Читать книгу Gladiator Heart - Alyssa Morgan - Страница 9

Caledonia

Winter 317 A.D.

Valeria Augusta Marianus, a valued daughter of Rome, knew she was going to die.

She stumbled lost and barefoot through the fresh layer of snow that blanketed the land in white starkness. Above her, the naked boughs of the trees hung heavy and low with their icy burden. The clash of the earlier battle had long since quieted and an unsettling calm filled the air.

Having been born with a poor sense of direction, Valeria didn’t know if she was headed towards her home in the south, or further into the enemy’s territory to the north. It didn’t really matter where she was, because with no warm clothes and no shelter in sight, she would soon freeze to death, unless the wolves got to her first. At least she didn’t have to worry about finding food. She would be dead long before starvation could take her.

An icy wind rattled through the trees and ripped through the scant material of her tunic, chilling her all the way to her bones. Her teeth chattered, her hands and face were chapped raw from the cold, and her feet were frozen like blocks of ice. Perhaps she should make her grave in the very spot where she stood. Simply lie down, close her eyes, and wait for death to take her. Or maybe she should pray to the Gods for a miracle.

Sinking to her knees in the wet snow, she knew her efforts would be futile. The Gods had never listened to her. Had they cared to cast an interested ear to her plight she wouldn’t be here now, lost and alone in a foreign land.

The sound of approachingriders thundered in the distance, snapping her out of her thoughts. The heavy beat of hooves pounded as steadily against the ground as her heart beat against her chest. Only enemy or friend could be descending on her, and she prayed it would be the latter, while in her mind she knew that would be impossible. Any friend she had in this stark northern territory was dead.

The barbarians of these unconquered lands had attacked the Roman fort at the wall in the dead of night, killing anything and everything in their bloody path. Being in the midst of a violent battle was not something Valeria had envisioned when she’d decided to come to the fort to see her uncle, and in her flight to escape death, she must have run further than she thought, and now the darkness was finally catching up to her.

Rufus had warned her against coming here. A member of the Praetorian Guard and her sworn protector, he had pleaded with her not to travel to the wall where her uncle, the Emperor Constantine, held the northern Roman border. In her desperation, she had sworn that if Rufus didn’t bring her to her uncle, she’d make the dangerous journey alone. He knew she was stubborn enough to do it, and she’d been left with no choice. With the Emperor on the front, his son Crispus had been left in charge as Caesar of Rome, and blessed with the sole responsibility of appointing her a husband before she was too old to marry.

It was insulting to think her fate was in the hands of a mere child. Though he might match her in age at ten and nine years, he was a spoiled, self-indulgent brat who hid in the shadow of his great father’s robes. What did he know of life? Of love?

Afraid her uncle was losing his mind, Valeria wanted to see him in person and beg him to come up with some other fate for her. She couldn’t bear the thought that he would trade her so easily to a stranger of his son’s choosing, like nothing more than property. He’d cared for her as a child, did he no longer care for her now?

Valeria’s sudden arrival at the fort came as no surprise to her uncle, only served to upset him, but he hadn’t had enough time to chastise her before the battle began and the Picts laid siege to the only reminder of home she had in their harsh, unforgiving lands.

Yes, death was coming swiftly for her. She rose to her feet, numb with cold, prepared to meet it straight on, head held high and proud like any good Roman. She would not die a coward.

As the thundering hooves grew louder, three riders appeared in the distance, wearing the fur pelts of animals. They had long hair and blue markings painted on their faces and on the flanks of their mighty, galloping horses. The Woad. Hell unleashed was charging straight for her, and suddenly fear made her tremble. Every fiber of her being screamed for her to run. But to where? To what? All hope for her was lost.

Valeria fought the biting cold, even as it slowly weakened her, and waited while the enemy riders came upon her. They circled her on horseback, looking down at her, while their horses panted and snorted, their hot, labored breath hanging in the air like misty vapors.

“What shall we do with her?” The rider with hair as black as midnight and eyes even darker spoke to the other men.

The language they spoke was foreign, but Valeria understood every word. She’d treated and healed enough of these men as prisoners of Rome before they were thrown into the arena to die. Some had taken the time to teach her their tongue, she suspected more out of the need to feel human before they met a horrible end than to educate her. Whatever the reason for the education, she was grateful for it now.

“Roman slut!” The man with a yellow beard and a long braid down his back spat on the ground at her feet. “She deserves no mercy from us.” He lifted his spear aloft, preparing to strike.

“Go easy, Angus.” The third man rested a hand on his arm to stay him. He was younger than the other two, and his long, coppery red hair hung loose about his shoulders. There was a gentle confidence to his rugged manner, something that suggested he was capable of kindness.

Valeria looked at him in gratitude for intervening on her behalf, hoping to find an ally, but his eyes narrowed with calculating malice. “We must take her to the Commander. He’ll want to find out if she knows anything.”

“Hah!” The blond one called Angus bellowed. “What does a woman know, especially a Roman one?”

“I’m sure she’s as good at warming a bed as any wench,” the dark rider said, his gaze roaming over her shivering, frozen form.

The three men continued to circle her on horseback, their watchful stares becoming heated and purposeful. Valeria braced herself for an attack, even knowing she had no way of fighting them. She lacked the strength to compete with these men. Men who had every reason to hate her.

She was a Roman.

The northern tribes hated the Romans.

For centuries, Rome sought to stretch Her wings over all the lands, conquering those people who inhabited them and forcing them to bend under Her Supreme Will. Those who didn’t submit were slaughtered, and their names only echoed on the wind before that last part of them also fell silent and forgotten.

Valeria would be just as easily forgotten. These men would taunt her, beat her, certainly rape her, and leave her here to die if they didn’t kill her in their furious attempts. No one would ever find her. But she would not beg for a mercy they didn’t have. If the Gods weren’t listening to her, neither would these fearsome warriors.

The men reared their horses to a halt and dismounted, now circling her on foot, coming dangerously close. The dark one reached out and lifted a lock of her long, blonde hair in his hand, running it through his fingers before letting it fall back into place over her shoulder. The bearded man, Angus, dared to step closer to her. His fresh scent filled her senses and, despite the cold, his big body radiated warmth and the promise of a cloak to shield her from the chill.

Valeria took a fearful step back from him. She would not fall into the enemy’s arms no matter how tempting the option might seem. She’d rather freeze to death than find out what they intended for her.

“A rather tempting creature, wouldn’t you say?” Angus raked his gaze over her body, lingering on the swell of her breasts beneath the sheer linen tunic.

“No doubt their women are beautiful,” the dark one agreed. “But venomous as snakes.”

“We set out in search of a trophy,” Angus said, boldly stepping closer to her. “Let’s hope she’ll be as pleasing to the bed as she is to the eye.”

A silent understanding was exchanged between the men, and then the dark one seized her by the arm, pulling her roughly against him.

“You’ll come with us,” he said in her language.

Valeria didn’t have time to be frightened like she was supposed to because she was momentarily stunned at hearing him speak to her. From behind her, a woolen cloth was pulled over her head, blocking out the world and leaving her in darkness. There was the sound of leather creaking as the men mounted their horses, and then she was dragged up by one of them, stretched face down over his lap.

With a nudge to their horses, the riders once again tore off through the frozen forest with thundering hooves, and Valeria as their captured prize. What end was in store for her, only the Gods knew.

The Pict army made camp deep in the safety of the forest. Their nighttime attack on the Roman fort had taken the enemy by surprise, but still the Emperor Constantine had managed to escape. Any remaining survivors of the battle had been captured, and those who couldn’t be ransomed to Rome would be sold or traded as slaves to the neighboring tribes. If they survived that long.

The destruction of the fort at the wall sent a firm message to Rome from the people they sought to wipe off the face of the Earth.

They would not be taken. They would not be enslaved. They were born free men, and they would die as free men.

Tristan Caileanach was the commander of this great army, and because he was a good leader, the men were loyal and would fight for him to the death. Now he made his usual rounds among the tents, making certain his men were securing the camp and treating any of their wounded. Large fires burned bright and warm, cooking meat from deer, rabbit and wild boar, if one could be found. The horses had been watered and rested at the far end of the camp. Overall, the feeling was one of contentment, and the men glowed with the victory of their recent battle. They slugged down honeyed ale and caroused boisterously while they compared weapons and counted their kills.

This far into winter, the day was a cold one, and Tristan felt the need to head back to the comforts of his tent. He grew weary from a war he feared would never end. Rome kept on coming, and the Picts kept on fighting them back. Would there be a day when they could live in peace once again? A day when they could tend their lands and raise their children without fear of having everything they worked for destroyed by the greed of one Empire?

Tristan was headed to his tent when Angus, his second-in-command and his most-trusted friend, came through the camp, walking towards him with long, purposeful strides. He wore a fur pelt draped over his wide shoulders and his tawny hair was as always gathered in a braid that hung down his back. His golden beard had gotten so long Tristan was thinking of suggesting he trim the length.

“Surely the Gods have blessed you.” Angus stabbed his legionary spear into the frozen ground and went down on one knee before Tristan. “I am honored to go to war with you on this day, and on any other day.”

Tristan was equally honored to have this noble warrior at his side. They had known each other ever since they were young lads, and as they grew up together they went from playing warrior games with rocks and wooden sticks, to fighting real games with weapons of steel and fire. They had quickly come to learn that in these games of men, when one went down, he stayed down.

Forever.

Tristan guarded his friend’s back with the same loyal devotion Angus employed inguarding his.

“Where have you been all morning?” he wondered of his friend, motioning with his hand for him to stop all this posturing about and get to his feet.

“I’ve been out riding.” Angus rose up, and a slight, knowing twinkle gleamed in his icy blue eyes. “I’ve got something for you.”

Tristan knew that look boded some form of mischief. Intrigued, he decided to play along and see what Angus was up to. “Show me what you have, my friend.”

When they reached Tristan’s tent, Angus held aside the heavy fur pelt covering the doorway and let him enter first. It didn’t take his eyes long to adjust to the dim interior and focus on the woman seated on the ground in the corner. She was clothed in only a light linen tunic, and her arms were tied behind her and secured to one of the wooden tent posts. Her long blonde hair was a matted mass of curls. She turned her head to look at him as he came inside.

Even dirty and disheveled, her beauty was overwhelming. She had a delicate face with a slender, dainty nose. Her eyes were a deep, deep blue and reminded him of a calm, summer sea. Her sooty dark lashes swept across high cheekbones that flushed with the same shade of pink as her lips. Full, luscious lips made just for a man’s kiss. Beneath her tunic he could see the outline of her body and the suggestion of soft, ripe curves and long, supple legs.

A violent shudder racked through him and he felt a familiar stirring in his loins. He went tense all over, his desire riding him as if he’d never had a woman before. He wanted her.

“We found her in the forest,” Angus said. “Thought she might amuse you.”

At Tristan’s impatient look, Angus ducked out of the tent and draped the fur pelt back over the door. Tristan glanced briefly at the woman, afraid her beauty had been an illusion, a bewitching trick played by the low light, but no, he still had a very beautiful woman in his tent. He removed his furs and tossed them over a chair by the table next to the warming fire. He rolled the sleeves of his tunic back to his elbows and began to wash in the basin on the stand, splashing cold water over his face a few times to remove the grime and dirt and blood.

As he dried himself with a towel, his gaze drifted to the woman like it had been pulled there. He admired how she kept a proud, rigid profile despite the fact that she sat tied to a tent post. He dried his hands and tossed the towel on the table.

“What’s your name?” he asked in her native language, knowing she’d not understand his.

She stared straight ahead, refusing to look at him or to answer him.

Angered by her show of insolence, Tristan raised his voice. “Did you not hear me?”

Valeria heard him just fine. His deep voice was smooth, but insistent, and he spoke her language fluently. Could all of these savages speak it?

“You just killed two legions of my countrymen.” She laced her tone with all the venom she could muster. “I have nothing to say to you.”

She turned her head aside and faced the leather wall of the tent, afraid to look at him. The quick glimpse she’d gotten in the dim lighting had set her heart racing. The man was tall and strong and handsome. The feelings he stirred up in her were not things she should feel for her enemy. An enemy who could easily kill her.

He came over to where she sat and squatted down, bringing his face level with hers. “Will you not tell me your name?”

Valeria dared to look at him. His auburn hair hung straight and long around his shoulders, and his rugged, handsome face was covered by a trim, brassy beard. He couldn’t be too many years older than she. Her gaze drifted to his firm, sensual lips.

Why did she find the brutish savage so handsome?

“What care do you have for names?” She lifted her gaze and boldly met his stare. “You’re a savage.”

His grey eyes darkened as he held her gaze. Though there was a youthful, almost boyish glint in his eyes, he exuded potent masculinity, making her quite aware of her own gentle femininity. Her stomach twisted into nervous knots and her pulse quickened. Was this fear she was feeling, or something else?

“I have to guess you’re of patrician rank” he said, his voice low and smooth. His penetrating gaze roamed over her face and hair. “The sheer arrogance in your tone is enough to make any slave cower, but I am not a slave.”

Valeria turned away from him again to stare at the side of the tent. She was amazed by how well he was able to read her. What could this barbarian possibly know of Rome or people of her class?

Giving a heavy sigh, he rose and walked back to the table. He picked at some of the meat on the platter and took a long swallow from his flagon of ale, staring at her over the rim. She guessed he was the leader of this army, for he held himself with the same arrogant airs he accused her of having.

Angus came back into the tent, letting in a rush of cold air. Valeria shivered, but the bone-deep chill in her body had succumbed to the warmth the tent provided.

“There’s a prisoner giving us some trouble,” Angus said.

The man set down his flagon of ale, never taking his eyes from Valeria. “Wait for me outside.”

He stared harshly at her, and this time she didn’t turn away from him. She’d assumed he’d killed every last person at the fort. The idea that he’d taken prisoners never occurred to her. Picts weren’t known to leave their enemies alive, they had no dignity, but she sensed this man did.

“You Romans are nothing but trouble,” he griped.

“And you’re nothing but a killer!” she shot back at him with a bravery she didn’t quite feel.

His expression hardened with fury. He charged over to her and once again came down in front of her. “What is your name?”

Valeria pulled her knees to her chest to put some semblance of a barrier between them. She knew little of this great warrior and feared what the man might do when angered, so she decided it wise to answer him. “Valeria.”

“Are you afraid, Valeria?”

She held his gaze for a moment, studying him. “Should I be?”

“I’ve witnessed many men in your situation who were willing to trade anything for their lives.”

“What do you want?” She braced herself for his answer. The anticipation was grinding away at her nerves.

“I want what all men want,” he replied. “To live as I choose.”

She was left with nothing else to say. His answer was honest and straightforward, and not at all what she expected to hear from a barbarian savage.

“Give me no trouble and you’ll have no reason to fear me.” His dark gaze swept over her once more, gentling a degree. “You’re the only Roman I’ve been so generous with.”

He stood, towering above her on the ground, then picked up one of his furs before sweeping out of the tent and leaving her alone, tied to the wooden post. She knew it was only a matter of time before he killed her.