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Felix sighed. “But those are Roman women and civilised by the rule of great men. The women of my homeland are fiery, independent, and inclined to disobedience.”
“You’ve never shied away from using discipline.” Rufus had watched Felix flog criminals who failed to listen to his commands during lengthy training sessions. As for women, they generally accepted his firm hand because they enjoyed what came with it. Rufus had little understanding of what to expect from Felix’s defiant kin.
“It’s not just her willingness. The land is very poor and according to the holy man,” he gestured up the hill, “I must avail myself of her many times and not hold back from my demands. I must lust for her daily. She must feel my cock rise up in her belly, in her neediest place, and scream for the agony of its bliss.”
Rufus licked his lips at the description. Why couldn’t he be gifted with land that needed such a sacrifice? “And this shall bring renewal to your land?”
“If balanced. If the portents remain bad, then shall the earth need retribution. This lovely creature, so blessed with fortune, shall also need great courage. I’m not hopeful to find such a woman.” Felix gave a small shrug, as if to dismiss his concerns.
Rufus was not happy to see him so despondent. “Then, we shall find such a woman on our travels north, and when we do, I shall help you acquire her.”
Felix smiled and resumed the path with a spring in his step. “I should never have doubted you. Of course you may also find her pleasing, and if you do, the goddesses will be doubly satisfied.”
Rufus bounded down the hill after his friend. The long journey didn’t seem quite so challenging now that they had a second, more appealing mission to accomplish.
Chapter Two
Northern Britannia
Just two soft apples and a chunk of stale bread; nothing else. Any more would be missed by the beady-eyed cook. She smuggled them out of the kitchen in a bag slung under her arm, then down the hillside to the southernmost gate of the fort and past the guards, who smiled at her. They always smiled at her and she made sure she swung her skirts in reply.
The little boys, perhaps no more than five or six years old, were hidden behind a barn. They held out their dirty hands ready for the food. Glancing over her shoulder, she checked they weren’t being watched. If discovered, stealing from the kitchen would cost her a flogging at the post. The howling wind weakened and a horse brayed, signalling the arrival of visitors from the valley below.
The riders approached at an ambling pace and, like many stood by the roadside, she couldn’t stop staring at them grow in stature as they drew closer. They were huge men on equally large beasts. The horses needed to be strong to carry their magnificent burdens.
Bethan’s mouth hung lower. The man on the first horse was dark haired and bronze in tone. On his head was a plumed helmet, like a Roman soldier, but he wasn’t a soldier of any legion she’d seen before. Across his broad shoulders he wore a robe of fur, which cascaded down his long back and over the horse’s rump. Leather guards protected his forearms and shins, while a plate of armour covered his breast. The shadows of his helmet hid his face and only the lengthy bristles on his chin stuck out.
She stepped forward a little to see the second man, who rode
a few paces behind. He too had skin coloured by the warmth of a distant sun. Unlike the first man, his thick locks of hair were tinged with yellow and reds. The dimming sun shone down on his nose and cheekbones, accentuating their shape. The thin lips of his mouth were surrounded by a thick beard, which was tied into a small tail beneath his chin. A young man, she thought. It was hard to tell given his unusual appearance. Mud caked the horses’ hooves and legs, and even though she did not consider it cold, he had wrapped a cloak tight under his chin, hiding his clothing. All she could see were his feet sticking out below. He gave his steed a small kick with his heels, cajoling him up the steep embankment.
While the boys gnawed on the bread, she continued to stare at the men as they drew to a halt before the gate. The legionnaire on guard dashed forward, brandishing his spear. The lead rider swiped the tip of it away with his booted foot.
“I am here to deliver a message for your commander. A message from the emperor himself.” His voice carried easily over the head of the legionnaire to the other soldiers forming behind him. A deep voice and one that sent a shiver down Bethan’s spine. He spoke in Latin, which she understood, but he did so without trace of a dialect. An articulate soldier? Was that possible? No, he couldn’t be a soldier, even though he carried weapons.
“Dismount and disarm. Weapons are not allowed past this point,” declared the legionnaire.
There was a lengthy pause before the men complied. The horses neighed when their riders dismounted.
Next to Bethan, one of the boys tugged on her sleeve. “Are they Celts, like us?”
The boy didn’t speak Latin, which wasn’t surprising. He lived in the settlement below the fort and wasn’t allowed inside, unlike Bethan. She was a slave and served in the kitchens. Captured during a raid on her village by another clan, she’d been sold to the Romans. As far as the Romans were concerned, all Celts were from the same tribe and they paid little attention to the fighting between the various clans. It had been months since she had been taken from her kin.
“No. They aren’t, at least not like us. I think they’re gladiators.” She could only guess. She’d not met one before, but she’d heard all about them from those that had seen them fight in the amphitheatres of Eboracum. It was miles and miles away and she’d never been that far south.
“Gladiators!” the boy shrilled.
“Hush,” she said, pushing him away from the road.
The smaller of the two boys ignored her and hurried up the incline to where the horses stood chomping, their hooves kicking the sodden turf.
“Keep back, boy,” warned the younger man.
He didn’t understand and continued to rush forward close to the frisky hooves. Bethan picked up her skirts and hurried after him. As she scooped him up out of harm’s way, the apples tumbled out of her bag right by the feet of the cook.
She cursed under her breath and put the child down. Cook glared at her. He was back from the market with the kitchen boy, who was dragging the dray laden with fresh produce.
“Stealing,” growled the cook. “You’ve been warned, slave, not to steal.”
