that put her back up, an attitude that made her understand without words that he may have been sold as a slave but was not subservient.  He exuded a pride in himself and his accomplishments that made her want to dress him down and call him names.

     And she didn’t even know him.

     But one thing she did know.  She wanted to ride as beautifully as he did, she wanted to fly through the air on a horse’s back and land as if the two beings were one.

     “You have the job,” she said flatly.  “What’s your name?”

     “Brettix,” he replied.  It was a common enough name, the equivalent of being a “Marcus” in Rome.  There were at least thirty men in his tribe called the same, and thousands throughout Britain.

     “You know mine,” Lucia said.  “Let’s get started.”

     They walked together back to the horse.

     The night was cold and clear, the stars like chips of ice in the sky, the air so frigid it almost hurt to breathe.  Brettix stood in the alley behind the house where his sister now lived, waiting for an opportunity to get inside it.  The residents were at dinner; he had seen the husband come home and go inside.  The torches in the triclinium were burning brightly and the servants in the kitchen were banging pots as they prepared the food.  Smoke from the kitchen hearth poured through a clay brick chimney in the roof, smelling of the chicken being roasted inside.

     Brettix sniffed and his stomach rumbled.

     He was hungry as well as cold.

     He had just come from an interview with his father which had not gone well.

     As soon as Lucia had dismissed him he had taken the horses back to the stables and then borrowed Stella to ride to the Iceni camp.  After the initial joyous reunion with Borrus, father and son had had a furious argument over Borrus’ decision to make the treaty with the Romans and let Bronwen marry one of them.  Brettix had always favored pressing the winter advantage to weaken the enemy.  Since he could not appreciate the despair his father had fallen into at his supposed loss, Brettix felt Borrus had made a serious tactical mistake.  And when Borrus heard that Brettix was working in Scipio’s household, the disagreement escalated to the point of frenzied screaming.       

     Brettix finally calmed his father down when he told the king he was doing the same thing as his sister.  If Bronwen’s marriage was a ruse which would enable her to spy on her husband, his job would afford him a similar opportunity.  They did not exactly embrace and resolve their differences, but at least they weren’t at knifepoint when Brettix left.  He knew his father felt that he was taking a foolish chance; Brettix did not speak Latin well enough to eavesdrop, and he didn’t read Latin at all.  He didn’t have Bronwen’s tools at his disposal, but he had something else: the ability to manipulate a lonely and inexperienced girl for information.

     Unlike the others in her household, Lucia spoke Celtic, so he could communicate with her.  When Brettix heard from Ariovistus that his pupil was not a child but a young woman, he thought there might be a chance to use her.

     And when he met Lucia, he was sure of it.

     She was certainly not his type.  Brettix preferred full blown, curvaceous beauties with womanly airs and knowing eyes.  Lucia was thin and smallish in the cut down breeches she used for riding; except for her waist length mane of black hair she might have been mistaken for a boy.  But she was horse mad and desperate to ride as well as he did, which would keep her coming back for more lessons and keep them in close contact.

     Brettix was confident of his charm; it would be only be a matter of time.

     As he had said to Ariovistus, it was perfect.

     The door to the kitchen opened and Maeve emerged, carrying a wicker basket filled with garbage.  The Romans came through with a wagon once a week to collect it from the alleys behind the houses.

     Brettix stepped behind the old woman, and when she turned to go back he clamped his hand over her mouth and dragged her into the dark lane beside the house.

     She struggled feebly until he said into her ear, “Maeve, it’s Brettix.  Listen to me, you know my voice.  I’m going to bring you over near the window so you can see my face.”

     Maeve subsided, turning to look up at Brettix in the light shining through the window from one of the kitchen torches.

     She gasped and put her hand to her mouth, looking as if she might faint.  She sagged in Brettix’ arms.

     “No, no, don’t pass out,” Brettix whispered urgently, shaking her as he glanced nervously at the house.  “I’m not a ghost, I wasn’t killed.  The report of my death was mistaken.”

     Maeve took a moment to recover, then hugged Brettix violently, starting to cry.

     Brettix closed his eyes.  This was even worse.  If somebody heard her sobbing out here they would be discovered.

     “Maeve, listen to me.  I need your help.  I have to get in to see Bronwen.

Can you sneak me into the house?”

     Maeve wiped her eyes with a corner of her veil and glanced back at the house.

     “The master usually goes into his study to work for a while after dinner,” she said.  “They should be finishing soon.  Just wait here and I’ll bring Bronwen back to the kitchen.”

     Brettix kissed her withered cheek.  “Hurry,” he said, giving her a gentle shove.

     Maeve went inside and Brettix wrapped his arms around his torso, stamping his feet to warm them.  After what seemed like an eternity he saw his sister’s face in the window, then the door opened and she beckoned him through it.

     Brettix stepped over the threshold and into her arms.

     “I couldn’t believe it when Maeve told me,” Bronwen said, her eyes filling.  “I sent the other servants out and Maeve is watching the hall, so we can talk.  What happened to you?  How did you get here?”

     Brettix gestured dismissively.  “I’ll tell you about it when I have more time.  I need you just to listen, can you do that?”

     Bronwen nodded.

     “I’m working at Scipio’s house now, giving his daughter riding lessons,” he said.

     Bronwen’s eyes widened with shock and her mouth opened.

     Brettix held up his hand.  “They don’t know who I am, I’ll explain about that later too.  I’m living at the Scipio stables.  Right now I need to get in touch with Parex, I haven’t been able to find him.  His sister Cartia comes into the fort on market day to sell her wares, will you look for her and tell her where I am?”

     Bronwen nodded.

     “Also, if you get any information from your husband, pass it on to me.  I can take a Scipio horse and ride out to the camp any time, they don’t seem to care what I do with the rest of my day as long as I’m available to teach the girl when she wants me.  I know you can’t get away as easily, everybody knows who you are and who your husband is.”

     “Yes, they do,” Bronwen sad sadly.

     “Maeve can go easily between the two houses, it’s such a short distance.  If you can’t come yourself, send her on some pretext, an errand.  Do you have any information for me now?”

     Bronwen looked bleak.  “I haven’t learned a thing, Brettix.  He’s very careful.”

     “Do you think he knows you’re spying on him?” Brettix asked her, alarmed.

     “No, no, he’s just very well trained.  They all are.  They haven’t run roughshod over the whole world for nothing.”

     “How is he treating you?” Brettix asked, his jaw tightening dangerously.

     “Very well,” Bronwen said evenly.  “He’s a perfect gentleman.”

     “What does that mean?”

     “He hasn’t touched me.”

      Brettix stared at her.

     “It’s true.  He said he wouldn’t force me, and he hasn’t.  He knows that I was no more a willing partner to this marriage than he was, so he has respected my privacy.”

     Brettix examined her face closely.  “You sound like you’re disappointed,” he said accusingly.

     “Don’t be ridiculous,” Bronwen snapped, glancing away from her brother.

     Maeve came through the door to the hall and said, “Get him out of here.

Atticus is on his way.”

     Atticus was the page Claudius had brought with him from the barracks.  Bronwen embraced her brother and then shoved him roughly through the back door.  Moments later the boy entered the kitchen carrying a wicker garbage basket.

     He stopped short when saw Bronwen.  His master’s wife rarely visited the kitchen.

     “Excuse me, mistress,” he said.  “I didn’t know you were in here, I just wanted to put this out back.”

     Bronwen gestured for him to pass.

     “That was close,” Maeve said to Bronwen when the boy was gone.  “I’d like to hear you explain to the master how your dead brother was just resurrected.”

     “I don’t think Claudius would recognize him, but we can’t take any chances.  He can’t know Brettix is alive.  None of the Romans can, or Scipio will find out who his horsemaster really is.”

     “What’s that about the general?” Maeve asked, her wrinkled brow wrinkling further.

     “Never mind,” Bronwen answered.  The less the old woman knew, the better.

      The less anyone else knew, the better.

     The intrigue which ensnared Bronwen’s family was too complex to be sustained for long.

     Bronwen knew she had to move fast and get what her father wanted before the Romans, who were no fools, caught on to what they were doing.

CHAPTER five

     Claudius returned to the barracks from supervising a drill and found Ardus waiting for him in his office.

     “What is it?” Claudius asked the aide, taking off his cloak and hanging it on the wooden stand in a corner of the room.

     “Cato was attacked on the garrison grounds last night, he’s not expected to live.  Scipio sent to Londinium for a Greek to treat him but he’ll probably die before the physician gets here.”

     Claudius stared out the window at the snow, his expression thoughtful.  He had never much liked Cato but the incident held implications far beyond the death of one man.  The quaestor had probably been targeted because he was the garrison clerk, the repository of the fort’s organizational information. 

     The Celts wanted to throw the methodical Romans into disarray, and killing the quaestor was an efficient way to do it.

      “I knew things were going too well,” Claudius said to Ardus quietly.  “It seemed that Borrus was adhering to the treaty and keeping the tribesmen under control.  How was Cato hurt?”

     “Multiple stab wounds from a short, broad knife.”

     “A Celtic knife,” Claudius said.

     Ardus nodded.

     “What does Scipio say?”

     “He says to increase the guard and seal the fort.  Nobody in or out until the next
nundina
.”

     “That should make the native tradesmen very happy,” Claudius said dryly.  “The soldiers here are their best customers.”

     “You’d better keep an eye on your wife,” Ardus said.

     Claudius whirled to face him.  “What do you mean?” he demanded tightly.

     “The men have a tendency to take it out on the natives when something like this happens.  I’ve heard about it before, and she is one of the few Celts who lives within the walls and is often in view.”

     “If any one of them touches her, I’ll kill him,” Claudius said fiercely, his mouth a grim line.

     Ardus stared at him for a long moment, then coughed loudly.  “Claudius, I know that you’re my superior officer, but we have known each other a long time...”

     “Say it,” Claudius replied, not looking at him.

     “Are you in love with this Iceni girl?” Ardus asked.

     Claudius tossed a small log onto the fire.  “I don’t know,” he replied quietly.

     “I heard what happened when the two centurions from the tenth legion visited your house.  One of them made a disparaging remark about her and you practically throttled the life out of him.  That’s not the reaction of an indifferent man.”

     “I never said I was indifferent.  And how did you hear about that incident?”

     Ardus gaped at him.  “Do you think a story like that’s not going to get around?” he asked in disbelief.  “If the soldiers didn’t talk the servants certainly would.  Everyone knows the circumstances of your wedding, your response was certainly not the anticipated one.  One would have thought you’d be laughing with them.”